To expedite, explore and extract...

[Letho]

((Closed to Storm Veritas. All bunnies approved by both parties. Also, continues to The Ghosts of the Past (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=134)))

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Storm Veritas]

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

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

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

[i]So much for that… urk.

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

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

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

Bastards.

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

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

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

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

[Letho]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

[Storm Veritas]

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

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


~*~

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

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

Holy sh*t….

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Letho]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kill him! Kill the bastard!!!”

[Storm Veritas]

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

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

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

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

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

“To the hull, leave no prisoners!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m your Huckleberry…

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No prisoners today.”

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

[Letho]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Storm Veritas]

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

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

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

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

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

You can’t lead from the back...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Letho]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Storm Veritas]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…or worse.

[Letho]

They cheered. Even with death so fresh in the air that the only prominent scent was the sweetly sour stench of stale sweat and spilt blood, the men that apparently took his side in this squabble cheered. Letho couldn’t really blame them. They seemed like the bunch that seldom found themselves in life-or-death situations, a handful of unfortunate men that fell into the good graces of the all too familiar bitch called fate. Some of them probably took their first life on this night. It would strike them afterwards, the recognition of what their deed really meant, and though the necessity of the death they sow would outweigh the guilt, they would feel that cold sting in their insides all the same. It would make their guts churn and twist once they realize they just took everything their foes had and everything that they could ever have. And they would know that their victory had a terrible price.

Letho knew all of this. Even at the relatively young age of twenty-five, the swordsman was in so many kill or be killed situations that the twisted faces of foes that he robbed of their lives started to fade away like an ancient scroll left in the sun. He knew what it meant to extinguish the very existence of somebody who had a childhood just like him, who had memories and thoughts and dreams and desires, who lived in every sense of the word. The self-defense didn’t justify it. That was why the butchery at his feet didn’t seem like a victory to him. That was why he didn’t cheer.

When the leader of the renegade braves approached Letho didn’t recoil. As unlikely as it seemed, he knew that the man meant him no harm and that the sailors he led were on his side. Instead his grasp around the leather hilt of the blade loosened, his eyes closing gently as the muscles throughout his entire body rippled with relaxation. The glistening white aura that cast a theatre of shadows all around the main deck fluttered gently twice before fading out and the massive oversized muscles of the warrior melted down to their usual bulky size. Once again he retained the look of the tired wanderer whose feet walked too many miles and whose eyes saw far too many wonders. His weary brown eyes looked back at the man that bore a rather uncanny name; Storm.

“I don’t need blind trust to know that you and your men shared the same cause with me in this quarrel, Storm Veritas. I’ve seen you fight with courage against these scum and you have my gratitude.” Letho replied to the introduction of the panting man, his voice rather indifferent and colorless save for the brush of royal strictness, the trademark tone of all of Letho’s introductions. His hand discarded the curved cutlass nonchalantly, the blood drenched blade clattering in the silence of the aftermath as his mind urged him to hurry down below. He didn’t know where did this Storm (if that was indeed his real name) character come from. Perhaps he one of the mutineers that had a change of heart or just a lucky sod that managed to escape the mass. But at this moment he frankly didn’t give a damn. The fact that he wasn’t going at Letho’s throat more then sufficed for now.

That, however, changed the second time Storm spoke, because at that moment he earned something that only a handful of people managed to acquire; Letho’s respect. And the formal aforementioned gratitude shifted to a heartily one just as Letho’s face cracked a bit from the usual stone chiseled visage of a battle-hardy grumpy man. His hand brushed off the droplets of sweat and blood that accumulated on his brow as he let out an audible sigh. “Talk about too close for comfort...” Once he lifted his head back up, there was not a single trace of the uptight royal conserved expression on his face, the visage that Myrhia hated with vehemence replaced by one of sheer relief. The meaty hand grasped Storm’s shoulder tightly, resolutely.

“You’re a good man, Storm. I owe you...” and even as he said that, he turned his face towards the rest of the men and raised his voice. “I owe all of you! You have shown more courage then a legion of knights today. But now is not a time to cheer. We need to gather the wounded and treat their wounds. We’ll make an infirmary down in the sleeping quarters. Bring all that you can find there and I will treat their wounds.” he spoke as he released Storm and walked amidst the men that finally seemed to lose the mask of fear that covered their faces ever since they saw him in his bestial form. His voice was different now, somehow warmer and more mundane, the respect within it adding a completely different hue to it.

And it was that familiar warmth that invited Myrhia to leave her hiding place below the staircase and behind a batch of mops that reeked of stale water and unwashed feet. Her bare feet tapped weakly and reluctantly on the wooden stairs, her torn nightgown making her figure resemble that of a ghost as she popped up on the main deck. Her slender hand held the dagger in a desperate fearful clutch as her eyes tried to track down Letho on the field of massacre that, if it weren’t for the profound shock that still held her in a somewhat of a daze, would surely made her vomit. “Letho?” she spoke in little over a whisper, her faint broken voice searching the darkness just as vehemently as her emerald eyes filled with tears. They both tracked him down unmistakably and once she could see his large figure turning her way, she was ready to scream.

“Letho!” she yelled, her pale smooth feet now frantically tapping on the blood-stained floor boards, slipping and sliding, her shaky steps evading the corpses and severed limbs as she ran towards him. And nothing else mattered to her at that moment. Not the rum-infested reek of the warm breath of a man that tried to rape her, not his aching cold grasp that pushed her into the mattress, not even her unlikely savior that carried her out of the whole mess. Right now she just wanted to feel safe again, feel his hands embracing her just like that first time back in Scara Brae. The fearful, innocent embrace, gentle nearly to a fault and taking her to their own little sanctuary where the world was just an illusion and time stretched to the point it ceased to exist.

But instead of a tender embrace of her lover, a cold hairy hand grabbed her from behind, yanking her by her hair and pressing a cold blade against her smooth exposed neck. Everything on the main deck, including Letho who was by now halfway to the red haired girl, stopped instantaneously and instead of the divinity of her own little heaven, Myrhia felt as if she sunk straight to the pits of hell once again. The breath on the back of her neck stank of tobacco and rotten eggs as the dagger slowly dipped into her neck, producing a minute trickle of blood and a helpless whimper from the girl.

“Ah, I’ve got your pretty now, Letho. Watchoo gonna do, huh tough guy?” the raspy ancient sounding voice spoke with a bitterness of a psychotic murderer that lost all connection with reality about a lifetime ago. It was a hissing voice of a snake that swiveled and rattled in the dirt just before it was about to strike. Letho recognized the voice, so did the surviving sailors and just like the swordsman they were out of options.

“Bastard! Let her go.” Letho growled, taking a single step forward. But even as he did so Aslan tugged on the mahogany hair even tighter, his blade just reaching the flesh beneath the skin of the redhead, making her throat muscles tense and wish to exhale a scream.

“Uh-uh, I wouldn’t do that if I was you. Not if you...” but the next thing that exited the foul toothless mouth of the captain was a terrifying shriek as he stumbled backwards with a dagger in his stomach. Unfortunately Myrhia, who managed to impale the man with the dagger that Storm gave her, was caught by the captain’s dagger, the blade mercilessly slashing through the side of her neck and making her scream before she collapsed on the deck.

“YOU LITTLE BITCH!!!” the captain screamed, making a groggy move towards the girl that held for her neck with a frightened look on her face as blood washed her tiny hands. He moved almost in slow motion, like a punched out prizefighter that searched for the ropes with hope that they would lead him to the sound of the bell. An arrow from the shadows made that round stretch throughout eternity. The projectile impaled itself the man straight through his forehead, making the ghastly figure of the captain fall with a deathly cringe with an unhealthily arch of his spine. This time Letho’s eyes didn’t even search for his hidden ally, the bulky man darting forwards even before the body of the captain connected with the hard wooden boards. In a flash he was looming over the frail beauty with a grievous frown furrowing his brow.

“Did... Did I get him, Letho?” Myrhia asked, struggling for both voice and breath as she tried to force a smile on her scarred face. Letho prayed to all the gods and demons his lore recognized that her smile wouldn’t be a bloody one. And the gods answered. The cut was only a fraction of an inch short of ripping her throat wide open, and though she was loosing a lot of blood, her wound was not mortal. He managed a smile that failed to be reassuring as he removed her hands hastily before tying down the wound with a piece of his shirt.

“You did, Myri. But don’t speak now. You’re going to be alright.” he spoke as the remaining sailors gathered around the scene, some of them in no better condition then the dying teenager. He picked her up in his arms, her tiny crumpled body barely larger then that of a child, and headed down below. “Gather the wounded and bring them to me.” he said to Storm sharply, the briskness of his voice coming as a courtesy of the clock that slowly counted down for the girl in his arms. He fired one last look towards the shadow on the opposite side of the ship, his eyes trying to lift the shroud of blackness in order to see at least a shape of his benefactor. But again there was nothing but pitch-black solidity of the moonlight shadow cast by the sails that fluttered above their heads.

[Storm Veritas]

Just as he thought it was over, just as he thought they had reached the end of conflict, a scream tore the ship apart, the scream of the girl Storm had assumed safe. A wretch in his stomach; if harm came to this girl he may very well face the wrath of the same man he had so recently befriended. It was a rush, a frenzy, the deck a maelstrom of confusion, a torrent of fear and panic. In seconds it was over, the girl resting at the feet of her hero, blood pouring copiously from her neck as the mighty swordsman called out to Storm. The command was to gather the wounded. It would not go unheeded. Self preservation had returned to the precipice of Storm’s priorities, standing aloft as all that truly mattered.

Last thing these people want is more orders from me, but I’m not risking my life for these bastards. If they aren’t coming with me to Letho, they are going to be casualties of war. To hell with being the nice guy; now is the time to remain the living one.

The first trip was a short one; his eyes scanned the deck. Anyone that had heard the cry had come running, and the man gathered by in various states of disrepair. They certainly would not leave the side of the most powerful man on the ship, the one who would tear them limb from limb should they not stand by his side at his hour of need. There was the top of the stairs in the distance, the place where the archer had taken down the hostage-taking scoundrel. That would have to wait; Storm needed to produce results. He needed bodies, and he didn’t care how he brought them to this desperate, dangerous warrior.

Storm’s first course of action was to bound down the stairs. There were several men at the bottom, many too weak to continue forward, many who chose not to follow the temporarily gallant Veritas in his war-charge. The overwhelming smell of the place was what hit him like a train, though, shaking him into a sad recognition of the death and despair aboard.

Holy mother of god. It smells like sh*t down here.

The briny smell of blood loomed, a bitter, biting thing that Storm had grown disturbingly familiar with in his short time on Althanas. More pervasive, however, was the terrible scent of bile and feces. Many men lay dead, their eyes glazed and staring infinitely into the wood panels of the small floating coffin. Rigor mortis had set in; their bodies had quickly become stiff and unnatural, blood seeping slowly from nostrils and mouths and ears. Worse than the failure of these capillaries, however, was the bowel failure, the constant, lifelong restraint no longer held, lingering residue of whiskey-soaked sh*t hanging in the air like a horrible fog. Storm was disgusted, and stripped of the humanity he may have shared only seconds ago.

I got to get the f*ck out of here. To hell with these people.

He wished to escape, so he moved quickly. His eyes scanned all the bodies for heaving chests; there were few. The first man took short, desperate breaths, lingering on the brink of death. Storm made it quick and painless, ramming his long kriss dagger down into his torso from just behind the collarbone. He felt it strike the heart; instantly the breathing stopped and the man seized. It was over for him. It would be over for them all, too, should they not move quickly.

“I’m only looking for the living. If you can’t get off your ass, no fears. I’ll come and take care of you, I’ll take care of the pain.”

A few gasps, and two men scrambled drunkenly to their feet. Their eyes were wide with fear; gaping mouths unsure of what they had just seen. This noble leader, this charismatic driver of men… how could he turn on his own men?

“Move up to the deck! Wait for the command of Captain Letho. Good work, gentlemen. Now GO!”

The men didn’t wait; they bolted for the stairs, legs pumping furiously in spite of obvious pain. Storm wouldn’t be far behind. He continued to scan the room, finding and dispatching one more poor soul, his twisted dagger this time tearing up at a heavily bleeding man, cruising a smooth path under the sternum to the heart. It was a terribly savage killing, yet for all the bloodshed, it would be fast for him as well.

As much mercy as I can afford to spare, my friend.

The lips of the men were turning blue, their skins becoming paler and more inhuman with each passing second. Likewise, Storm was becoming overwhelmed by the nauseating aromas, and felt a bit green in the gills for his own comfort. The normally cloying sea air would be a welcome change. He left the bodies in their bloody wakes, the pools of dark crimson becoming thick and viscous as they cooled. It would be a terrible place for someone to clean, but Storm was certain that the someone would not be him.

The night was coming now, and Storm reached the top of the stairs to find a considerable throng of people around Letho and his darling redhead. The girl’s eyes were open, and she appeared to be conscious; both good signs for the extension of Storm’s voyage. Were her health to turn south, he eyed a quick path to the deck side, knowing his chances with the sharks would be better than with the fire-eyed captain.

Discretion IS the better part of valor.

He looked to the captain again, Storm taking his place in front of the men, many of which looked it him in askance. With a menacing gaze, he backed the men away from the couple, giving the girl plenty of space to breath. Hell, he knew he held physical dominance over any of these half-assed sailors, it was easy to look down upon them and answer only to the captain. This was, not coincidentally, exactly what he would do. He knelt and spoke softly, his voice soothing and diplomatic and kind. He realized that he hadn’t heard the man give his name, so he spoke to him as the others had.

“These are the bulk of the men, Letho. I don’t know of the archer, but he doesn’t seem a threat. Should I go and fetch him? I think it best you have time here with your woman.”

[Letho]

Once Letho was down below and Myrhia’s trembling little body was wrapped in the safety of the rough cotton sheets that forgot what white was a couple of years ago, his hands started to work their magic. It was said that the hands of the true Savion Guardian were hands not of warfare and murder, but chivalry and soothing, an extension of the divine inherited wisdom. The swordsman wasn’t entirely certain about the wisdom part – after all, how wise is a man that travels to an unknown land without as much as a map just to find a blade that could very well be the very cause of his demise? - but his skills to cure pretty much every wound known to man were right on the money. His massive hand wrapped around the side of her scrawny neck that bled profusely, applying the pressure on the wound efficiently, while the fingers of his other hand tenderly coursed through the mahogany locks of her hair that fell over the left side of her face. She looked up at him trustfully, her wet glassy eyes those of a fallen angel that begged for forgiveness, that reached up towards the sky for salvation. Her perfect lips quivered a last petal on a dying rose that started to lose its blood red color as she struggled to speak. But she felt no pain, such was the nature of Letho’s touch, and that made her manage another frail smile before she closed her eyes and let herself to his blissful touch. The gash was a small price to pay to be in the safety of his hands once again.

With Myrhia out cold, the dark man let his hands do the other part of their magic, the much more mundane down-to-earth kind. It consisted of cleaning the wound, washing out the remaining blood, applying some of his dry healing herbs (that uncannily easy erased the stale sour stench of pickled feet and replaced it with a fresh enticing scent on menthol and myrrh) and wrapping in all up with a set of makeshift bandages that might have been a shirt once (might have been also a blanket, a bed sheet and a pair of underpants). Once he was done and the red haired angel was sleeping with the tranquility of a miry spring lake, he tucked her in, placed a kiss on her pale forehead and turned back to the rest of the crew.

“I don’t think he wants to be fetched, Storm.” Letho responded to the black haired man that was surely entitled to a good half of today’s victory. “And I don’t think we would be able to do so either. He’s a sly thing or so it seems, but he’s a matter best left for later. Right now I need to treat the rest of the men. Everybody who sustained an injury should take a bed and I’ll get to all of you.” but even as he spoke, mistrust spread through the improvised infirmary as the buccaneers suspiciously measured Letho. Especially his hands, the meaty rough objects of destruction that only minutes ago wreak havoc and death on the main deck. Merciless hands. The hands of a killer.

“Look, it maybe doesn’t look so bad today, but by tomorrow you’ll have a fever, in two days the infection will spread and in three you’ll be dining with your dead grandfather.” he lay it down for them simply, in a human tone, in a way most people liked, and it started to make sense to them. And even if it didn’t, it was a wise choice to obey the man who could wield the ship’s main anchor as if it was a mere ball and chain. One by one they took their places, their movements accompanied with sets of muffled groans and cringes, and one by one Letho treated them with the same magic, albeit more hastily then his lover. By the time he was done, the “infirmary” was filled with mummified men, the relaxing odor of the healing herbs, the satisfying snores that rippled through the room like a chainsaw and the faint bleak light of the day emerged through the pair of small rounded windows.

In the end only Storm, himself and a pair of young lads that seemed too scared to even touch a blade were the only men that were able to do something besides staring at the floor while fatigue ripped through their bodies. Wiping his hands from the blood that by now nearly became his second skin, the swordsman spoke to Storm once again. “It seems it’s just us. Come on, we have work to do. We can’t have a plague outbreak now when we survived this ordeal.” And while the most of the remaining crew rested, their sleep well deserved after the mayhem they mugged through during the wretched night, Letho was everything but resting.

The ship was a mess in every sense of the word. The stench of death took the form of a mixture of feces and salty urine that stood almost like a barrier, hovering throughout the bowels of the “Intrepid” with a rather clear intention of staying there. The stench itself clenched a person’s stomach with an iron fist, ready to squeeze out a meal or two. Luckily for Letho, he ate lightly the other night, and the image of the battle aftermath was more then familiar to his eyes. Myrhia might have fainted if she was at his side. Not Letho though. He carried the bodies out of the belly of the ship, the smelly limp sacks of hay with beady eyes that stared right through him, and threw them down into the murky sea that reflected the foggy dawn. It was a dirty job, probably more suiting for a handful of good-for-nothings that were “rewarded” with cleaning. But good-for-nothings were a luxury that Letho couldn’t afford right about now, most of them either dead or as good as dead down below. So he rolled up his sleeves and started to tidy up the mess. No use of a ship with an infestation of plague creeping through it.

Throwing the bodies overboard was the easy part of the job though. It was what they left behind that was a drag to clean. Sticky blood, scattered entrails and bone fragments, teeth and limbs and puddles of urine mixed with liquid dung. Luckily for the man, the trail of bodies that led from the lower decks was pretty straight forwards, not straying to all of the halls and decks but leading upwards in the fastest way possible. The main deck was at least fractionally easier to clean. A handful of buckets of water, a good half an hour worth of mopping and most of the crimson stains were just a distasteful gut-wrenching remembrance.

By the time they were done even Letho felt as if somebody rode him whole night and decided not to stop at dawn. He half sat, half collapsed below the first mast that reached up to the azure sky that cleared up, providing the ship with smooth sailing through yet another timid summer noon. Sailing. Now there was another obstacle on a path that seemed already so heavily encumbered with troubles, it seemed downright impossible to pull it of. Truth was Letho Ravenheart knew as much about seafaring as he did about magic. He knew it existed, he knew for what it could be used, but other then that (and the relatively rudimental physics that explained the meaning of the ruder, helm and the sails) he was as much of a captain as a barbarian - that was doing a precise medical operation with an iron pipe - was a surgeon. Still, some of the sailors down below looked mighty experienced and that helped his confidence grow just enough for him not to fall into the usual melancholic hopeless trap. Enough for him to keep looking ahead instead of back at the Corone shore that was slowly shrinking at their side to nothing more then a thin dark line on a distant horizon.

Just as he felt his mind was pulling towards dozing off under the soothing warmth of the midday sun, his eyes caught a sight of the black haired man that was in a way the very thing that tipped over the balance of the night’s battle. He was a rather refined looking person, not entirely like the roughnecks that usually took on seemingly desperate jobs, despite his rugged rustic unshaved face. “Storm Veritas!” he called up the man, his voice, just like his visage, clearly weary and sleep-deprived. “I don’t think we have been properly introduced last night. I am Letho Ravenheart, somewhat of a leader of this expedition. So tell me, what wind blew you into this task?” the burly man asked, squinting his eyes as he looked up towards Storm and the sun that blazed behind him. Letho was certain Storm was not one of the men he hired back in Corone, but then again, neither were some of those that fought at his side yesterday, a rare souls that actually had a consciousness and the sense of right and wrong. He figured Storm was one of these.

[Storm Veritas]

The scattering of the men was altogether unsurprising; most had fought much more bravely and faced worse danger than Storm. He had struck from range, running when things were not assured, and taking refuge in numbers. It was easy to lead people, he found, when there was nothing to do but point and holler. The sailors, strewn throughout the boat, had been a testament to bravery.

And foolishness. Why did they follow me? What the f*ck were they thinking?

His own confidence in leadership still shaken, he listened carefully to the questions from the mighty captain of the ship. Returning a strong, steely gaze Storm attempted to read the emotion and intelligence in his eyes. The focused, concentrated eyes of Letho Ravenheart were bright and shining, rife with insight. He was not a man to be toyed with; any coy response or half-truths would instantly be sniffed out. Storm began, the truth flowing from his lips like beer from a well-sprung tap.

“Well, I don’t have any direction these days, to be honest, besides away. Seems that the people of Radasanth thought I may have outlived my welcome, and I was in the business of getting the hell outta there. Certainly wasn’t anything left for me in a town where I was so famous, but looking back at my image on the post exchange walls was far from a warm welcome.”

He smiled; Veritas felt himself fumbling a bit, his fingers nervously picking at small old cuts and sun-dried skin. It was a nervous tic, although he was becoming much more familiar than the wizened old soldier. He had learned in his travels that no good man exists without skeletons in his closet, and people all seem to enjoy the exposure of other’s shortcomings. One of the frailties of the human condition lied in the fact that misery does indeed love company.

“Can’t say I’m an innocent man.” He looked up, eyes bright now with honesty and openness. “Can’t say I’m going to start fresh, or live on the up and up. I guess I am who I am, whatever the hell that might be. Go from town to town, live a little, see the world. Drift. Never a dull moment.”

It was a lie, the first he had told the considerable Letho. There were many dull moments, stowing away and crossing fingers, hoping for a meal, a shower, or just a chance to use the men’s room. It was odd seeing everyone and knowing none, to not connect. Speaking now with Letho, it was refreshing, a cleansing of sorts. He could let out the demons, and wasn’t pressured to act tough or feign more decency than he held.

“I didn’t have a place to go, not a pot to piss in. Came on to the boat, snuck downstairs, ate some scraps. Stowaway is an easy racket; just lay low, don’t bother anyone, and if you get sighted, you act like you belong. Easy enough.

“Of course, I saw everyone get tossed downstairs, and decided it was time to come out of hiding. Figured some bad sh*t was going down, and I could stand to help out a bit.”

It was phenomenal; he had never had such an outpouring of frankness to anyone upon Althanas. There was no backlash, no scorn, no anger in the face of Letho. Storm could vent quite a bit, and ramble on he did.

“So here we are, and night is coming. I overheard you mention some place… I think it was Nyd, something like that. I thought I’d take off there, take my chances, roll with it, and see what type of game I could run there.”

His curiosity piqued, Storm paused for a moment before returning with another outburst. His voice raised an octave as he led the inquisition, his desire to know more defying his better senses. He exploded in a line of questions, instantly regressing to a ten year old at the toy shop.

“And what about you? What happened up here? Who were those pricks, and why did they try to put you down? What’s up with your metamorphosis back there?” Biting his tongue, he held his breath for a moment. No, he couldn’t hold back. “I’m sorry to be rude about these questions, but man, I’ve never seen any sh*t like that before. The way you cut through those bastards… it was otherworldly.”

[Letho]

He was a chatty fellow, or so it seemed, his voice speaking with eloquence that only further confirmed his words and Letho’s conclusion; that he wasn’t one of the sailors that came on this mission because of the jingle of the bag of gold. The swordsman didn’t particularly enjoy the company of talkative people. Or happy people. Well, people in general. That was, until Myrhia came along. She would have probably enjoyed this kind of conversation. She would stare up with those large emerald eyes of hers, listen attentively, biting her lower lip at the ugly parts and offering a compassionate smile or an encouraging pat on the shoulder. And then she would ramble on and on and on just like this man did, using countless words to say something that could be compressed in only a handful of them.

Not Letho though. Being a man of few words, the bulky man fitted into the profile of the mindless brute with uncanny ease and remarkable accuracy. He liked that assumption thought, the prejudice that allowed him to pass unscathed by the mass that he disliked so much. It was better to be considered dumb and left alone then speak with wisdom and get a world of trouble on one’s back. But as much as on some other day Storm’s rambling would be shunned aside by the usual “everybody has a sad story nowadays” phrase that Letho like to cite often, his story actually got the dark man’s interest. Going from town to town, drift through the world on the wings of fate, no place to go... It sounded so familiar it opened up the wounds that were covered up for years now. He had seen his share of wandering, walked his share of miles and fought his share of battles to be able to say that he knew what was Storm talking about. Myrhia would have explained that to the man in the sympathetic voice of an angel. Letho merely nodded his head distantly, his fingers playing with a set of five splinters that sat beside him below the high mast and the eyes of the stranger. This wasn’t a discussion he wanted to get into and he figured Storm didn’t want to make it into a discussion either.

With his question answered with an abundance of details, it was Letho’s turn to answer the shower of inquiries that the man fired at him in a rapid succession. It seemed that the inquisitiveness came hand in hand with the slyness of his tongue. Letho’s mind, still rather groggy from the dozing feeling that crept somewhere in the back of his neck, making his eyelids as heavy as iron, slowly sorted the questions, soaked up all the information before preparing an answer.

“I don’t know what you did before, Storm, and therefore I cannot judge you for that. What I do know is what you did last night and that’s all that matters.” and that was the truth. This was not the first time Letho ran into an individual that lived on the other side of the law, living of the swiftness of his hand and mind. And if those encounters taught the fallen knight anything, it was that prejudices often proved to be flaky at best, or downright wrong at worst. The way he saw it, Storm could have done nothing, keep playing the stowaway and creeping through the bowel of the ship long after Letho and Myrhia were both fish food. Cold-blooded murderer would have done so. Storm didn’t and that meant something in Letho’s book of rules and values that contained a nice little pyramid diagram within its pages. And near the top there was a part that stated that the true face of a man emerged in dire times.

“But I think you picked a wrong ship to stow yourself away on.” the man added, pushing himself back to his feet with a weary muffled “umph!”. He walked a couple of feet away from Storm, stopping on the very bow of the large vessel as his eyes peered into the south where nothing but the faint line of the horizon returned the gaze. “You will find no game on Nyd. It is a desolate place, a forgotten realm of ice and things as ancient as the very foundations of the world. Nothing lives there and no ship sails to it.” the man spoke with a calm, rugged voice, his hand holding on to a rope as the gentle wind played with his sleeveless linen shirt. His tone was definite, clearly stating that the “Intrepid” was the only way to and from Nyd, presenting the man with the situation with no sugarcoating whatsoever. Sugarcoating was never a game Letho was good at.

“Apparently, most of the sailors here didn’t want to sail to it either, even after they agreed to it in the beginning. They made their choice and I made mine, it’s as simple as that.” Letho continued, stepping down from his defiant position at the front of the ship only to lean onto the wooden railing that went all around the main deck. “The metamorphosis, as you put it, I’m not very proud of that. It’s... Well, you know what happens to a cornered animal?” he asked the man with a wry grin on his bearded face. “Same thing. You poke something too much, you get poked back. Only for some reason I can summon enough power for some major poking.” he smiled this time, a wry crooked looking thing appearing on his face, not entirely unattractive but rather just simply out of place on his stone-chiseled visage.

“As for my reasons for going to Nyd... Well, suffice to say I seek for an item that rested there for a while now. Apparently it can settle some issues that I’m having.” “Preventing my head from bursting being one of them.” his mind added sarcastically, reminding the man of the shimmering portal to the world in which an elf wife and two children awaited for him.

“Why don’t you tell him what’s the real reason, Letho Ravenheart?” a voice spoke to the conversing pair, making Letho recoil sharply as his eyes sprung back to their livelihood in a fraction of a second, frantically searching for the source of the voice. It seemed to be coming from above them, somewhere below the line of the second sail, but regardless of how much the brown eyes strained, they saw nothing but three lines of rough rope and a fluttering whitewashed sail. “The blade is what he seeks, The Blade of the Judicator.” again the female voice only thins time it came from the left of them, seemingly out of the greasy barrel filled with tar. “The blade that shaped the world.” again the voice added, muffled, nearly hissing words of an invisible woman that now seemed to take refuge on the rope ladder that reached up towards the tip of the hoist.

Letho regained his composure after the first two location switches that the woman made, his lips curling into a smirk and his eyes refusing to take part in the little ruse the woman set up for the two. He heard of this skill, voice throwing they called it, but never found himself on the other end of it. Now that he did, he found it quite disquieting, but far from alarming. It was one thing to throw one’s voice and a completely other to do the same to a weapon. “Ah, our mysteriously coy ally approaches.” Letho commented to nobody in particular, his voice a touch jovial and breaking of from the usual strict royal tone.

“Not coy, Letho...” she retorted, this time her voice much more prominent and coming from behind him, from the other side of the fence that looked down on the passing azure ocean. The swordsman felt sharp pointy tip of a weapon pressed against his side, just below his ribs. “...just careful.”

She wouldn’t strike. If she wanted them dead, she wouldn’t take part in the battle last night. That was why the dark man merely stood there, his arms crossed in front of his stoically and his eyes closed gently, waiting for her to come on board. The slender figure of a cloaked woman held on to the fence with one hand, her body hanging on the other side deftly as she held a curved dagger as an ominous threat to Letho’s liver. With a quick jerk of her arm she brought her body up, landing soundlessly in front of the two and returning the dagger to the scabbard on her side. “Not everybody can charge into a battle like a wild boar...” she said, her head cocking sideways a bit as she fired a glance towards Storm. “...or play around with the powers of nature.”

She was quite a dame, Letho though, or would be if her curvy sizzling figure weren’t clad in an unsightly gray cloak that separated just enough to reveal one of her agonizingly long milky white legs. Her golden hair cascaded around her face in a countless series of gentle curls, surrounding the heart-shaped visage that smirked at the two with one of those smiles only a woman could produce, the seductive radiant smile that toyed and broke hearts as if they were eggshells. There was some elven blood in her, the silent approach and the alluring beauty being only the two most obvious details that led the swordsman to that conclusion. But the mundane down-to-earth smirk and not overly stuck up glare of her azure eyes was enough of a reason for him to conclude elven blood was not the only one she had running through her veins.

“My name is Selena.” she finally spoke after some good thirty seconds of mutual measuring of the hardy swordsman and his companion. Her fair face failed to reveal whether or not she was satisfied with that she saw, but her hand protruded towards them all the same, her rather strict dictating face breaking the frown a little bit. She was quite imposing woman, the kind that took control and stopped the time flow in the room in which she walked in, the kind that shifted eyes and usurped calm minds. But the swordsman seemed resilient to her charm, his hand accepting the handshake coldly but resolutely. He had two minds in his head right now and both were occupied with a female companion. There was certainly no room for another. Not if he wanted to hold on to the shred of sanity that was still hanging by a thread in his head.

“I feel inclined to introduce myself, but you probably know both our names and out reasons for being here by now. So what are yours?” Letho spoke, his eyes suspiciously eying the woman, silently stating that he still held her at certain distance. A stowaway with nothing to lose he could handle. A mysterious woman that snuck through shadows and could creep up on him even in broad daylight was something to be careful about.

“You’re kidding, right? After five thousand years somebody finally summons enough guts to search for the fabled blade. I was not going to miss that.” Selena spoke with a dash of exhilaration in her tone.

“Oh joy.” Letho responded in a cynical tone, bringing her flying-high mood right down. “Either way, I thank you for your help last night, Selena. It is good to have somebody of your skill with us and not shooting at us. For now, though, I have to get some rest. I believe you two can handle the deck while I’m gone?” the last sentence being more of a statement then a question. They couldn’t know less about seafaring then him, so he wasn’t exactly leaving the “Intrepid” in bad hands. Well, not worse then his anyways. Leaving the blonde haired beauty and the shady looking man on the main deck, Letho made his way down below, following the path to the living quarters. He missed the deck once, strayed into two wrong hallways before he found his way to the bedroll where Myrhia slept with the blissfully calm expression, crumpled up in a small ball and letting out her muffled barely audible whimpers. Lowering himself beside her, the swordsman embraced her ever so gently, leaning her tiny body onto his own before placing a silent caress on the back of her neck. Inhaling her enticing scent with each breath he took, he slept soundly for the first time in weeks.

[Storm Veritas]

The swordsman spoke back to Storm, offering nothing in the way of judgement. The lanky traveler was correct in assuming that he could lend some small partition of trust in the burly Letho; this man was honest, if brash, and far too strong-willed to be pulled aside by something so petty as a stowaway. Coincidentally, it was this same nature that made him offer a very blunt and unapologetic piece of advice for the drifter, as Nyd certainly held little in the ways of the typical towny-morons that Storm had grown accustomed to ripping off.

Before he could finish his speech, however, the interruption came, as the sultry, seductive voice of the archer whispered across the deck to them. She was a vision; her svelte curves still straining and reaching the surface behind a large, vile cloak. Her blonde hair and striking face were truly a sight for sore eyes here on the open sea. Veritas thought himself hallucinating when he caught a flash of a long, delectable thigh parting the slit of her cloak.

Holy sh*t.

She seemed to be similar to Letho in character; she too was forthright, strong willed, and to the point. She made no explanations for her activity, besides seeking out the same blade that Letho himself was questing for. An odd conflict of interest, Storm believed, but he was past smitten. This tender morsel of walking sex had him downright infatuated, and it took a strong conscious effort to keep from staring. Fortune smiled upon him as the sword wielder left the two of them to right the ship. It was quite the pleasant turn of events, and Storm struck quickly.

“If we are to bring this ship to Nyd, we have a lot of work to do.” His words were harsh and cutting, his haste and lack of tact deliberately used to knock this temptress of guard. Selena was ravishing; Storm would not stand apart by ogling over the magnificent woman. He suspected that idle chatter and the occasional innuendo would be useless to her, and he continued his strong demeanor.

“Set the mast strong to port. There is still some drifting breeze that will catch us south, and I’ll fix the rudder. Once we straighten the heading, we can coast towards this place you speak of.”

He watched her move as he walked to the wheel, grabbing the large wooden device by two of its many oaken handles and giving it a slow, gradual turn. The ship had been drifting aimlessly for some time, and there were only a few traces of light stemming from the deep-setting sun. He knew this marked west, and had a few ideas in the way of ship-sailing, but assumed that he could fake his way into captaincy here. Pretty girls don’t tend to sail much.

The girl worked fervently, loosening straps and pivoting cranks, cutting a lynch-rope and sending the large canvas flying high into the air above. She was fast, smooth, and deft with the controls, and he gazed unto her with an embarrassed grin. Within seconds, she was quickly walking towards him again, her feminine curves undulating beneath her cloak.

Busted.

”I believe that perhaps you are more fit for this wheel than I,” he began, bowing at the hip and gesturing to the wheel, his left arm tucked taut to his waist. “I think I could gather this isn’t your first ride, little lady.”

Selena smiled; she knew that she had shown him up, yet now was not the time for gloating. Her lips were pursed together, thick and soft things begging to be kissed. The power a beautiful woman has over men is not often overlooked, and she was no exception. She ran her long, slender fingers down his cheek, her sultry gaze nearly cutting him in half.

“Maybe I’ve logged an hour or two.”

He took a seat before her, resting on a small platform that led to the bow. The rest would do wonders for his tired bones, and he could begin to run his mouth to the seductress, tempting her and teasing her and winning her favor. The smooth tongue was something he was quite gifted with; it was a useful tool to bring women to bed, and a better weapon within the same confines.

They would chat for hours; the woman was interested by this mysterious, arrogant traveler. Aside from her hypnotic curves, Storm was drawn to the frank woman, the powerful heroine who seemed to answer to none. She would be his, he had decided. The only question remaining would be how.

And, as they sailed the remainder of the night away, he prodded and chiseled away that stony façade, hoping to find exactly what it would take to bring her affection his way. It was only a matter of time.

[Letho]

***

The house is hauntingly empty. The stringy vines and an inch thick layer of moss paint the stone walls to a sickish green, both contributing to the decay of what was once home of the Ravenheart family. Letho knows this house well. The picket fence was defiantly white once, the lawn was mowed precisely and the roof that now prided itself with a gaping hole was once perfectly tiled by fresh red recently bought tiles set up by his own two hands. And the orchard that is now in shambles with overgrown weed clinging to the tousled peach and apple trees was once perfectly arranged, blooming with all the rich colors that spring brought in its wake, spreading the enchanting scent that made a person want to just lay on the soft grass and die in the heaven of conflicting smells and images.

And there was a myriad of sounds ripping through the spring afternoon instead of the dull silence. His daughter Teenah screaming at her brother Victor, their feet tapping on the porch frantically, Tayotihua’s soundless approach and the captivation of the two rascals, her strict elven voice. And then a stray nightingale would announce that the night is drawing nigh and the crickets would confirm with their annoying noise, scraping their legs against each other and filling the dusking day with an idyllic detail.

None of that remains now. The clouds are looming over the devastated broken home, their ominous gray glare adding a creepy hue to the entire scene. It is a home of ghosts and the swordsman is standing in its yard, searching for something that would remind him of the life that once pulsated within those walls. There are no signs of violence, no scorched walls or arrowheads pinned in the wood. The house that he left a couple of weeks ago is simply deserted. They moved on. Tayotihua was always a strong woman and after he failed to return she moved on, taking the children to a more fair land, far from the aching memory of the man she loved. That is what happened. Even if there is no sign to confirm it, something deep inside Letho knew that is what happened.

Or rather that is what would happen if he failed in this task.

***

“TAY!!!” the swordsman screamed, his eyes springing wide open, staring emptily at the brown wooden roof that stood above his head. His forehead was sprayed with beads of cold sweat, his hands holding the rough sheets in such a tight clutch that the crumpled cloth creaked and moaned beneath his fingers.

The scream that Letho uttered brushed against the heart of the redhead that lay at his side, leaving a shallow wound on her timid little heart. How else could she feel when a man that slept beside her woke up, screaming the name of another? She knew the reasoning behind all of this, how couldn’t she since she was the instigator of it in the first place? And yet that scream hurt her deeply, the name spoken making the girl move slightly away from the dazed man whose eyes still stared at the world only visible to him. She looked at him with her apologetic eyes, the frail slave girl apologizing to him for all the trouble she caused, for not being good enough to be in his dreams instead of the gorgeous elven woman with silver hair.

It took Letho a couple of moments to realize that the columns of his porch were in fact the lines of the boards above his head, and that the mesmerizing image of his lost home was a product of his deranged mind. His heaving breath slowed down gradually, his brown eyes shifting back to focus as his bulky hands stopped the punishment for the innocent bed sheets.

“A... Are you alright, Letho?” the mousy scared voice came from beside him, a slender warm hand gently embracing his forearm. His eyes fell on her visage, the scarred face that carried the hopeful emeralds that gazed at him with a perplexed worried look. Despite everything, she managed a smile, curling her tiny body closer to his own, leaning her head onto his shoulder and sighing audibly.

“Yes... Just a bad dream.” he responded with a disquieted restless tone, kissing her forehead. It was a blatant lie if he ever told one to the teenage girl. The scene that stood in front of him was more then just a random nightmare, it was an insight in things to come, things that may come to pass if they would step astray in this perilous journey. An insight in a future that hovered over his heart like a noose of the hangman, warning him what price he would pay if the Blade of the Judicator would not be found.

“I guess I wasn’t in it.” she served what was on her mind subtly, her innocent voice barely reaching his ears as she buried her face deeper into his shoulder. His hand moved from his side, grasping her cheek as gently as a blooming rose, moving the locks of her smooth mahogany hair that fell over her scarred cheek.

“It was a nightmare. I wouldn’t want you in a nightmare anyways.” he responded, and in a way that was another flat-out lie. Because he wanted her in a nightmare. In the bleak gray future that stood before him only seconds ago, her gleeful spirit and the touch of her hand would be the very thing that would save him from desperation. The answer, however, eased her mind, just like Letho knew it would, and she smiled satisfyingly, placing a childish kiss on his cheek before she squeezed his hand and nestled closer to him with a hearty purr. Pulling her lithe body next to him, the rich brown eyes fired a gaze at the rounded window on the far end of the room. It was morning, the angle of the solid blazing beam stating that it was still early in the day, but it was the day of consolidation and integration with the crew. A day during which he had to announce that after the excruciating night they were to press on, despite their decimated numbers and lack of real captaincy. He could only hope that the buccaneers that fought valiantly last night would stand with him once again.

***

After sending a word throughout the ship that the assembly is to take place on the main deck, the knight was making his way to the light of the day through the gloomy interior of the “Intrepid”. Once again, he carried no weapon at his side, his attire unchanged save for the black leather coat that covered most of his body now. There was no point of stepping in front of the sailors with a sword at his side (not to mention the six foot gunblade), not after what happened last night. He didn’t want to speak with a threat hanging above his head like a warning sign, but as one of them, as a man that needed their aid. Myrhia followed behind him, her long smooth neck still wrapped in a throng of bandages and her face still sickly pale, but her determination set firmly and boldly to stand beside her man. She was clad in scarlet, her short shirt revealing her scrawny milky legs just enough for Letho’s heart to leap a bit every time he would look at her. They were an uncanny couple; a burly warrior and a tiny skinny slave.

On the main deck the bulk of men was already gathered, creating a bustling mass of heads and bandages concentrated just below the elevated portion of the ship where the helm stood. There Storm and Selena already waited, the golden haired woman dominantly standing at the helm of the ship with the wind tousling her long hair and playing with her gray cloak, revealing more of her alluring curvy figure. Myrhia was instantly intimidated by the woman, her green eyes once again noticing how different she was from a real woman such as this Selena. Comparing herself to the vixen that defiantly commanded the entire vessel with a steely look in her azure eyes, she was a mere tomboy, a girl that the natural body development forgot to take for the ride and grant her the natural womanly curves. And it made her regret that she picked to wear her skirt on this windy day.

“Ah, our lovebirds finally decide to join us. Good morning.” Selena commented with a mild content smile, nodding her head towards the swordsman that passed by her words unfazed. There were times when he found necessary to conceal his affection for the teenage girl, but that times were nothing but a bleached memory by now. Instead her replied with a courteous smirk, the kind that clearly stated that he neither cared nor wanted to know what she thought about his relationship with the slave girl.

“I see you two managed to keep things under control.” Letho replied, the pleasantries long time missing from the speech of the knight that was once again taken by the usual bad case of morning grumpiness.

Myrhia, however, had no such illness. First thing she did was run up to Storm and threw her hands around the black haired man, embracing her tightly. “Thank you, sir.” she whispered in a muffled voice, the images of last night darting through her innocent mind and making her shudder. “If it weren’t for you...” she spoke, moving away with an embarrassment coming as a direct result of her harsh actions. Letho didn’t pay much heed to this; it was just the way Myrhia was. A cheerful person that find no obstacle in sharing her high spirits with others, a timid soul that learned how grateful one has to be for all the little things. Once she was done she approached Selena, reluctantly protruding her slender hand.

“Selena, this is Myrhia. Myrhia, meet our mysterious ally from last night.” Letho did the introductions in somewhat of a softer voice then the distant cold greeting that he spoke moments before.

“Nice to meet you, ma’am.” the girl responded, bowing her head gently to the woman. But Selena accepted her handshake with a touch of melodic laughter spreading from her sensual lips.

“Please. Leave the ma’am out of it. Makes me feel like I’m your mother or something.” the dame spoke kindly, breaking Myrhia’s skittish visage into a mild appreciative smile. “Just between the two of us...” the woman added as she leant more closely to the frail girl. “...it will be nice to have some female company in the midst of all these male hotheads.” At this Myrhia uttered a merry laughter, agreeing with a minute nod.

“But the men are awaiting for your announcement, Letho.” Selena finally turned to the swordsman that was already looking over what was left of his crew. They weren’t the most imposing crowd, especially all wrapped up in bandages as their inquisitive eyes stared at their captain. Letho saw desire in those eyes, desire to leave this expedition that started on the wrong foot and seemed to have a bitter intention of keep going on the wrong foot all the way to the wretched Nyd. Desire to return to the arms of their loved ones, kiss their wives and embrace their children, sit in their tavern with their comrades for a pint of ale and a story of a maddened captain that tears people as if they were wet paper bags. And he was about to tell them that desire is all that they would have to hold onto for a while.

“People, listen up.” he started, taking a step forwards and raising his hands. His voice way dominant, royal, the way it used to be when he would speak on one of his father’s balls, speaking as a prince of the Savion kingdom. It was a voice of a born leader with blue blood coursing through his veins, a mighty tone that stood up against every other sound in the vicinity and defeated it with remarkable ease. “I know you are hurt and tired and that this journey started so wrong that proceeding is the last thing on your mind. But I need you to do that all the same. I won’t lie to you.” he spoke, his voice falling down to a more mundane tone of a weary wanderer that spoke with profound frankness.

“I don’t know what awaits us on Nyd. I can’t promise that all of us would return either. And I can’t even offer you more then another thousand gold pieces for your services. That is why I’m not ordering you to proceed. I’m asking you, as a man that needs your aid in a task that is too big for him, that you follow me on this journey. I am not your captain. I know nothing of seafaring and the rules of the sea and all of this...” his hands showed towards the countless ropes and sails that formed a complicated web he could only hope to unweave once. “That’s why I ask you to this together... As equals.”

Silence took over the main deck like a plague. Never have sailors heard such a speech from a captain. They expected that he would ask them to proceed, but their expectance included the generic iron-fist speech and promises of splendor and glory. Needless to say, the honesty with which Letho spoke blindsided them, caught them by surprise and left them speechless. The swordsman looked at this sorry bunch of bruised up sailors, knowing he is standing on the brink of failure. Suddenly the haunted house seemed like a very likely outcome.

[Storm Veritas]

What would turn into another very long day started as a welcome relief. The sun had risen in the east, marking the port side of their vessel with a stunning array of dull reds and lovely lavender hues. Stars were drifting back behind the brilliant bluish backdrop. The air was still cool, but the warmth would grow soon enough, and that saline aroma had become second nature, something they no longer factored into consideration. The childish chatter with Selena had faded by then; the two were tired and happy, welcome companions enjoying each other’s company. While he had not bedded her, Storm felt a warmth in his belly as the affection returned from the strikingly beautiful girl was genuine, if not physical. Things were progressing well, he thought, and it was a disappointment to be interrupted by the rising of the other crewmembers.

Yet Myrhia would never be a totally unwelcome sight to him; the redhead that emerged alongside the stately swordsman was healthy and active and happy. She threw herself onto Storm, a childish display of affection not unappreciated. The eyes of Letho were close by, and the heave of guilt in his stomach was enough to keep Veritas at a safe level of tact as he quietly dismissed the lovely redhead.

Nope, nothing to see here…

Not that it mattered; there was little guilt for his feelings for the scarlet-locked girl, as he was altogether smitten by this Selena. So taken, in fact, was Storm that he barely noticed the arrival of the rest of the crew and sailors, a group of men whom emerged from the ships undercarriage with a dull, uneasy rumble. They had obviously been summoned; many rubbed their battered bodies and grumbled to each other in tones of misery and discontent. Whatever had pulled them up here left them with a purely duty-based ambition; they clearly had no desire to be up at this early hour.

With a few passing pleasantries and nods and gentle embraces, Storm took a spot at the base of the pedestal to the bow where Letho had launched into his plea. The swordsman, the very man who the night before seemed invincible, an inconceivable colossus, the war machine created by the Gods himself, had begun to speak in tones of doubt and dissonance. The rumbles of the haggard crewmembers were growing, and Storm could easily sense their discontent. This Ravenheart was a born leader, a man whose swagger and confidence drove men to follow him. To show such uncertainty at this point was certainly suicide for the success of the mission, and would obliterate the faith of the masses. The little voice in his head was a cackling eagle, the piercing voice confirming his fears. This was the worst way that Letho could have addressed the battle weary.

No, no, no… F*ck! What are you saying!? Shut the f*ck up, before you get us all killed!

Storm leapt to the stage, his right hand wrapping around the massive, sloping shoulders of Ravenheart, who was clearly dying before the masses. He cringed as the disquieted sailors seemed confused and upset, and worried further that the mighty captain would shun his input, knocking him to the deck, or scuttling him overboard. The powerful are prone to short fuses, he figured, but despite the power of this considerable ally, the opportunity to quell forty men was more important than the chance of wronging a single powerhouse.

Fortunately for the slight traveler, Letho did not lash out, and rather looked to Storm with a confused gaze. It was likely he had never been interrupted before, and almost certain that he had never been interrupted by a man of such obvious physical inferiority as Storm Veritas.

But let me do the talkin’, big fella. I’ll leave all the smashing to you, but this is where you need me.

“Ladies…” Storm began, an obvious sarcasm twanging from his voice. “I hope that you don’t mind Captain Bringdown pissing in your gruel this morning…”

A decent wave of laughter; it was likely the audience was more eagerly awaiting the rage-driven outburst from Letho than the next joke from Storm. Daring to insult such a powerful man was not wise, and there were several floating corpses in the wake of the ship to testify that Storm would also make good chum. Defying the odds of becoming shark-food, the tall leader of the misfit band began to speak again.

“Seriously, times are hard. No sh*t. We know this, and we know that many of you awake this morning without much in the way of ambition. But there are better times than this ahead.

“Enjoy the trip now; we have another adventure ahead, where we travel to Nyd. It is a place which is said to have plentiful riches. So although your captain’s coffers may be low, hopefully we can bring back enough gold and gems to satisfy all your wives.”

A grumble; it was good enough. He was rolling, considering that he had no time to prepare. He had to keep going.

“But more importantly, think about last night. Think about the captain, think about myself. You are amongst powerful allies. We will try to keep you safe, because the numbers here will help protect us in turn. And none of us are looking to pick more fights.

“Better still, this lovely lady here is named Selena, and you all can smile and nod and keep moving when you meet her, thank-you-kindly. Last night, when you all slept and groaned and b*tched and moaned, this woman captained the ship. She is smooth, and slick, and will guide us safely.”

There were some precursory grumbles to this, yet the ravaged crew was in no shape to argue with results. A female captain would be a progressive idea, but a really hot chick served them all just fine. She could stay, and she would be popular.

And, more importantly to him, the nod and coy smile from the girl shined in approval. Storm had played this point perfectly.

The crowd was beginning to turn, their smiles and nods a bit more optimistic. Storm began to speak more loudly again, his voice boisterous and confident than before.

“So we have a lovely lady, to guide our ways. Any opposed to laying eyes upon a sight so soothing, let me know. We’ll gladly throw you overboard, for fears of nighttime… invasion.”

A raucous laughter now. Nothing got pirates laughing more than homophobic joking.

“And a captain who can pulverize the sea himself, and lay flat anything that come in our way? Who shall be the first to stand before him and oppose? Stand forth, and don’t forget your fake hair and red nose.”

The crowd began to clap. Nods of approval; they knew that they had faith in Letho’s fighting ability, and there were none that had seen such power before. To stand alongside was certainly better than against.

“And we have the chance at riches, and a swift return home! After our land, we touch and go, sail home rich men, and enjoy hot showers and lavish praise! And then… my friends… then you are on your own, and then you can really satisfy your wives.”

As he thrust his hips in emphasis of the joke, he heard a roar of applause and laughter, the men beginning to clap. It was unfair of Storm to promise them riches that may never come their way, but he knew that options were limited to be kind. The men broke from the huddle and began to take part of their daily chores, enjoying the prospect of a brighter day ahead. It would be tough work to sail to Nyd, but fortunately for the men before the crowd, the crew was willing.

Just to be safe, Storm stepped down from the bow, creating some distance from Letho. He had done the captain a favor, whether the burly brawler knew it, but would not tempt the fates further by staying within arm’s reach.

Time to get some food, and continue on. A straight shot south to Nyd.

Glancing up, his glowing sapphire eyes caught the fawning smile of Selena. Life was good.

[Letho]

“A little bit of finesse can take you a long way...” Lothirgan always used to say to the Savion prince and he never neglected to add that “...and you don’t have it, MAGGOT!” every time Letho would learn under his tutelage. Truth was, the swordsman was a born leader, the son of the king with royal blood flowing through his veins, but his ability to lead never came from his tongue. If the battle would ensue, Letho would be the first one to step into the fray fearlessly, inspiring the men to do the same and lifting their morals to unforeseeable heights. He would slay foes, crack skulls and spill rivers of blood and the crowd loved him for his relentlessness. But in times of tranquility, when the obstacle that needed to be crossed was not tangible and only existed in the heads of others, Letho would have to admit his feebleness with witty words that would hit the right spot in the minds of the listeners. After all, that was why Savion kings always had a spokesperson, a gallant man in fine robes with his hair pulled back and his mouth filled with soothing well-placed words.

And as if his inability to sway the crowd in his favor wasn’t enough, the dread of the nightmare warning was still lingering within his mind. The horror of the abandoned home made the man slump into desperation that reflected heavily in his words, making them everything but inspiring and digestive for the weary troubled minds of the sailors.

That was why, when Storm cut his honest disposition short, the swordsman did not intrude or react in any way save for crossing his arms in front of his chest and listening with a thick frown. He suspected it before, but that morning the shady stowaway that revealed himself last night proved that he was somewhat of a jester, a sly man with a silver tongue and a handful of distasteful jokes that tickled the funny bone of the sailors. Their morale started to rise gradually, leaping upwards with every convincing sentence that Storm spilled in front of them, and before long their weary visages that stared at Letho in disbelief only moments ago were now smiling widely. They cheered and shouted and cursed amongst each other, slapping each other’s hands (which on occasions resulted in painful grins of the wounded ones that in return only brought up more laughter), murmuring with satisfied content, even exhilaration, as if the promised riches were already in the belly of the “Intrepid” and they were on their way home.

Letho gave it a week, maybe two before the euphoria that reigned amongst the buccaneers would douse down first to content, slowly edging towards slight dissatisfaction with a desire to just end this dreadful task. What would happen after that time, or even worse, if Nyd proves to be as bountiful as a poor man’s wallet, the swordsman could not foresee. And judging by the eloquent and well-served speech that Storm offered instead of the breakfast desperation that took over Letho, neither could his spokesman.

With his deed done and the crew set on their daily chores, Storm started to make his way down from the command post of the ship, but the certain resolute hand of the knight caught him by the shoulder. After a moment of mutual silence and the exchanged perplexed look of one and keen piercing look of the other, Letho spoke to the man who once again pulled him out of serious trouble.

“You certainly know how to win the crowd, Storm. Thank you for your assistance.” it was a conservative gratitude filled only with a dash of emotions, the kind men often exchanged. But once the bulky hand released the shoulder, Letho’s words came in a somewhat of a more jovial tone, his face even offering a mild smirk. “You do know that if these riches turn out to be nothing but a story, they will hang you and feed your body to the fishes?”

Though it might have been a humorous remark, both of them knew that it was not something to be trifled with. Promises made on the sea were no different then promises made on the land and men loved to see them come true just as much as they got infuriated if they were used only as a ruse to jumpstart their interest. With such disquieting thought Letho left Storm’s side and proceeded to offer a helping hand where it was needed. His pessimism, however, was instantly countered by the comforting words of the golden haired beauty.

“I wouldn’t sleep too much sleep over it, though. If only a fraction of the stories about Nyd are true, the lustful desires of the sailors would be more then sated, Storm.” she said to the man, her lips curling in a lovely teasing smile, her azure eyes offering enough certainty to assure even the most wary skeptic around. “But let us get there first.” she added with a measured wink before she started to issue strict orders to sailors that moved at her every whim, their eyes significantly more relaxed while the orders were shouted in a pert melodic voice of the vixen.

Leaving a trail of corpses and the last sign of Corone shoreline behind the stern, the “Intrepid” continued to sail southwards, its passengers unaware of the tribulations that awaited them on their path to the fabled island.

((Continued here. (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=183)))