1154th Year of Ethereal Chronicles
394th Year of the Draewyn Empire
Anglia Kingdom [Lutton Marsh]
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Marcellus had not just boarded the ship; he was illicitly stowed away, buried amongst the miscellany of black market goods.
The sordid smell of secrecy and gunpowder was thick in the air, matching the grim determination in his heart.
He felt an icy shiver of relief, the cold metal of his reclaimed silver pouch heavy in his pocket. He'd retrieved it from the grasp of a disreputable 'harlot', a memory that already felt like a lifetime ago.
Well, she was the daughter of a harlot, not one herself to be fair.
Anne my foot he cursed.
He felt a surge of anger towards her, but the reason for it eluded him.
His emotions seemed to bubble up from a place deep within, murky and undefined. It was a perplexing sensation, leaving him grappling with feelings he couldn't quite comprehend or articulate.
It might have been because she reminded him of someone or something, the whole situation that night was ugly to him.
The ship's cook, a dubious man with untrustworthy eyes, had a big belly and had demanded a toll of 30 coppers for his hidden passage, almost half a silver coin.
The man had launched into an elaborate speech about the cost of sustenance and the risks involved, but Marcellus was wise enough to recognize a scam when he saw one.
Yet, desperation left him with no room for negotiation.
I bet he can not see his feet, gluttonous pig.
The Cook had devised a strategy to conceal him in the ship's hold, a temporary refuge.
However, this plan also included an alternate course of action in case of trouble or an opportunity arose for him to assimilate with the crew. Given that the captain was not intimately familiar with all his crew members, there existed a chance for him to blend in unnoticed among them. This contingency in Cook's plan offered a sliver of hope for a more permanent solution to his predicament.
The hold was damn cold.
An ominous shadow of impending doom seemed to follow him closely, a relentless reminder that the plan was fraught with uncertainties. Amidst this, an inexplicable surge of deep-seated anger welled up within him.
It was a visceral, almost primal feeling, born out of the stark realization that his only chance at survival lay in this risky escape. If he failed to seize this opportunity, to embark on whatever perilous voyage this ship promised, he knew his very existence hung in the balance.
This growing desperation manifested as a raw irritation at everything around him. Every minor inconvenience, every moment of uncertainty, seemed to fuel his frustration, turning it into a raging inferno of anger.
---
As Marcellus’s mind teetered on the edge of self-blame, his fingers brushed against a crumpled piece of paper—once a meal mat, now a tattered poster with faded words.
"1152... The pirates of the Forlorn Isles and the Shadow Isles pose a significant threat to maritime trade in the region. Consequently, the laws of civilized nations have branded them as 'hostis humani generis'—enemies of all mankind... In response, pirates adhere to a doctrine of their own... war against the world..."
More words lingered on the page, yet the sea’s moisture had washed them away, leaving gaps like broken whispers. A chill spread through Marcellus as the words sank in, and the fear of pirates, now visceral and looming, took root deep within him.
---
One Week Later
Each day, a week stretched longer, its silence heavy and oppressive. Marcellus, though adapting to the ship's routine, couldn't quell the growing unease. On the seventh day, an unfamiliar stir on deck jolted him from his monotonous existence, a new, tense anticipation filling the air.
The sky was a sullen grey, a thick, oppressive blanket that obscured the distant horizon. A gale whipped across the sea, sending towering waves crashing against the ship's hull. Thunderheads, dark and menacing, loomed overhead, their low rumble a constant, ominous backdrop.
With the ship rolling beneath him, the captain held his spyglass steady, eyes locking onto the dark silhouette of the approaching vessel. It was unmistakably hostile—its black sails a grim omen against the horizon.
A crewman stumbled up beside him, his face drawn tight with fear. “Captain,” he murmured, barely containing his panic, “she’s almost upon us. We could still signal surrender… maybe they’ll show mercy.”
The captain lowered the spyglass slowly, fixing the man with a stare colder than the morning sea. “Mercy?” His voice was quiet but lethal. “They’re pirates, not priests. They’d sooner hang us from the masts.”
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He turned from the crewman, raising his voice so it echoed across the deck. “All hands! Prepare for battle! Guns crew—at the ready!”
Someone echoed him "Guns Crew at the ready!"
The call reverberated, sparking movement as the crew scrambled into position.
The wind picked up, whipping the sea into frothy peaks that crashed against the hull. The looming pirate ship closed the distance rapidly, its cannons ominously silent, as if taunting them with the inevitability of the confrontation.
"Captain!" shouted the first mate from the helm. "They're raising the Jolly Roger!"
A murmur rippled through the crew at the sight of the skull and crossbones unfurling atop the enemy's mainmast. Fear, a palpable thing, flickered in their eyes, spreading like wildfire, but they held their ground.
The captain strode to the center of the deck, his gaze sweeping over his men. "Steady now!" he commanded. "We face them as sailors, not spineless fish!"
“Aye!” they roared in unison.
He turned to the helmsman. "Bring us about. Let's give them our broadside!"
"Aye, Captain!"
The ship began to turn, the sails billowing as they caught the wind. The pirates adjusted their course in response, their own cannons coming into view.
The sailors started yelling louder than they were before although it was mostly unintelligible.
Yet, amidst the clamour, a rising chant emerged a solemn mantra that resonated through the chaos. "Heave... Heave... Heave..."
Amidst the swirling chaos, a man with a receding hairline and a protruding belly—almost comically round, as if he were carrying a small barrel beneath his shirt—stealthily maneuvered his way toward the captain's quarters. His eyes darted in every direction, an air of suspicion clinging to him.
This was the cook.
Swiftly, he reached the shelves, sifting through a haphazard collection of books. His fingers paused on a plain black tome, and a sly grin crossed his lips as he tucked it beneath his arm with practiced ease.
Slipping out of the cabin, he descended to the lower deck, where men hurried past, shouting and brandishing rifles. Moving with surprising grace, he sidestepped their path, his demeanor mimicking that of a gentleman despite the tension that filled the air.
Upon reaching his intended destination, he cautiously cracked open the door and slipped inside. But before he could close it, a sudden force threw the door wide open, catching him off guard. He stumbled backward, thrown off balance by the unexpected intrusion.
As he scrambled to regain his footing, the intruder quickly shut the door behind them, sliding the wooden beam securely into place, locking it with a determined flick of their wrist.
“What in storms are you doing?” the cook groaned from the floor, still recovering from the unexpected fall.
"Oops, sorry about that," the intruder replied, offering a half-hearted shrug.
The portly cook struggled to his feet, a hint of frustration evident on his face. "Why aren't you up on deck with the rest of the crew, as we had planned?"
The intruder staggered with the ship’s sway, struggling to keep their footing. “Yes, the plan was to join the crew and pose as your staff…” they shot the cook a pointed look, “not to fight bloody pirates!”
Still unsteady, the intruder clutched at the wall, clearly unfamiliar with the ship’s rhythm. “I’ve decided I’m not going to die here. The real question is, why aren’t they all down here with us? It’s dangerous up there, you know—you could get yourself killed!”
"Oh, so you're a coward then?" the rotund man retorted, his voice tinged with sarcasm.
The cook raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Dangerous?” he scoffed. “You think hiding down here makes you safe? If they board us, they’ll scour every inch of this ship, including right here.”
The intruder smirked, though their hands gripped the wall for stability. “Better odds than being cannon fodder up there. Besides, if I’m alive when they come below, maybe I can talk my way out. I Imagine Pirates love a good cook, don’t they?”
The cook looked caught off guard as though the intruder had seen through him that was his plan.
The cook snorted. “Aye, They’ll throw you to the sharks.” He crossed his arms, leaning in closer, his voice dropping to a hiss. “You really think they’ll spare a stowaway with more lip than balls?”
The intruder shrugged. “I’ll take my chances. At least I have a choice down here, while up there…” They trailed off, glancing toward the deck above as the heavy thuds of boots echoed through the ship, followed by the unmistakable sound of cannons loading.
The two exchanged a tense look.