There are three moments in every pirate’s life that will stick with them forever. The first is the moment they left home to seek glory and riches on the seas. Second is their first drink. Third is the first time they have to kill a man. I’d argue that the first drink is the worst, as it almost always leads to ten more. So does the second..,
-Excerpt from ‘A Pirate’s Life for Me’ by Captain Drill
Before she could even register what was happening, Rose found herself retching. Precious little actually escaped her mouth, save for some viscous brown bile.
She had a single moment of clarity—one which allowed her to see Trent’s viciously smug face leering at her from above—before her vision blurred as a metaphysical spear split her skull in two. It took another dry retch and a whole skin of water before she was able to clamber into a sitting position.
“Well, you’re doing better than your sweet faced friend over there,” he chuckled, pointing to a curled up ball that Rose eventually identified as Felix.
A pool of his own bodily fluids had gathered around him and a thin stream of it was running down the cobbles of the alleyway they had been unceremoniously dumped in. She had an infinite number of questions, though the people who held the answers to most of them were strangers—pirates whose names and faces had already been claimed by the evil clutches of her first bottle of rum.
In the end she managed to pull herself together and after spitting out the worst of the bile, asked Trent the most pressing of her concerns. “How exactly did you find us?”
He only smirked and tapped a finger to his temple. “I have my ways,” he answered.
A laugh that turned into a spluttering cough when Trent turned towards the man who’d uttered it alerted Rose to the presence of a second person with her captain. Specifically, a rake thin man wearing round spectacles and pristine white gloves that shone brighter than his bald head.
“Half the town heard the rumours of two kids downing rum by the glass in one of the less reputable taverns. It wasn’t difficult,” he replied, suppressing a smirk. “Don’t scare the poor girl.”
“If you knew what that poor girl had been through in the last few weeks I don’t think you’d be looking at her like some kind of lost puppy,” muttered Trent.
Rose stared at the conversation between the two men. They clearly knew each other better than if they’d met since the trio’s arrival in Eastfel Bay, so she guessed this man was an old acquaintance of Trent’s.
“At least I know there’s one gentleman in this city,” she quipped. “When were you planning to introduce your friend?”
The two men shared a look of amusement. Neither seemed like they wanted to break the silence. Neither of them had to, because the next sound out of anyone was a loud groan from the bundled heap that was Felix.
“I am never going to drink that abominable concoction ever again. I don’t care what I owe you, or anyone else for that matter. Why on earth do you pirates chug it at such a preposterous pace. No wonder you’re all insane,” he exclaimed in a rambling tirade that ended with him retching once more.
“Tide have mercy,” muttered Trent. “I think you two need to clean up a little and we can head somewhere a little more secluded to have this talk.”
He hauled Felix to his feet, taking particular care not to step in any of the mess the boy had made or grab hold of the most stained parts of his shirt. Once everyone was on their feet the bald man motioned for them to follow as he started leading the way out.
“You should know, young man. Just as skills and traits have levels, so too does alcohol have ascending tiers of quality,” he explained. “Are you truly surprised that your body is rising in protest after flushing it with some back-alley brew of questionable origins?”
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The only reply was a protesting groan. Felix was parallel with the ground, being carried by Trent like some kind of human knapsack. Rose chuckled at the sight, but quickly stopped when she felt another wave of nausea approach.
***
“So, who exactly is this?” asked Rose, hugging the warm bowl of chicken soup as though it was a precious gem.
In that moment it was far more valuable than any treasure, given how incredibly soothing it had been for the aftereffects of their recklessly indulgent night of drinking. Apparently the bald fellow had cooked it himself, a fact that made her reassess the strangely eloquent man in a new light.
“Well, I’m sure no introduction I could craft would do him true justice, but there’s an easier way to explain,” began Trent. “Rose, meet Nasar. He will be the ship’s cook for our burgeoning band of buccaneers.”
“Makes sense, this chicken soup is delicious. If you’re going to be cooking meals this good then I’d happily have you on board,” she said, beaming from ear to ear. “In fact, I’d take or leave Trent at this point. What does a captain do apart from stand on deck looking imperious and yelling at everyone?”
For the first time since meeting the man, she saw Trent wearing an expression that wasn’t smug derision. He seemed wounded, though she could tell it was an act.
“Well, a compliment on my cooking is the highest praise you could ever lavish on this humble chef, dear girl. You have far better manners than this ragged old bastard,” he replied with an utterly neutral face.
“What use do I have for manners? Everyone knows a pirate takes what he wants. Asking nicely is for wooing beautiful women, not eating mediocre food,” retorted Trent.
After that, the two men erupted into a fierce shouting match of brutally personal insults. Rose learned more about Trent in that one morning to last a lifetime. She thought repeating some of what she’d heard then would likely have her hunted and killed by various governments and kings across the world.
It also reminded her that in all her excitement to experience rum, she’d forgotten to collect her commissioned equipment from the mysterious smith. Felix was in no state to move.
She leapt to her feet and rushed out of the house alone. Rose was hopeful that she would be able to find her way back to that towering cathedral of stone without assistance.
***
It had taken asking an old man reclining on a bench, but she eventually found her way back to familiar streets. From there her own vague recollection of yesterday’s walk managed to get her to the mysterious archway in front of the cathedral.
Once again there was no strange resonance as she passed through the arch. It seemed like whatever she’d felt the first time entering the building wasn’t going to happen again.
The place seemed empty, though there was a comforting warmth in the air that hadn’t been present the day before. She didn’t have to wonder why for long. The answer became clear the moment she found her way to the centre of the place.
What had been a relic of its former glory—unused, dirty, and falling into disrepair—was now a living, breathing forge. The clanging of steel had reached her ears long before she had seen the man at work.
Sweat coated his skin and his muscles rippled as he raised a simple hammer above his head before bringing it down on a glowing bar of metal with what seemed like a delicate blow. The way the metal morphed under his strikes was proof that they were anything but.
Rather than interrupt the master at work, Rose contented herself to watch. The rhythmic beat of his hammer lulled her into a sort of trance, one that wasn’t interrupted until the man himself waved a hand in front of her face.
“Wake up, girl. You’re late.”
“Sorry. I err…” Rose hesitated, wondering if she should tell the truth or make up an excuse. “It’s not important. I apologise for not being here when you asked.”
He waved a hand dismissively and wandered over to a wooden table that hadn’t been there yesterday. It was made of a dark wood, similar in colour to the rum she’d been drinking. An odd coincidence.
On top of the table were three items. A fur cloak, fashioned from the wolf’s hide. A gold necklace with the wolf’s fangs adorning it. However, those two paled in comparison to the final piece.
Rose’s attention was instantly captured by the magnificent pair of blades that were laid upon a plain white cloth. A single glance was enough to see that they were crafted from the antlers—crystalline cutlasses were not commonplace.
What made them so beautiful was the fact that each blade was made purely with the treasure she had provided. Nothing more, nothing less. Whatever technique the man had used to turn them into the weapons was something she may never understand, nor did she need to.
The meagre words that were tumbling through her mind did not suffice for the masterwork he was presenting, but she felt the need to offer them regardless. “They’re beautiful.”