In a world where the oceans dominate, the occupations of the land are often forgotten. Us sailors can glean insightful wisdom from many of them. I myself spent some time with a band of hunters in Zoria, where I learnt the importance of patience when stalking one’s prey. Many called me a fool when I chased Icefinger into the Dread Fangs, but even a decade was a short time to spend in search of revenge.
-Excerpt from the ship’s log of ‘Calabra’, the vessel of Deathkissed Dillan
Branmore Saff twirled a pen between his fingers, gazing idly along the shores of Aughold. This state of affairs was embarrassing. How was it possible for one measly pirate to escape his clutches for over four years?
Perhaps he should’ve given up pursuing Trent Blackheart the first time his brother had warned him of the damage to his career. Most of his peers could overlook a few months spent hounding a notorious pirate, but failing to catch your target after a year had passed was seen as a major embarrassment.
Nonetheless, he cared little for the petty political squabbles that were rife in the upper ranks of the navy. At this point giving up the chase and leaving a scar on his personal pride would be a far worse fate than his chase to end in failure.
During their last battle, which had damaged Pride of Aughold beyond repair, a fact which had driven a rift between him and his father, Branmore had seen how sluggish Blackheart’s movements were. He was injured from the outset and expending so much energy was sure to worsen those injuries.
He ran a finger down a festering wound on his own chest. The cut was healing now, but it had kept him bedridden for weeks.
Worse, the trail had run cold. Forced to retreat to Aughold in shame with the remnants of his men, all whispers of the pirate’s location and direction had dried up.
He lifted the letter from his desk, straightening it out so the words became legible. He’d barely skimmed it, crumpling it in rage and tossing it away the moment he saw the opening line, penned by his dear brother.
Littlest brother,
I write this letter not to warn you, as I attempted that far too many times over the past few years. The consequences of your foolishness are bearing down on you. I admit that you are a talented navyman, having risen to your position without much of mine or father’s influence. However, you would do well to remember that your actions reflect poorly on the family name, not just your own.
Out of respect for your pride as a man and a commodore of our Royal Navy, father and I have come to an agreement. You have three months to either catch your quarry and have him executed in the city square, or abandon your foolish pursuit. If you continue to entertain this folly beyond reasonable bounds, you will no longer be able to wear the name of Saff, excommunicated from the family at large. Think about your career; your future as a man and sailor.
Signed,
Vice Admiral Chester Saff
Signing it with his full title was adding insult to injury. Not once had his brother ended a letter in such a manner, until now.
His fury had simmered since the letter first arrived via a well-groomed seagull perched on his window to greet him as the sun rose. Now, he was able to read the letter without exploding in rage and breaking another desk.
Having his subordinates see his loss of emotional control was embarrassing. His self righteous brother and greedy, pride obsessed father were draining to deal with on such a regular basis.
He could give up the chase now and return to his regular duties. However, that would only serve to inflate his brother’s already bloated ego.
At the same time, continuing for another three months in his pursuit and failing to catch Blackheart would only give the bastard a twisted satisfaction. There was no easy choice.
Scrunching his face, he once again tossed the letter away. This time it landed in the flickering fire, burning to ashes in a matter of seconds.
“That arrogant bastard!” he roared, slamming his fist onto the desk. It exploded in half, showering the room with splinters and sending papers and stationery flying in every direction.
It was a difficult day to be a piece of furniture. That was the third desk to sacrifice itself thus far and it may not be the last if the commodore’s mood continued in this manner.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
He spun on his feet, muttering curses under his breath. His eyes landed on a table that held an ornate lamp—a gift from his father upon his promotion to commodore.
Storming towards the lamp with fury burning in his eyes, he reeled back his leg to send it to oblivion. At that moment, three heavy metallic knocks sounded from the door.
The table and lamp were spared his rage as Branmore kissed his teeth and sat down on the desk chair. Leaning to one side with legs crossed, a split table on the ground in front of him, he seemed more like a pirate lord than a Commodore of the Minenblum Royal Navy.
“Enter,” he said firmly.
A man wearing a pressed, dark purple uniform embellished with golden trim entered the office. His eyes widened a little when he took in the carnage, but his shock was reined in before his superior officer could admonish him.
“Well, what is it?” Branmore demanded, narrowing his eyes.
He’d been a kinder leader, before this dogged pursuit had drained the softer parts of his personality bit by bit. To his credit, the man didn’t flinch. Lieutenant Finch, I believe? Hard to remember all their names with how often we’ve been picking up strays.
“Sir, we just received a report detailing Blackheart’s whereabouts, as well as his destination. The man who deliv-”
He was cut off as Commodore Saff leapt to his feet, crushing the chair into smithereens with the forceful push with which he did so. For a man born into a family of renowned shipbuilders and carpenters, he displayed little care for the furniture.
“Take me to him. I must hear this report. And go tell Captain Neris to prepare the ship. We set sail immediately. That damned bastard pirate will not escape my clutches this time,” he announced, storming past the lieutenant and into the corridor.
***
Rose sat on the bow, legs dangling over the edge as the wind danced in her hair. This was her favourite place to sit on all the ships she’d travelled on.
There was something about the freedom of cutting through the waves while having the entire horizon laid out before her eyes that brought true peace to her mind. It also curbed any distracting thoughts, letting her draw without worry.
It had been a long time since she’d been able to sit down and sketch uninterrupted. So many magnificent, monstrous, and eerie scenes had been imprinted in memory, waiting for her to have the time to recreate them with her pencil. She added the final stroke to a drawing of Trent clashing valiantly with the sea serpent.
Skill up!
Drawing 16 > 17
Your occupation has advanced!
Apprentice Scholar 18 > 19
She sighed. Seeing her occupation advance was satisfying, but it really drove home a painful lesson she’d learned over the last couple of weeks.
Apprentice Scholar had seemed as though it would fit her, due to her talent for drawing and given how fast she picked up writing. However, there were limited opportunities to practise these skills and that meant it would take a while to complete the occupation.
She would need to take more breaks to draw, write, and read. Completing a log of their most recent adventures had been enough to give her 3 more levels in writing and reading over it pushed that over the edge.
Her status was swelling to the point it took up a large chunk of her vision when she called it up. However, seeing the progress—a tangible measure of her growth—was one of the most satisfying feelings Rose could imagine.
Name: Rose Everblue
Race: Human
Occupation: Apprentice Scholar 19
Title: Apprentice
Available Titles: Murderer, Apprentice, Quintessential Skill, Ambitious Harvester
Bound Items: Sunsplitter 51
Skills: Cleaning 12, Reading 12, Fishing 21, Swimming 10, Writing 16, Butchery 10, Cooking 7, Herding 2, Focus 16, Drawing 17, Sailing 15, One Handed Weapons 5, Blades 14, Pistols 11, Firearms 5, Unarmed Combat 2, Endurance 7, Precision 6, Arcane Attunement 5, Light Attunement 6, Stealth 5, Athletics 10, Toxin Resistance 2, Appraisal 1, Climbing 1, Crafting 1, Dual Wielding 7, Arcane Resistance 1
Traits: Sensitive Line, Deft Hand, Good as New, Tunnel Vision, Endless Inkwell, Quick Consumption, Knot my Problem, Reliable Duelist, Steady Slash, Smooth Strokes, Agile, With the Grain
If anything, her rate of growth was only increasing the more dangerous their journey became. It was obvious why—the tide rewarded risking your life.
Though she wasn’t risking her life by drawing. Perhaps it was more to do with the impact of the images and what they encompassed?
A creaking plank alerted her to a visitor. She still had a few more scenes she wanted to sketch, but there would be more time on the way to Zoria.
Turning around, she saw Trent walking towards her, leaning heavily on a wooden crutch. He had recovered from his wounds, but the festering damage of the battle with the serpent had taken its toll.
“Do you think I could take you in a fight now?” she mused, a smile on her face.
“Maybe if you kept training for a thousand years, you’d have a chance of leaving a scratch on my handsome face,” he quipped, taking a seat by her side.
He hadn’t come for empty platitudes or conversation. They both sat, comfortable in the other’s presence as they watched the sun setting in the distance. After a while, Rose decided to ask something that had been bugging her for a while.
“Why does Nasar listen to you, when he’s stronger? And why was that annoying commodore chasing you down? He seemed to have a personal grudge, rather than simply hounding pirates for the sake of it.”