A light breeze blew across the Demon’s Sea. Despite the wind, the surface maintained a glassy appearance, ethereal looking from the light shining down from the cosmos. In the distance, a ship cut through the surface, her wake an abomination on the virgin ocean. Tonight was an anomaly, the Demon’s Sea was usually wrought with storm. The ship drew closer, its sleek outline contrasting sharply behind the moon. Her oars dipped into the abyss, carrying her swiftly towards her fate.

Onboard, two men paced nervously. Both were slim, one with jet black hair and a great billowing cloak with a faded knightly crest long forgotten emblazoned on it. His boots were worn and ragged: his tunic and trousers were plain and unadorned. His compatriot was finely dressed, a bright green cape dancing swiftly in the night air accompanied by teal garb. His hair was a pale blue, the color of ice against the sky. His eyes were matching, making them seem almost white. Gaudy jewelry covered every inch of him, two gold medallions on his neck, a ring on every finger, and diamond studs in his ears. He even wore rings in his eyebrows. His name was Quetzalcoatl Quinze, and despite his eccentric appearance, he was the most dangerous man on the Demon’s Sea

“Garlan,” Quetzalcoatl looked at his shipmate, “I thought you said the Summer Sea would be en route to Queensport by now.”

“She should be,” Garlan growled, his voice raspy due to a heinous scar wrapped around his neck. A Kamoran assassin had once tried to take his life, but only managed to mutilate his throat. “I looked at the manifest myself captain, she’s expected to be in Queensport in two days; perhaps she caught a storm?”

“Garlan, have we been on the same ship this past fortnight? What storm could she possibly have ran into?”

The wind began to pick up, and as if on cue, small waves danced around the polished water.

“Well then, Quetza, maybe she was taken by someone else.”

Quetza continued to pace the deck of his ship, the Mist Maid. He leaned on the starboard rail of his galley, looking at the crescent moon hanging in the night sky. Suddenly, sails emerged on the horizon, his prize approached.

“Garlan, get the men ready, my fortune is has arrived.” Quetzalcoatl ordered. Below decks fifty pirates waited in the cramped quarters. The galley was more than happy to accommodate salt pork and beer belowdecks, but fifty seasoned pirates packed tighter than a woman’s corseted bosom. Quetza sent them below to give off the impression the Mist Maid was desolate. When the Summer Sea neared, Quetza and Garlan would scream for help, luring the trade cog to her doom.

The wind continued to pick up, gusting now, sending seawater to lap against the bulwarks of the galley. What was once a beautiful mirror morphed into a kaleidoscope of water and foam and moonlight waltzed on the surface.

The ship drew closer.

“Garlan, light two torches to signal the Summer Sea,” said Quetza.

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“Mmm”, came Garlan’s grunt of acknowledgement. He fetched the torches and lit them with a flint, giving one to Quetza as he began to wave his frantically.

The Summer Sea continued to bear down on the Mist Maid. “Quetza, something isn’t right,” Garlan said worriedly, “look.” Quetza’s experienced eyes raked the outline of what should have been the trade cog Summer Sea. Instead, he recognized the sleek shape of a war dromon, and the ocean wind carried the sound of rowing drums beating away in a rhythm suited for ramming.

When the dromon was roughly 500 yards away the wind began to scream, causing the two men to lift a forearm over their eyes.

“Garlan, call the men out! She wants a fight!” Quetzalcoatl sprinted to the rudder, turning the Mist Maid to face her adversary. The two ships were now a scarce 200 yards apart. Quetza’s pirates were erupting from the impossibly tight quarters, and a thick fog began to cover everything. Quetza couldn’t see more than five feet in front of him.

“Garlan! Where the fuck is that--”

All of the sudden a wave rocked the port side and something smashed into the Mist Maid. Quetza was knocked off of his feet, meeting the deck quicker than he would have liked to. There’s no way she maneuvered to the side that fast, thought Quetza, no ship in the world can turn like that.

Then the screams began. Quetza stumbled to his feet, cursed, and clutched his side. He was no doctor, but he knew at least a couple ribs were cracked. Quetza drew his scimitar, even that small action bringing extreme pain, and staggered to the main deck.

He tripped over something again. This time he let out a howl. His ribs were on fire. Stooping down to peer through the fog he saw he tripped over half of one of his crew. The deck around him was slick with blood.

Quetzalcoatl dragged himself to his feet with more curses spewing from his mouth. He was growing scared. “Garlan, Garlan where are you!” Quetza bellowed. He had been in some hairy situations, but this one reeked of foul magic. The fog couldn’t have been natural, and a ship shouldn’t be able to move like his adversary did. Then, everything went silent. There were no more screams, no more movement. Quetza was leaned against the rail, gasping in pain, eyes scanning frantically.

As Quetza took another rattled breath, a figure emerged from the fog. “Who,” Quetza took another painful breath, “are you?”

It didn’t respond as it steadily pressed forward.

Quetza squinted to discern features in the haze. There weren’t many. It wore a black cloak and a grotesque mask in the likeness of a hog. It’s boots were black as well, and polished; Quetza could almost see his reflection in them.

“No… get away,” Quetza moaned, putting his sword in between him and the figure.

It moved faster than anything Quetza had ever seen. Before he registered the sword screaming at him Quetza was reflexively putting his scimitar up to keep his head attached to his neck. Not losing an inch of balance from the block, the figure danced backwards and immediately rushed at Quetza again. This time the slash came for his stomach. Quetza adjusted his sword to block, but the force behind the slash was too powerful. Quetza’s grip loosened from the shock waves travelling through the hilt like electricity and his heart sank as he heard a faint splash behind him.

He knew he was dead. His only chance lay overboard. Quetza rolled backwards over the railing as the spectre rushed him.

The injured captain almost made it. Quetza felt steel bite into his right shoulder, and before he could make a sound, the sea filled his lungs.