image [https://i.imgur.com/2yg1ikQ.png]

Lessons with Grit were painfully difficult. Grit demanded respect, and he got it mainly because he was one of the few crewman that could put a man down just by looking at him. He wasn't a tall man, nor overly large. But he was brave in the heart, and could best many a man larger than him in single combat. Rumor had it, a few rip sharks, too.

Despite his deadly demeanor, Grit was a fair first mate in the eyes of his crew, and was a good instructor to the boy. "Technique, timing and fortitude, that's what will win y'the day, every day," said Grit. "Without technique, there is no power. Without timing, there is no speed. You'll be a fish in a barrel, easy to catch. And without fortitude, there is no chance of survival."

Grit was a testament to these words, for he held great endurance. He could swim without rest for long periods of time. He didn't grow tired in a fight, and Picaro often found himself panting for breath, facedown on the ship's boards while Grit egged him to get up. "Come on, lad. You'll be dead if you stay there. Get up," and he tried to give Picaro a swift kick to the ribs. Memory of Mord's fist sinking into his stomach forced energy into Picaro’s limbs, and he rolled aside to avoid it. Gradually, he stood.

"Good. Lesson learned. Now what are you going to do now?” Grit got into a readied stance and threw a sharp jab at the boy. Picaro ducked and stumbled forward, trying to keep Grit from striking him. “You’re learning quick. When you look to grapple, always control the arms, head or hips. For instance, take two hands, wrap them around the back of the neck, like this, and it allows you to control someone. Then you can elbow, knee, or transition to take them down.” Grit seized Picaro forcibly by the scruff of his neck, and using his leverage tripped him and threw him to the deck. Picaro had the wind knocked out of him.

Grit stepped forward to follow up. Picaro rolled aside again, struggling to his knees. Grit pressed forward, forcing Picaro to defend himself. He was able to entangle himself with the chief mate, defending the strikes with increasingly greater effort, and eventually Grit allowed him to his feet. “Excellent. The will to live must be stronger than any doubt. Fortitude will always be your secret weapon. Let’s try the grappling exchange again. Now, you try.”

Picaro did so, trying to control Grit by the head, but Grit broke his grip. Exhausted, Picaro slipped, catching Grit’s leg to stop his fall. Grit tried to shake him off, pushing down on his head, but Picaro held on. With the last of his strength, he hunkered down, lifting Grit’s leg off the deck so the man stood imbalanced on one leg like a seagull. Picaro surged forward, deftly fitting his own leg behind Grit’s and carrying his weight forward so that the two collapsed onto the deck. Instinctually, Picaro adjusted himself to take hold of one of Grit’s arms, leveraging it against himself, bending it at the elbow until he felt the sinewy resistance of the man’s joint reach its limit.

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Grit tapped quickly three times on Picaro’s leg. “That's it for today, go get some water," said Grit. The boy lay there for a while, exhausted.

“Going easy on the boy too, are ye? It’s gonna go to his head, make him think he can really hack it out here on these seas. Arrogance is a dead man’s folly, wouldn’t you agree?” It was Mord passing them by on the main deck.

Grit glanced up at him. “Then I’m surprised you’re still alive, lad,” said Grit, coolly lighting a cigar. Mord snarled and stomped off.

Picaro learned how to fight in just about any situation. He stood hand to hand with Grit, the pair throwing punches at one another. They grappled, wrestled, deployed joint locks, incorporated weaponry. Grit's favorite was his set of brass knuckles he wore on his right hand. Naturally, Picaro grew to enjoy wielding a dagger.

The months grew to years. By the time Picaro was thirteen, he was able to get Grit down and keep him there. By the time he was fourteen, he had finally bested him for the first time in a knife fight. The boy always remembered when he first pressed the point lightly to the man's liver. It was the first time he ever felt like a man, like he was strong, like he had won. Grit offered no such assurance. He merely offered a grim nod and said, "Good. We go again."

The years had not stifled the fiery hatred brewing in Picaro’s heart. Whenever he saw Mord and his goons, Picaro threw them searing looks. In return, Mord continued to heckle the boy as he trained, sometimes throwing verbal jabs at Grit for taking Picaro under his wing. But Grit always shrugged it off, his face a mask of focus as he guided Picaro’s training. “Keep your base. Keep the shoulder level. Don’t square up. And stop all that hopping. Keep your feet under you.”

From the upper deck, Valgur looked on. “Boy’s getting good. He’s a natural for sure. Just wait ‘til he’s grown into his frame.”

“Aye, true enough cap’n,” said Grit. “Don’t get sloppy now with the captain looking,” he said to Picaro. Valgur laughed, and Grit allowed himself a wry chuckle.

“Oi, Mord,” Valgur hailed. “Yer lookin’ a bit soft in the belly. Might want to put some work in with Grit and sharpen the ol’ iron.” Valgur and Grit laughed again.

Mord put down the crate he was carrying and scowled. “How ‘bout yerself, y’old keg,” he said under his breath.

Yet Mord was not the only one looking on at the training in disdain as Valgur rained down more commendation for Picaro’s efforts from the top deck. Scuttle stood crookedly in the shadows, his eyes gleaming green with envy.