image [https://i.imgur.com/NY3qDwl.png]

As Picaro grew more into manhood, he grew in stature and confidence. He was no longer a small wisp of a boy. He finally stood over five feet tall. His wiry frame had grown strong and his hands had grown calloused from years of work and training aboard Ye' Ol Marigold. He was ready now to work the main deck with the men, hauling crates and tying knots, tending to the ship as she sailed.

Yet some of the crew could not look past the disdain they held for the boy during his spritely years. It was so doubled as Picaro’s vigor undeniably grew. It rubbed some of the men the wrong way to see the sniveling little mischief maker grow into a sturdy seaman. Picaro was now a teenager, full of fire, and almost any wrong look he gave was liable to set someone off, making them become belligerent towards him.

The worst of it came on a day when Picaro was fourteen. Someone had raided Mord's dittybox and took from it the man’s prized scrimshaw, a piece the man had carved with his own hands. Mord was furious, and immediately confronted Picaro on the main deck for all to see.

"Where'd ya stow it, boy?"

Picaro was taken aback, throwing him a dirty look. "Stow what? What are you talking about?"

"I know ye took it. Where is it?"

Picaro backed up, his hands raised in innocence, but his face was staunchly defiant. "I didn't take anything from you. Stop blaming me for things."

"I know ye did. Who else would it be? Ye’ve always been a stowaway with sticky fingers,” he said.

Picaro felt his own blood rising. He decided to stand his ground. He curled his fists and furrowed his brow. "I didn't take anything from you, ye simple bastard."

"Bastard, am I? Yer the only motherless bastard I see. Ye ain’t never been no crew o’ mine," said Mord. His face was red, his beady eye aflame, a snarl curled across his mouth. He lunged toward Picaro. His large, rough hands reached for Picaro's throat.

Panicked, Picaro tried to back away, but his back hit the rail. He tried to duck under Mord's grasp to escape, but his goons were all around him, wicked grins on all their faces. Despite all his training, he could not get away, he was cornered like a fox in a trap.

Time seemed to slow as Mord plucked him up by the scruff of his coat, just as he did those years ago, and punched him so hard he broke his nose. Picaro doubled forward, blood leaking from his face. Mord dropped him, then kicked him hard, cracking two ribs. The boy whimpered, keeling over. Men close by didn't say a word, as many secretly delighted in seeing the boy learn another painful lesson he would hardly ever forget.

Fuming, egged on by the crowd, Mord decided to continue the spectacle. He pulled Picaro up by the collar and dragged him to a rain barrel on the edge of the deck. White hot pain shot through Picaro's chest, and his eyes were a blur of blood and sparks. Then he felt his face hit cool water as Mord plunged him headfirst into the barrel.

Picaro struggled, convulsed, scratching at Mord's arm. He tried to take a panicked breath, but gulped down only rainwater. He began to see dark spots in his vision. The world grew black, his limbs grew cold. He was floating there in that bucket, being absorbed down into its depths, into the depths of the sea. His only thought was that he would die there. His last moment would be him struggling for air where there was only water.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

Then, he felt himself rising. Was this what death felt like, being borne up like a cloud? No. His head was above water now. He choked and spluttered. He felt splintered wood dig into his knees as he collapsed onto the deck. The world was spinning. He did not know which way was up. He coughed up water, then some more. A sharp pain split his side, and he remembered his ribs. Blood dripped from his nose, and somehow he knew it would never be the same. Slowly, the world returned.

He saw Valgur standing in front of him. Mord was in his grip, and all the men were watching the scene. Valgur had swept upon the deck like a storm, barreling through, knocking men aside and hoisting Mord up, carrying him into the main mast like a charging rhinoceros. There they stood, locked together like a pair of battle beasts, snarling in each other's faces.

“He’s no respect. How could we ever call ‘im a crewman?"

"He'll learn some," bellowed Valgur.

"Well I just taught him some,” roared Mord. He had a grip on Valgur’s arm, pushing it away from his throat. "He won’t go pilfering again."

“Listen close,” said Valgur, his mouth a contorted shape in his effort to articulate. “I ever see you hit that boy like that again, I’ll pluck out both your eyes and use 'em for fishbait. Savvy?”

Mord only glared back until Valgur bore down on him with a savagery that made the man finally blink and nod. Valgur then released the man and stalked off like an angry sea wolf. Mord watched him closely from behind. “Playing favorites now, are we? I thought we was all for one. Curse the day y'ever brought him aboard. There ever comes a time it’s him or us, I hope you make the right choice.”

Valgur spun his captain’s coat about himself. His bushy, black beard seemed alive with flame. A deep malice was in his eyes. “That a threat, then?”

Mord sneered. “I just thought you were a better man than that.”

Valgur’s eyes narrowed. “Aye, I’m a free man. Built meself off the sweat of me own back. Through blood and tears and years. What ‘ave you earned to tell me what to do with what's mine? What I do is for all of you. There’s no him or you, it’s for all of you. If ye don’t like it, y’can leave, the lot of you. One day, this boy might make ye rich. But y’went and busted his nose. Remember, all ye, if y’want ta make a living, best to treat the tools you got rightly,” said Valgur, eyeing men in turn as he spoke with the leveled command of a seasoned captain. The men stood about sheepishly, their anger diffused by a sort of simple logic that washed over them like a wave. Valgur glanced over at Picaro and then stalked away.

Grit stood grinning behind Mord, his arms folded. Mord turned and glared at him, then at Picaro still curled on the deck. The group of onlookers behind them all stood pondering, looking at the boy as well, turning over what their captain had said about him in their heads. From a dim corner, Scuttle sat observing the scene with mild contempt. While part of his plan had worked, it had also backfired with Valgur’s final words. It did not cure the jealousy that roiled in his belly, and a part of him hoped Picaro wouldn’t be able to see straight after that broken nose.

From then on, the men had great fun in reminding Picaro of his broken nose, which would forever stand at an awkward angle on his face. Whenever Picaro had a mind to get back at any of them, they would see it in his eyes and say, “Careful, Nose. Best to keep your nose clean. ‘Member what happened last time,” or something of the like. They called him the Nose for his nose for trouble, and for the slant that it would forever stay, a stark reminder of that day.

Despite their disdain for the boy, he did make them rich. Together they accrued wealth, fame and power until Captain Valgur and his raging band were some of the fiercest and most feared free men in all the isles, from Fine Island to the portcity of Parley along the coast of Karobos. Everyone who owned an oar and could smell the sea knew of them, or had a tale to tell of them. Of course, Picaro had much to endure and learn much before his time would come.

When he did catch sight of Mord from afar, Picaro imagined himself breaking Mord’s nose, and the thought would send a jolt through his jaw, making him clench it. Still, he made sure to steer clear Mord and his goons. He stuck more to the crow’s nest after that, or disappeared down into the galley. He cut himself off from most of the crew, preferring to avoid them entirely than to suffer in their presence. And so he began to grow into a reserved, resentful young man. Even so, he had learned a valuable lesson. He always held his tongue and stayed his hand. He realized that, for now, all he could hope to do was survive.