Look left.

The person there.

When was the last time they wept?

When was the last time they slept?

Are they doing well?

Look right.

The person there.

Are they struggling to get by?

Are they covering up with lies?

Are they doing well?

Because no matter where you are

No matter who you are

No matter what you are

The people around you

Are going through things

Just as much

If not more

Than you.

As the light streamed through the dusty drapes, it fell on the eyelids of a boy like soldiers throwing themselves against a castle gate. The light tried to force the fortress of his eyelids to open, but the troops inside held the fort steady, and the gate to the pupil remained steadily shut as he slept with a quiet snore.

Then, with a loud BANG, the cannons roared, and with the distraction the battering ram of light plowed its way into the boy’s silver eyes. The sudden invasion caused the country to jolt in shock, and fear shot through the country’s body. With that, the infrastructure sprang to life, pumping nutrients to the country’s capital, and the order to move out was given as the boy jolted to his feet. His fists fought the air, and his feet kicked the dust, but the overwhelming forces against him prevailed, and he fell onto the ground from a wooden cot, its legs strained like a powerlifter, barely able to support his weight, creaking in pleasure as he fell off of it and to the ground.

It was at this moment that the ground, unhappy about a meteor the size of a five foot six inch boy slamming into it, decided that the best way to retaliate for this unfortunate accident was to make as much noise as humanly possible, and thus the ground screamed at the top of its lungs as he hit it. Unfortunately, dirt doesn’t have much in the way of lungs, but the impact was still about as audible as a commander’s orders, which prompted some other unfortunate soul to receive a move-out order, and then another and another until finally the entire room had the order, and slowly but surely the unit activated its protocol for waking up.

“Damn it, Kamalo, you piece of crap,” a man yelled from his right. “If you’re going to wake up, do it properly, damn it!”

Kamalo Ialakua scratched his head in frustration and sat up slowly, shaking the dirt, dust, and assorted particles from his pure white hair, before moving to brush the particles from his silky gills on the side of his neck; four on the left side and four on the right, making sure to pick the extra mucus that coated his skin out of the slits like they were snot, throwing them on the ground like they were dead bugs. As he finished that up, he continued grooming himself, brushing off the dust and dirt from his sticky skin, before finally, he was clean again, and only then did he stand up, stretching with a massive yawn that sounded like a bear waking up more so than a one hundred and thirty pound male. Scratching his ear through his hair, he wandered off like a lost dog south, out of the barren barracks and towards the mess hall.

Filled to packing with tough, toned, and mean-looking men, women, and fish people of all shapes and sizes, the mess hall was loud and raucous as per usual, to which the young adult stood out like a sore thumb. As Kamalo jostled for position between two buff and burly men, he couldn’t help but overhear the conversations held freely within the convention.

“Why does Garafoli need so many pirates here for a simple convention?”

“Didn’t you hear? The Court’s been getting a bit restless lately… they’ve been cracking down on pirates hard.”

“Well, no shit, what with that big-ass festival coming up. A temporary city… that’s just begging for pirate activity.”

“Yes, but then that means all the firepower will be directed at the festival grounds… not the nations…”

“But didn’t you hear? The Court sent a representative to this convention!”

“Are they going to be bribing us to stay out?”

“I heard it’d be more than that…”

Finally sick of the conversation, Kamalo tuned it all out in favor of focusing on the grub he’d just received: fresh Coutha meat, grains, and beans. Sighing at the meager portion, he hefted the platter up and stepped out to look for a table to sit down, but an older pirate immediately bumped into him, and the young man staggered from the hit, holding onto his grub but spilling his water, which splashed all over his shoes and feet. He didn’t mind so much, until he turned his head upwards, and found that he was looking up at a large and intimidating pirate; even with this man glaring death down at him, Kamalo couldn’t help but notice that he fit every single cliché for a pirate that ever existed: the eyepatch, the manly scars, the large bulging muscles, the pirate’s triangular hat, and the very conspicuous smell.

“Oi, chump! What’cha doin stepping in my way, huh!?” the pirate snarled at Kamalo, spit flying out of his mouth. Kamalo cringed in disgust at the pirate and his accent as the spittle landed all over his body and, unfortunately, on his food, before sighing and steeling himself, stepping back cautiously as the pirate advanced.

“I will give you three seconds to move aside,” Kamalo said slowly, with as much confidence as he could muster, the amount of which made even the hardy pirate hesitate.

“One…”

The pirate’s eyes widened, his mouth open as though to speak, as his right hand went to the blade at his side, his left hand moving to cover in front of him, settling his weight down into a defensive stance.

“Two…”

At this point, the other pirates began to see that this was a serious endeavor, and they began to clear the area around the two. Kamalo, holding his food, made no moves from his stance, keeping his feet slightly apart and parallel to each other, his hands up in front of him, holding his food. His face stayed cool and calm, or as calm as he could be while facing down the throat of a manly man. The opposing pirate, in contrast, looked nervous, to say the least, and his arm trembled slightly, sweat coalescing on his arms and face. The shift in air tension was so great that the entire mess hall fell silent, the assembled crew looking around to find the source of the tension. The air seemed to have chilled slightly, though the fiery spark of combat was quite alive between the two.

“Three!”

As Kamalo finished yelling out the last word, he stepped forward, pivoting slightly on his right foot, throwing his weight behind his right shoulder then pushing off the ground with the ball of his right foot and leaping towards the other pirate, aiming his shoulder towards the opponent’s solar plexus. An amateur move by any standard, and with him trying to hold his food in place, the move was even slower, and the pirate noticed, as he easily stepped to Kamalo’s left, drawing his sword quickly with his right hand and bringing it up for a fatal vertical sword slice through Kamalo, with a grin of victory plastered on his face.

Unfortunately for the pirate, though, Kamalo had already won, and only the faintest of smirks on the white-haired boy’s face showed it, as the water Kamalo had spilled at the first bump and turned into mist at the two-count quickly solidified and coalesced into ice, creating many thin shards of razor-sharp ice in the air while the water that had stuck around his arm froze solid, slowing the trajectory of the sword swing so that he ran far past the trajectory, holding him hostage in a cage full of ice.

“Unfortunately for you, I have neither the time nor the patience to put up with you. But I also haven’t forgotten the first tenet of the Pirate Convention Code, so you’re getting off easy today. Let me give you a bit of advice as your senior: you might want to be wary about who you cross,” Kamalo stated, flatly, plainly, and simply, as he condensed moisture in the base into a thick mist, altering its refractiveness in a heartbeat so that the light’s hue changed to red, and simply walked outside, letting the mist conceal his presence until he was out of that messy mess hall and out under the bright sun.

And as he left, he heard his name. Whispered in the blood-red mist that surrounded him by fearful pirates and hardened sailors.

“Szra Tismely eid Mivateku, Kamalo Ialakua.”

“The hell does that mean?”

“Shut up and let me explain, dumbass.”

“Yeah, explain it for all of us dumbasses to hear who never heard of a skinny-ass kid like him beating Ira there in a fight.”

“He’s not a kid and you should be lucky he hasn’t killed you by now.”

Kamalo knew. He knew what people whispered about him.

And some of it was right.

Szra Tismely eid Mivateku. The Shadow Lurking in the Ground’s Clouds.

However, outside, there was no more fog, no mist to conceal himself. The open sun, the radiant leaves of the summer trees, the stone walls, and the chatter of pirates and thieves greeted Captain Kamalo Ialakua as he exited the site of the one hundred and fifty-first annual Pirate’s Convention, for the lush island outside.

Though the spring gale winds tousled his hair, he didn’t react to that, but rather reacted to the bright sun, which beat down on his skin with all the force of a hammer. The humidity tickled his skin like a feather, while the grass massaged his feet gently.

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For Kamalo, the heat was just a tad uncomfortable, and he immediately sought out shade underneath the nearest tree, the shade shielding him from the evaporating rays of death emanating from the flaming ball of fire in the heavens. From here, he was able to look around the west side of the small and isolated island where the ruffians and thieves and bandits of the underworld met once a year.

Because even they realized that profit was best when people weren’t getting in each other’s way.

Well… for the most part.

Kamalo Ialakua knew that bandits didn’t like to obey rules, but even he had to respect the power of the rules set by the Pirate Convention. Pirates have a sense of honor, too, and he lived by his own set of morals and rules. But as long as those were in line with the Convention, and he wasn’t pissing off any other pirates unnecessarily, Kamalo was fine. Sure, he could lose a couple crew members in a raid on a merchant line, but still, crew members were expensive to replace even on the best of days, and the Kehrat most of them carried were also very valuable. Money was also very valuable, and that stuff didn’t just grow on trees.

Of course, he could also teach his soldiers magic instead of just telling them to use Kehrat, but on the other hand that stuff took time, and he didn’t have all the time in the world nor the training to implant memories into other people’s heads, so that was strategically out of the question.

But he could spend no more time thinking, as he was suddenly jolted out of his thoughts by the slight signals of someone approaching. The slight crunch of the dirt, the subtle hum of breath, the faint change in air current from the body approaching, and even the cutoff of the insect’s chirping as they reacted to the person, they all hinted at the approach of this mysterious individual. By training, Kamalo tried not to react; keeping the knowledge of the other person shelved in his mind like a book in a bookshelf, he kept on gazing at the hustle and bustle of the island, only the slightest narrowing of his eyes giving away his awareness of the mysterious person behind him.

And when the opportune time was right, and the other person entered his anticipated striking range, he turned his head just enough for the other person to enter his peripheral vision. And he did, what with Kamalo making the motion look as casual and natural as possible.

Under six feet. Carrying one visible shortsword and one visible dagger. No intent to kill.

Kamalo picked all of those details out about the other person in an instant, but failed to turn around, relaxing mentally, though he kept his eyes on the blades of the other one. After all, one can’t exactly trust someone whose life is to steal, right?

So he thought until he heard the voice of the other person.

“Meidra, Eivera Forahun,” Kamalo’s first mate, Garafoli, greeted him, as he clapped Kamalo on the shoulder with just enough force to rock him off of his heels, pushing the weight onto the balls of his feet. With a grin, Kamalo let his left foot slide forward, using the momentum of the push to pivot on the heel of his left foot and turn with a less-than-elegant spin to greet Garafoli face-to-face, clasping his hand with the smile of familiarity.

Garafoli Sotsse, five feet nine inches, one hundred and ninety-two pounds. And only half-human. A rare species for a pirate of a human-led pirate organization, but then again Kamalo wasn’t entirely human either. Two half-humans leading a ship in a human-led organization of pirates. What with all the racism thrown around half-breeds, it was rare to see one half-breed pirate, let alone two. But then again, in this day and age, no one cared about who was human or not, so long as they were useful, didn’t die, and didn’t need to use Kehrat for all the magic they had.

“Meidra, Eivera Forahun,” Kamalo returned the greeting, looking at the direction Garafoli had came from, to spot several hundred-foot-long frigates idling off of the west side of the island. Judging by the dull shine of the metal inlays in the ship’s design and the lack of any prominent decoration, they belonged to different pirates that Kamalo had no business with, so he discarded the thoughts of the ships and turned to Garafoli.

“Where have you been? I almost got jumped in Mess Hall 3, you know,” Kamalo complained jokingly as he scanned the island some more for other threats, but only detected rocks, waving winds, wandering pirates, weaving blades of grass, and rocking trees.

“North side of the island. The Spara Family showed up,” Garafoli says quietly as he flickers his eyes towards the north side with uncertainty, which was concealed by a rather large volcanic mountain. Kamalo hesistates as he looks at the flows of lava streaming down the mountain, dreading the heat that would radiate from it, but also realizing it would take far too long to just loop around.

“Spara? I’m going to them,” Kamalo tells Garafoli after the second he took to make that decision, immediately beginning to hike up the hills behind him to approach the mountainous terrain of the little island he was on. With a grumble that didn’t escape Kamalo’s sharp attention, Garafoli sprinted after him, catching up quickly as they hiked up the short grass and volcanic rocks, slowly approaching the tip of the hill.

As the hill’s arduous slope began to digress downwards in angle, the waves of grass that once concealed the various ashen rocks gave way to sharper igneous stones, the heat waves rising as they hiked closer to the volcano, trekking by rivers of lava and forests of obsidian, meandering through hot springs and boiling rivers. Never once concerned about the volcano erupting, Kamalo held no reservations in chatting to Garafoli about how hot it was here and how bad it was for him. Garafoli, struggling as well, could only agree about how the thick lining of sticky mucous they wore would evaporate off of them in this heat, wandering as far as they could from one source of lava only to hit another, grumbling, turning around and finding more lava as they wandered towards their ultimate goal of meeting Lady Spara.

For though they could just use magic to get over there, it was uncomfortable for Kamalo to use water in a place that abhorred the presence of water so, and he didn’t understand why anyone would choose to use an active volcano for a base, but the pirates did it and he put up with it. Garafoli was another question; though supposedly a hardened pirate, he held nothing back in expressing his utter disgust for magma between the slow conversations of the Pirate’s Convention held on this uninhabited islands. For both of them, being well-adapted to freezing environments and icy waters, they retained so much heat they felt like they were going to sweat off their body weight. Or melt it off; it depended on which came first, the heatstroke or the magma swim.

Fast forward an hour and a half of jumping over ominously bubbling rivers of red, dodging sharp rocks, and getting lost within the ever-shifting lava floodplains, and eventually they found themselves on the north side of the island, looking down from up high on an impressive fleet…

Three metal and wooden ships, designed to float and sail well on their own power, inlaid with gold and silver pattering which served no apparent defensive purpose whatsoever except to show off how rich the Spara family were, well-equipped with the latest in sail and rudder technology, and likely possessing high-Sheen Kehrat Crystals onboard as well; something Kamalo was itching to plunder, and he was sure that many of the other pirates here were as well, but they flew the ocean blue peace flag, and even the battle-hardened pirates respected the rules of the sailors. So they got a pass… for now. It wasn’t every day that the pirates got a government visitor, after all, even if what they did was technically “illegal”.

What Kamalo was concerned about was the size of Spara’s fleet. Three ships. Against what was, at his last count, several hundred boats of the pirates that came and went from the Pirate’s Convention. Even if over ninety percent of the pirate boats were shoddily made, heavily damaged with weather, use, and fighting, and falling apart at the seams, they were still a formidable force; for Spara to bring three ships only meant that either Spara was crazy or confident in her ability to stave off a surprise attack from untrustworthy seawalkers. Or trustworthy of pirates.

Two of the three options were things Kamalo easily dismissed; it was the last one that he was worried about. Perhaps Spara had the ability to blow up all the pirates with just a glance. Magic was an odd subject on any given day, and for Spara to be that confident in her ability to conquer the pirates either meant she had a ridiculously high-sheen Kehrat Crystal, a level of magic on par with the legends of Aedora’s Fire of Life, or a guard of Stage Four warlocks on board. All three options were unappealing, and Kamalo made a mental note to GTFO if this turned violent.

In any case, though, he as a pirate wished to talk to this government official who had the balls to approach the dreaded Pirate’s Convention flying a peace flag, of all things, so he gestured for Garafoli to come with him as he began to descend the rocky slopes of the volcano, which grumbled slightly, almost as if it was responding to the people attempting to get off of its face. But Kamalo and Garafoli paid the volcano no mind; there were people here whose job it was to keep the volcano at bay for now, and they did their job well enough to give them peace of mind.

And by the time the sun was high in the sky, both Kamalo and Garafoli had finally made it to the north beach, sweating like they were the volcano and their sweat glands the tubes from which the ever-boiling and ever-blurbing magma flopped its languid way down the sticky crevasses of the skin of Kamalo. Even with the ships anchored out in the water and the rafts floating their merry way in and off the islands, the ships still dwarfed Kamalo and Garafoli.

“I think my respect level just went up by twenty,” Kamalo commented as he watched the sailors aboard the boat work, and Garafoli shot him a sidelong glance.

“How much experience did you gain from watching these guys?” he quipped as he paced slowly over to the water’s edge, looking at the ship. “Though I have to hand it to the Spara; they’re good,” he finished as he pulled a sudden 180 and looked back at Kamalo.

“Still going to talk to them?” he asked, his tone pleasant enough, though the underlying connotations were clear to him; if Kamalo angered the Spara… they’d be leaving their fates and the fate of their ship in the hands of the Storm Gods.

Then again, Kamalo had left his fate in the hands of the Storm Gods many, many times before. He didn’t mind doing it again another four or five or eighteen or a hundred times.

“Yeah… where are they?” Kamalo asked back, looking around; a hapless sailor who was walking by took notice of the two, and stopped, the clomping of bone on stone stopping as he stopped moving.

“Ey, ‘ya lookin for me captain?” the man said in a slightly garbled voice, due to the warped bony exoskeleton that caused Garafoli and Kamalo to do a double-take.

“You… you’re an Imakul?!” Garafoli expressed incredulously, looking up and down the seven-foot tall clutter of bony plates that made up the man. Confused, the man blinked through the plates covering his face and what were presumably his eyes…

“Aye, sir, I am, what ‘o it?” the man responded, kneeling down to get closer to their level. Seeing this, Kamalo, who had been holding the poker face of a lifetime this entire time, cracked slightly, letting a small smile peek through the stoic mask. “I’m glad to see more Imakul are finding their places onboard the fleets… but aren’t you afraid you’ll sink in the unforgiving waters of the ocean?” he inquired as he stepped back, giving the large exoskeleton his space.

“Oi, ‘nt there problems there, sir, got m’self a crystal ‘o floatin’!” he said happily, glancing behind him at the ship.

“Really? How’s the glitter?” Kamalo inquired as he followed the Imakul’s gaze towards the ship, observing the sailors darting around like ants on a dropped breadloaf.

“Glitter? Ah, le Sheen. Is dam’ear good. Like Sheen 3,” the big man laughs heartily as he thumps onto the ground, sitting with his legs splayed in front of him, the bone plating acting as clothing for the giant.

“What’s Sheen Three mean?” Kamalo asked in curiosity at this odd terminology, still standing, his gaze flickering back to the sitting bone monster… who, though sitting, matched Kamalo in height, yet the difference in height that defined the Imakul as taller was minimal in scope.

“Oh, ya know, is like, um… ‘le qualmily of me crystal,” the brute responded, letting his hands rest in his lap, the beady eyes roaming over the runt that was Kamalo.

“Le qualmily,” Kamalo repeated. “Common, please.”

“Wha’s Cumon?”

And it was at this point that Kamalo gave up and stepped back, burying his face in his hands. “Never mind. Where’s Spara?” he asked in mild frustration, his voice slightly muffled by the mucous on his hand.

“M’laddie is a’le meetin with ‘dem heads of Piratez,” the Imakul rumbled in response, pointing to the other side of the volcano, where Kamalo and Garafoli had just come from.

“Oh, thank you,” Kamalo smiled in response politely, though he was a far cry from wanting to give thanks; that was either a swim through pirate-infested waters or a walk through extreme lava flows. Neither alternative was appealing to him.

Yet, as the Imakul took the time to dismiss himself from their presence to address the needs of his ship, Kamalo couldn’t help but contemplate what would cause such a bony being to enjoy the sea so much, and why the Spara let an Imakul on. Perhaps the culture differences were so great between the Sparas and Kamalo’s own home in the frigid north that the Sparas were indifferent to other species. Perhaps simply the Spara were desperate for sailors.

But, Kamalo mused, there were simply too many possibilities to stand around and wait for something to happen. The world didn’t work like that. As long as one was alive, one could force a change.

Kamalo very much wished for a change to happen. And that started with him… and the Spara.

“Garafoli,” he ordered sharply, and the bemused Garafoli, confused at his order but knowing he was serious, rapidly stepped in front of Kamalo. “Sir.”

“We’re going for a swim,” Kamalo quickly gestured towards the water, and Garafoli, though tempted to huff but knowing better, simply nodded in affirmation.

And as the two friends and pirate mates sprinted full-tilt towards the gentle hush of the waving waters, intending to take full advantage of their heritage and swim around the island, Kamalo wondered if he’d made a mistake taking the long way around instead of a direct path.

Even as he dove into the frigid waters, his mucus layer protecting him from the temperature difference, he thought long and hard about why he was doing what he did.

“I don’t know,” was the answer he came up with. He didn’t know why. But he knew he wanted to do it, so he buckled down and picked up the swimming pace, his gills flapping with increasing intensity as he swam.

He’d answer the small fry later.

He had a timeline he needed to alter.