The Beginning
It was shortly after dawn when Captain Dante Montresor peered with bleary eyes at the dim light of the dawn. His gaze raked the horizon, seeking the last of the stars and made the calculations required to determine the proper course heading, then noted their current position in his log.
He piloted a Pelagrir vessel armed with twenty cannon and two bow chasers and wore a brace of pistols at his belt and a fine rapier hung at his hip. His opulent dress did little to mask the grim look on his face as he tugged at the long mustache which perched on his upper lip. His eyes flicked to the main deck and he watched the men continue to work with the rigging to ensure it continued at the present speed which he had maintained during the night, and he damned the fact that they dare not risk greater speed because of the dangers of the waters.
As he contemplated this, and more, he heard a noise from the Fighting Top and his lookout called out – “Ware, starboard side…”
Turning a terse glance to his right he peered at the waters and saw no sign of a boat, but became dimly conscious of the sound of water thrashing as if there was a large fish swimming alee of them. One of the men on the deck called out and flung a line into the water as other sailors rushed to the gunwale and watched as something was hauled from the sea.
He watched a man being dragged on the main deck as his crew gathered around him and stared at this newcomer with open shock.
“Ho, there!” he called out from his position on the quarterdeck – “who are you?”
The man being hauled up from the sea was wearing loose trousers that hung wet around his calves; he had no boots on his feet and over his chest was a large, black billowy shirt. His hair was dirty brown and a bright smile flashed from under a tangled mat of thick hair hanging from his lips and chin.
“My thanks, captain,” the man called out, his accent sounding like that of a man from Alathas, but he was not sure.
“Who are you, sir,” the captain bellowed from his position as his own men fell back a pace.
The man tossed his head about and shrugged the saltwater from his hair and grinned.
“I am Connor, late of Thalore,” he said with a nod of his head.
Montresor peered into the water and saw nothing and scowled.
“How the devil did you get here? We are leagues from land.”
Connor shrugged his heavy shoulders.
“I was sailing on a cutter heading back toward Alathas but we were set upon by corsairs. We fought, the ship was sunk, and I found a small boat unattached and took it and rowed it, but the timbers were poorly joined and it began to sink.”
He glanced to the east and searched the horizon for any possible wreckage then looked back at the captain.
“The boat sank beneath the waves and I tried my hand at swimming, until, catching sight of your ship, I made my way here until you fished me from the sea,” he added with a casual voice.
“The sea we sail is rife with sharks,” Montresor said with narrowed eyes.
Connor grinned and shrugged again casually as the others looked on him with some sense of awe and surprise at his response.
“What of the corsairs you fought?” one of the men asked suddenly and Connor turned his grey eyes to the man.
“They died,” he said with crooked smile and the others looked on him with respect.
Montresor studied this man with a black gaze; the northman had done nothing untoward nor disrespectful, but something about his easy confidence and the way his crew congregated about him angered the grim captain for some reason.
“Why should I not throw you back to the sharks?” he retorted, hoping to curb the attitude and confidence of the stranger with veiled threats, but there was no answer but the same easy grin.
“A good captain is always in need of more sailors, especially in such waters,” Connor responded casually as he stretched his arms easily above his head to take some of the tension from his shoulders.
Montresor had no argument to this, for the northman spoke the truth. Even so, he frowned and waved his hand forward to the prow.
“If you serve under my command you shall be expected to work,” he said with a growl.
Despite the swim and the conditions Connor nodded his head once and bounded forward to the press of men who moved aside as he strode with an easy speed to the foredeck and Montresor, seeing him among the rank and file of his crew, turned his gaze from the man and called his mate aloft to take a turn at the helm while he retired below.
As Connor moved forward the press of men around him was tense and he scanned them with a casual glance and saw them stagger apart from him, sizing him up and studying him.
One of the men, bigger and burlier, shouldered his way to the front of the company and scowled at Connor. At height with the northman the ruffian had a hard-packed set of muscles and stared at him with contemptuous scowl.
“So! You’re one of those swine from Thalore, eh? I hear they do naught but bed sheep and goats in that land,” he said the last with a loud voice as Connor stared at him without expression even as the other men laughed at the insult.
Yet beneath the laughter was a tension which permeated the taunt, for all knew that their man had come to test the mettle of the northman and discover what sort he was – a man of strength, or naught but fool to be used or cast aside at their amusement.
As the man turned his gaze to his laughing comrades Connor’s hand thrust out with the speed of a panther and his fingers tightened into a straight line and thrust hard into the neck of the man who cried out with a sudden gasp of surprise as he began to choke and cough in a hoarse retching voice, his hand flinging up to his throat as he gasped for air.
Without offering respite Connor’s hands flew up on either side of the man’s head and each hand curled behind his ears and tugged the man’s head forward with a sudden viciousness and smashed his forehead in to the man’s nose even as his hands continued to flounder around his neck. Connor jerked the man’s head back and then slammed it forward again, smashing his own head again into the bloodied man’s face, his own eyes splattered with scarlet carmine.
Gone was the easy grin that had graced Connor’s lips, it was instead replaced with a fierce intensity as he flung the man back against the deck and watched him crash back before him, the head hitting the timbers with a large crack.
All of this took no time at all and Connor looked up at the men with a sudden, wolfish glance that caused those around him to blanche at his gaze.
He strode over to the fallen man and absently pressed his head to the side with his naked foot and observed that the neck had snapped and grinned.
“Are all you southrons so frail; or is it only this whoreson?” he asked the others, but his blooded face broke into the same easy grin as he watched them.
The men realized that this man Connor could be assailed and likely killed if they all took him at once, yet they had already lost their best fighter to him in a matter of moments and none wished to be the first to try their luck.
“Good enough, then, eh?” he said, glancing around the others and moved to the fallen man and began to strip his him of his goods and gear with an easy grace.
As he lifted a coin pouch from the man he tumbled its contents in to his hands and then looked at the other man and laughed and tossed the coins at them as they dodged instinctively at his gesture, then fell to scrabbling for the wealth on the deck as he laughed again and took a long dirk from the dead sailors sash and tucked it absently in his own.
Pulling at the boots on the dead man he soon stripped them off and slid them around his own feet and tightened the thick cord laces and then bounded up quickly as the others watched him with curiosity.
He then took the body of the dead man to the gunwale and paused, looking aft to the others.
“Even sharks must eat,” he said with a grin, then threw the corpse unceremoniously overboard as they watched in shock.
“Now then, what work needs doing?” he asked the others with a boisterous voice as he leaned back against the rail, his arms crossed easily over his chest and one of the man began to chuckle at his audacity while the others slowly started to join and soon the whole of them were laughing as he bowed his head with an arrogance that belied the grim appearance of his face, still stained with blood.
Montresor scowled on the quarterdeck as he watched the men below on the main deck, and even the feeling of the ship responding to his commands did little allay his frustration at the situation.
It had been nearly a fortnight since he had fished Connor from the waves and during that time Montresor felt a growing sense of unease and agitation with the man. But he felt he was in an untenable position, for the reason for his unease stemmed not from any real concern, but rather it grew simply from how well the lot his own band of cutthroats responded to the man.
Connor never shirked his duties, never complained, always did what he could to help, even going so far as to volunteer to help the less skilled or weaker men. There was nothing he could be faulted for as a sailor or a crewman, and his experience with sailing, while somewhat unorthodox compared to the standards of Pelagrir, were canny as ever a man that Montresor had seen.
Yet the man’s easy camaraderie with the crew was what vexed Montresor. The captain had always seen those he commanded as lesser men, beneath his contempt and notice, unless they behaved in a way that demanded discipline, and thus his crew had learned to fear him and for this Montresor was content.
But when Connor mingled with the men Montresor observed a man who jested with them, entertained the men with wild tales of the grim, haunted fens and forests of his homelands and inspired them with tales of battle with fell creatures from across the seas. He saw a man that his crew began to rely on, and trust, and accept easily as one of their own…
He considered trying something to distance Connor’s ease with the men, but nothing that Connor did was offensive enough to warrant punishment, nor even chastisement. Yet Montresor distrusted the man, and began to realize that it was Connor’s confidence and easy arrogance which were the crux of it. Further, Montresor had recalled the recounting of the fight between one of his men from his First Officer who had observed the confrontation; the swift and skillful killing that he had done with one of his toughest sea-dogs was unsettling.
He studied Connor through veiled eyes and observed that he now wore a thick, leather jerkin that hung down to his mid-thigh and was belted. His trousers were tucked carelessly into seaman’s boots and the haft of the long knife he had taken earlier was tucked in his belt, while the haft of a light, long-handled axe hung from a thong dangling by his left hip.
His tangled beard had been combed and was braided and hung shortly below his collar and even now he was singing a lusty chorus with the men that gathered around him.
Montresor then looked at the skyline and smiled at what he saw in the distance and suddenly summoned his men to him.
“Hearken lads!” he cried with a loud voice “we are near to the island.”
The men stopped what they were doing and moved to him, some of them turned and saw the crest of land breaking the horizon, but they were more interested in hearing what it was that their captain had to report on this place, for he had been deliberately mysterious on their mission – as was his custom – and they desired to know more of their purpose when they went ashore.
“The island we go to is not on any chart, some saying that it was hidden because of sorcery… But I have acquired the details of its location through secret means, the one who shared it with me doing so only with the greatest persuasion,” he added, his veiled threat of intrigue and powers of the supernatural caused some of the men to make gestures to ward off curses, while others looked tense and uncomfortable.
He relished the men’s disquiet, but his eyes saw the face of Connor and he saw the northerner did not seem perturbed by the hints of dark magic and torture to discover this hidden land. Instead, he was somewhat annoyed to see that the man had casually crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the gunwale easily, a small, crooked smile on his lips and his eyes seem to look almost amused at the tale.
Scowling a bit, he continued.
“On this land we shall find many strange things, no doubt, but far more important is the fact that on this land we shall find something rumored to be of great worth. Whoever claims this relic shall have tremendous power, and with it, tremendous wealth,” he added, and the crew gaze an eager, though somewhat nervous, cheer.
Montresor waited until the stirring had died down and he saw Connor did not share their elation and looked hard at him.
“Do you have issue with treasure, Northman? Or do you prefer the rags you wear now?” he asked, hoping that questioning Connor’s courage would cause the crew to lose some of their respect for him, or better – cause the man to lose his temper and do something that could merit punishment.
Yet Connor only grinned and shrugged.
“Maybe,” he responded easily at the comment. “But maybe, if the tale of this loot is true, it will not be so easy to pinch as some harlot’s rump… Who can say?” he responded and Montresor felt his teeth grind involuntarily.
This was the man’s style and way. Connor would never question orders or complain, aye, yet he always managed to say something as a passing comment or casual aside which caused his own commands to loose to their weight with the men as they suddenly considered that – perhaps – Connor had more insight or some special information that no one else seemed to possess.
“Perhaps such treasure is guarded, but a wise captain comes prepared against such issues,” Montresor spat back with a frown.
Connor grinned in response.
“A wise captain would do that, yes,” he responded and stared back at him, his eyes neutral, the words polite enough, yet Montresor felt the statement like a goad and felt his tension rise.
The men were cavorting upon the shore, a large fire kindled and heavy fish, cleaned and gutted and sizzling on large stones heated by the flames as heavy kegs of rum had been broken out and large mugs passed among them. Montresor watched the men with a smile laced with contempt, for though he had allowed the modest celebration he felt no desire to share the camaraderie; in point of fact, he deemed that such base actions were beneath him.
His eyes swiped through the men and he noted that the ship itself was anchored securely several cables from shore and in a safe, shallow bay nearly twenty fathoms deep with a clean, sandy bottom. As he watched them, he observed Connor standing with a group of men holding a mug and articulating some tale or jest which caused his fellows to laugh loudly in retort.
Montresor grunted at the display but turned his eyes inland and peered through the leafy canopy and noted that, as the tale indicated, there was indeed a slow rise between two large cliffs, but between them a narrow way which led to a gradual slope through the trees and – in the distance – a sharp peak jutting up, perhaps only a league away. He smiled grimly at this; that the information about the island itself was this accurate lent more credence to the rest of the tale.
He slid a pistol from its place on his belt and checked the priming and then examined the other one as he considered the tale that the old man from Sandaria had told him.
On the hidden isle was a trail between two peaks of rock which led to an ancient temple. The temple had been formed by unknown people long before the men of their world had climbed their way from the mud and filth to create tribes that would evolve to modern civilization. Yet within that stony ruin was a great room and within it a dais with a throne carved from obsidian. Upon that throne were the bones of a long-forgotten being and in its lap was a great crystal.
The Sandarian told him that this crystal was known to his folk for was given as a gift to those ancient peoples and in elder days placed in great cities around the world. At each point they could commune with each other, letting powerful leaders share their thoughts across great distances and even, at times, observe visions of the past and future.
All of the crystals had perished but one in some hidden tomb in Sandaria, so he had said, and a tribal chief had witnessed the vision of the island and the gulf between them. Yet this vision was too sore a test for this man and it broke his mind; until the last of his days he would repeat the vision of what he saw, including the details of the island.
The Sandarian had told him that the island would have never been found but for the fact that the man had seen the stars in the sky, and would draw them over and again in the sand. When he was denied the means to draw them, put in to a place without the means to communicate the location of the stars he had tore at his fingers with his teeth and smeared on the stone those images with his blood until he had been bound for his safety.
In the night his shrieks were terrible until they suddenly ceased with a blinding scream of terror.
Montresor grinned sardonically at the tale and peered through the trees, unafraid. Fools feared the realm of Shadows, men of enlightenment need not tremble over such tales. Men with wills of iron would dare much, risking everything for great rewards, even as he intended. With that, he plunged in to the wild and moved with a reckless drive to find the ruin and the crystal that he believed lay within.
And as he strode forward under the leafy canopy Connor of Thalore watched him with a gleam in his eye and loosed the axe at his belt, laughed with his fellows and strode to the wild and plunged in after him.
The damnable heat and jungle pests were driving Montresor to distraction. He despised the wilderness and longed for the placid weather of Arvandor, bereft of such vermin. Even so, he moved forward with an intensity, eager to be done with the journey and so quit this land with his treasure intact.
He had not spoken to his men of his true intention here, but this was not surprising. He rarely told his men anything of his plans, and often would invent tales to confuse them for he was a man who trusted little to those who would dare to follow him. That he had no escort or support in his journey did not trouble him; the island had no signs of men upon it, only a few errant wild pigs that shied from him as his booted feet moved through the jungle and eventually came to a stony path, cracked and broken with wild overgrowth.
Confident, he pushed on with greater speed, his greed for the prize spurning him forward until he at last came to a wide opening in the branches and beheld before him a wall fashioned of dark green stone that stretched before him to great heights. At the summit was a large arch, broken apart from time and weather, and leading up to the arch was series of stairs which he climbed, though with some difficulty. It was readily apparent that whoever fashioned such stairs had done so for men far greater in stature than he himself, perhaps men twice his height, yet he did not know truly and did not care.
Charging up the stairs he finally came to the opening in the wall and strode in with a purpose, pausing only in the midst of a wide courtyard.
He paused a moment, his senses detecting some discrepancy here, for the jungle growth which had broken the path that he had tread was utterly absent, as if the stones themselves were immune to the spread of the life of the wilderness that he had moved through.
His eyes narrowed and he scowled, berating himself for his moment of weakness and plunged forward across the stony courtyard until he came to the wide opening of a huge doorway. Peering within the opening he could see that large cracks in the masonry above let dim, eerie light to stab in green streaks across the chamber. Yet he cared little, for at the far side of the chamber was a giant throne carved from dark rock and upon rested the bones of a giant who held in his hand a crystal orb.
The room was silent, it seemed, but Montresor felt a tension growing, like a throbbing pulse which seemed to pound in his head as he slowly approached the throne. There, at the base of the dais he looked up at the bones of the long-dead leader, the crystal clutched in its bony grasp, and he felt a mad desire well within him to reach out and seize it. But as his hand reached forward, he was startled to hear a dim sound upon the rock and suddenly whirled about.
There before him stood Connor, a strange look in his eye while his lips parted to reveal a bright smile. In his left hand the haft of the axe dangled loosely and in his right hand gripped the hilt of his long knife.
“Northman! What are you doing here?” he spat out in a dark voice.
“Do you need ask?” Connor responded with a crooked smile.
Montresor growled and jerked out his pistol and raised it, but as he lifted the barrel the long knife flew from Connor’s hand and slammed in to his arm and caused his hand to jerk wildly and the pistol to fire at a strange angle before it fell to the ground, the ball slamming in to the stones of the wall behind Connor even as he leaped forward in a mad rush at Montresor who tore out his blade while his wounded hand fumbled for his other pistol.
Connor did not let him draw the pistol before he closed the distance, but Montresor raised his blade to hinder a swing that Connor leveled at him.
Montresor had lived long on the earth and was a canny swordsmen and succeeded at parrying the assault, yet the blade of the long knife tearing at the open wound in his arm had complicated his balance and distracted his focus as he tried to resist the savagery of Connor’s attack.
The Northman took another swipe at Montresor and the southerner lifted his blade to parry the swipe, but it was naught but a feint and the head of the axe weaved around it and slashed down to slice in to the hip of the dark-haired captain who cried out in pain.
Ripping the blade from the hip he stepped back and Montresor thrust his blade toward Connor who caught the edge on the haft of his axe and twisted his weapon, jerking the blade from the hand of his enemy and tearing it out of his grasp to fall upon the stone floor.
Yet the move, while successful, had forced Connor back a pace and allowed Montresor to scramble back up the stairs behind him, his good hand reaching the butt of his pistol and jerked it from his belt as he stumbled up the stairs.
Connor saw the move and paused, waiting to see what his enemy would do, his body poised like a cobra ready to spring and they both knew that the fight would end as soon as Montresor pulled the trigger.
Perhaps not trusting his luck, the captain kept the barrel leveled at Connor and moved up the stairway clumsily as the Northman studied him, ready to spring should the moment present itself.
Montresor continued to push himself up the stairs as blood seeped from his arm and hip, his eyes wild, until he sat on the summit of the dais and pulled himself to a standing position and stared down at Connor who watched him with appraising eyes.
“Damnable dog!” Montresor hissed as he swayed above Connor “you shall not halt me now, so close to my prize.”
Without turning his gaze from Connor his hand reached behind to grip the crystal and as his fingers seized its strangely milky surface several things suddenly happened at once…
A sudden shock trembled through the ground violently and caused the men to stumble and collapse to the stony floor. During his collapse the pistol exploded as his finger instinctively pulled the trigger and the ball slammed against the rocky stairs. At the same time crevices split down the sides of the structure and Connor lurched back from the trembling stone and righted himself even as he saw Montresor gripping the stone in his hands.
Yet as Connor looked the stone gave off a weirding light and the face of Montresor was bathed with its white radiance, or else the color itself had drained from his face and left the captain in the throes of some darksome palsy.
Connor considered trying to finish the captain, but the seams of the ceiling were cracking above them and he felt the inevitable collapse of the structure looming and began to stumble back to the doorway, his eyes still on Montresor, watching to see if the man might try one last gambit to finish him.
However, Montresor did not respond to Connor, instead seeming to be more concerned with the crystal, but his eyes were now staring hard from his head, the whites criss-crossed with red veins and his mouth was stretched back in a lurid grin which bordered between joy, awe, lust and terror, even as drool dripped obscenely from his splayed lips.
Seeing this Connor turned and fled from the chamber only to hear a hideous shriek of terror echo in the halls before the ceiling collapsed and the structure came down in a horrible wreck even as Connor charged madly for the path in the jungle.
Once he achieved the path he considered pausing to ascertain the situation, but he felt the ground trembling beneath his feet and suddenly decided that to delay would mean death.
He began the long run down the trail, and only his sure-footed movement saved him from stumbling and falling on the path he ran upon. The journey to shore was nearly three miles, but to a man of Thalore, it was naught a difficulty, a day’s hunt being far more arduous. Thus he ran on, pausing only to throw a glance behind him and noticed with shock that the place where the building had stood there was nothing but a long stream of ash-gray smoke rising to the heavens but the land itself seemed to be split asunder and a torrent of mud and rocks were pouring out as if the earth itself was vomiting destruction for those who would seek the crystal.
Thus Connor ran to the shore.
When he broke the tree line he saw the crew beating the trees in a panicky gesture, calling for their captain, unsure of what to do. For while the crew could sail the ship without their captain, none of them knew their position or how to con the vessel to the next port. Montresor never shared the details of his log with his men, and indeed, the log itself was encoded to protect it from being read or understood by his men.
If they did not know their position then they could not find their way home; a crew lost without their captain was thus dependent on their captain.
Yet as Connor crashed through the trees the crew stared at him in shock and many called to him, asking if he had seen their captain.
Connor tossed a glance behind him and bellowed to them all –
“Run, you fools, or you shall all die,” he called out even as he rushed madly passed them and charged for the ship.
The men, confused at his words, paused only long enough to see the approaching landslide of rocks tumbling and falling toward them with a speed that suggested it was not mere gravity which caused the rocks to collapse, but some abysmal will that spurned the landslide on, and with greater speed than was natural.
Turning, they followed his lead and saw that he was already swimming strongly for the ship and was even pulling himself from the water by the length of the cable. As he swung himself to the main deck, he turned and grabbed the lines and tugged them from the waterline with speed even as the crew pulled hard on the oars to reach him.
As their various boats bumped and thudded on the hull he loomed above them with a brace of his pistols at his belt and holding a rifle awkwardly in his hands, leveling at the crew who stared up at him in consternation, the tumbling rock and filth falling thick through the trees, nearing to the beach.
When the men moved to the ship they glanced aloft and saw him standing above them, staring down at them with a bright intensity as they watched the island itself. In their wake the rocks and filth had tumbled to cover the beach itself and poured into the water and caused waves to ebb and break on their boat as it bumped into the hull of the ship above.
Connor looked down at the men below him who stared up at him in consternation.
“What’s the meaning of this?” called out the First Officer, Rinaldo Vespucci, staring up at Connor with both fear and confusion at the northman’s actions “and where is Captain Montresor?” he pressed.
Connor grinned brightly as another wave slammed the longboat up against the hull of the ship.
“Montresor is dead,” he said with a smile “I’m the captain now.”
The men looked aghast at this statement, though many of the regular crew did not seem quite so perturbed. After all, Montresor was not a man they liked or respected much, either as officer or ally; whereas Connor was a man that they had learned to trust and respect. Even so, such a prompt decision was not quite so easy to digest, especially for those of the crew who might have otherwise taken prominence.
“What gives you the right to captain this ship?” Vespucci demanded angrily from the bow of the longboat below as the waves seemed to bubble and hiss as more mud and filth pushed into the water.
Connor’s eyes flashed and he stabbed a blunt finger at the island.
“Sorcery prompts the death of this island and yours, too, if you will not submit,” he roared out and the men in the boat turned and began a barrage of threats to Vespucci.
One of them, a dark-haired corsair out of Sandaria spoke.
“By the gods, I shall serve you, Connor! You at least know how to sail by stars and can guide us home and always have you treated us fair,” he bellowed “through me a line at least while these others quibble!’ the man, Samir ben-Hadad called out.
Connor grinned and tossed a cable to Samir who leapt from the rocking longboat and caught it and began to haul himself up.
The First Officer glanced at the others and suddenly realized that the men on the boat with him would rather join Connor than argue as the chaos behind them persisted. Further, he knew the truth of what ben-Hadad had said; thanks to Montresor’s desire to keep the men under his thumb, he insisted that none of them knew the trick to navigating the ship without him. Thus none would dare to mutiny lest they be without a way home.
If Connor could navigate it would be a fool’s choice to stand askance to him now.
Vespucci held up his hands even as ben-Hadad swung himself onto the deck and Connor clapped him amiably on his back.
“Enough, enough! We shall all swear to serve you, by the gods, we so swear,” he pressed, then looked at the other man, his eyes intent, and at that moment elected to demonstrate his loyalty completely to Connor. After all, he was a worthy First Officer; he could at least remain in that position under Connor, should the man allow it – yet, clearly, he must prove his worth now or lose whatever hold he had.
The others who were already willing enough to follow Connor as the waves began to steam around them were further agreed by Vespucci’s intensity and all of them were demanding to be rescued from the morass that was quickly swamping the bay.
Connor tossed another line to Vespucci and he and another men began to pull themselves on to the deck above, ben-Hadad moved to amidship and began to get the winch and cables and tossed them below to the men in the longboat. As Vespucci moved on the deck he quickly assisted and the next man looked about, seeking for some task, even as Connor suddenly bounded up the stairs to the quarterdeck.
“Raise the gods-damned anchor,” he called out from his position at the third man, who rushed to obey even as two more men began to swing themselves on to the deck.
The cables below were fastened to the longboat and one of them rushed for the anchor while the other helped ben-Hadad at the winch with Vespucci, desperately hauling the longboat, yet filled the remaining band of Montresor’s cutthroats, up the side of the ship.
The bubbling of the waves was now joined with a foul wreak that rose to sicken the men even as the anchor was tugged from the water and the ship began to move suddenly faster from the bay as the heavy chop of the waves pushed it further out. Those remaining men on the longboat needed no warning as they rushed to various places on the rigging and did what they could to raise the sails and encourage more speed from the cursed island.
Then, as the men at the winch swung the longboat amidship and the anchor was finally bound above the waterline, Connor spun the wheel and pressed the nose of ship to the horizon.
Another heavy wave crashed from the island and the sound of a thunderous bellow behind them caused the men to glance behind them in fear even as the snap and crack of the wind the halyards caused the ship to move out of the bay with a greater speed.
Vespucci began to sing a chant to encourage the men tugging at the reefing near the sails and as the sound rose to Connor’s ears, he suddenly let out a loud laugh as the ship began to glide past the breakers of the waves and push into the darkness of the sea.
Vespucci looked up at Connor swaying confidently on the quarterdeck and his angst at losing his chance at command was eased suddenly as he realized that for as brutal and strange as the northman was, he was a skilled sailor and a good leader. He had not done wrong by any of the men; and Vespucci reflected that if he had questioned Montresor’s right to lead, as he had done with Connor, he would have been very dead, very quickly.
Vespucci turned a glance at the island in their wake and saw the bubbling hiss of some foul darkness spill into the waves even as the prow of the ship cut through the waves like a knife. Glancing aft again he saw the tall peaks of the islands sliding fast and violently into the waves below and he shook his head in awe as the entire island seemed to be consumed by some dark sorcery that Montresor had, no doubt, awakened when he took them here.
As he considered this, he also considered the promise of wealth and then turned his gaze to look at Connor.
“Begging your pardon, captain,” he said the word deliberately “where do we sail to next?”
Connor glanced down at Vespucci and grinned.
“We sail west; this is a Pelagirin ship, is it not? Then the best vessels for her to take are near to Thalore and there we’ll find ship’s with wealth enough for all aboard. Now, put your backs in to it and let’s seek a prize!” he bellowed in response as the men, listening in, lifted a cheer of assent.
It was eighteen days since the incident at the island and the ship – renamed by Connor as “The Valkyrie” – had discovered its first prize.
A ship with dhow rigging, likely one from northern Sandaria, had been sighted and been given chase. When the men under Connor’s command had assailed them, they discovered that the Sandariain ship had no cannon aboard, but instead, squat ballista which lobbed vials of oil and pitch at their ship and lighted at range with fire arrows. The chase was brutal, but when they drew in range the men on “The Valkyrie” were content to open fire with their muskets and grape shot, causing huge and ugly smears of ruined bodies to decorate the keel of the enemy vessel.
As the ship drew in range grapples were tossed and Connor led the boarding party who swung across and crashed hard upon the enemy deck and, after a brief skirmish, soon had the majority of the men slain while those few who surrendered were beaten down into further submission until their fate was determined.
Connor cared little for the lot of the enemy crew, though, being more interested in what treasures were below. After a quick examination of the captain’s quarters he scowled at the lack of wealth apparent and turned on his heel to head below, leaving the details of securing the mundane loot to Vespucci.
Rushing below deck he noticed at the aft side of the ship was a solid, oaken door; bound with iron bands and covered in strange glyphs. Yet was most puzzling was that before it stood a strange site; a woman with features like that of any from Thalore, yet her eyes were gone, burned away by what was likely hot irons, and at Connor’s presence she lifted her sightless gaze and seemed to stare at him.
“Who be ye to come to this place?” she called out in a sing-song voice with an accent strong from his homeland.
“I am one who has achieved much in battle; and because of that, I may claim what I wish,” he retorted brashly, but his eyes narrowed in suspicion at the blind crone.
“Aye! A northman who speaks with a tongue of my lands, true?” she cackled in response, her laugh causing Connor to stare at her with a tense look.
“Tell me then, man of my lands; what do ye know of darkness and demons?” she prompted.
Connor scowled in response to this query.
“I know enough that iron and blood are real enough to allay even the gods, if Fortune stands beside you,” he responded with a wary tone.
The crone cackled again.
“Aye, aye! Well spoken! But no, thus, man of my land, beyond this door is a thing fished from below the waves; from those wretched cities drowned by dark gods of bygones ages it may be – or worse… And if ye think ye can survive such peril mark ye well that it comes not to ye with a knife or iron; yet shall it stab at thy heart… for what ye shall see is what has driven men mad with need and they who pursue it meet grim tides indeed,” she added, then fished a bag from around her neck and tossed its contents on the deck between them.
Connor raised his weapon then paused, studying what she had cast, and there he spied a collection of bones before them and watched her pass her hand over them, as if feeling their size and location.
“What’s this, what’s this I see? A darksome tale for thee… yet fear shall not halt thee thus; instead ye driven forth by lust…” she added, and Connor made a symbol with his hand to ward off her chant, sure now that she was mocking his lust for treasure and wealth.
“You are plotting some devilment with me, witch,” he growled “yet among my people it is oft said – A Crushed Head Holds No Plots….”
He lifted his axe suddenly and the woman before him suddenly jerked out a long knife and lunged at him with an accuracy that belied her blindness. Connor dodged the assault, but barely, and then his axe swung in a fast arc and he buried the metal head in her skull.
Jerking out the weapon he grimaced at the hideous form of the dead crone and paused to clean the axe head off on her skull and then moved to the door.
Given the writing and the iron bindings he assumed that opening it would be complicated, yet was startled to discover the door opened with ease at his mere touch; as if those who fashioned it were content that the crone and writing was enough to halt any intruders.
He heard the men moving aloft, eager to hear of what he discovered, and called to them that he was yet unsure but they should continue in securing the vessel. And then he pushed the door open…
Beyond the door the cabin was dark, and as the grimy light seeped in from where he stood he noticed at once a large, copper tub, filled with water. Lifting his axe warily he moved forward and saw what looked like a strange sight; a red-haired woman with dusky skin lay in the tub, her head back and face had the look of one who had suffered much.
Connor noted that her ears were sloe shaped, as the Fae creatures of his homeland, and he felt a nervous edge in his belly as he stared at her. Then, her eyes opened and she seemed to flinch back from him, as if afraid, and he stared at her in confusion, uncertain as to how to react.
Casting his gaze about the cabin he spied a fine robe folded on a wooden bench and tore it up and handed it to her, so she may cover her modesty.
While the northman did not care overmuch for the needs of civilized men to hide their nakedness, he knew at least that there was something strange and mysterious about this woman before him and, uncertain how to proceed, elected to do all he could to make her comfortable.
He lowered his axe, though was still wary as he looked upon her, the robe offered to her.
“I am Connor, a northman from Thalore. You will not be harmed. If you need aid, I will help you,” he said slowly as she watched him from her place in the water.
“Who are you, and how did you come to this place?” he added, extending the robe, hoping that even if she did not understand his language that she would at least accept the gentleness of his tone.
Then, as he held the robe for her to take, he waited to see how she would respond…
There was a man, a man walking towards the tub his fingers clasped tightly around some sort of strange weapon.
She had never seen a weapon such as this before, and it all but glimmered in the candle light. As the man continued his stride towards her she let out a low hiss, one of warning, she hadn’t meant it to sound challenging, but perhaps it did because he continued to move forward. She panicked pressing her back against the cool copper vessel, she frantically looked around whimpering softly her pupils dilating as she let out a high pitched cry. Not a scream, but an agglomeration of notes, ones specifically used among her people to call for aid.
As he held the robe out to her she quickly latched onto it and closed her eyes tightly trying to concentrate. Her tail that was once orange and white with specks of black slowly started to shift to the color of the robe as she tried to make herself less noticeable.
To anyone else this performance would have proven to be ridiculous, laughable even, but to her it was necessary. This was a life or death situation, or at least that’s what she perceived this to be. As he spoke, she opened her eyes, her hands letting go of the robe immediately once it became obvious that her attempt at hiding in plain sight were to no avail.
As he spoke she scrunched up her face in confusion, what the devil was he going on about? She shook her head trying to make it clear that she couldn’t understand a word he was saying. Connor...she assumed that was what this human called himself, and she recognized the word Thalore, she had cousins that roamed those waters..though they were distant.
She placed her hands on the edge of the tub her attention turning to the doorway behind the northerner. She could hear the voices of other man, a distinct difference in their tones and accents to those of the Sandarian crew.
She wondered what had happened to them.
Connor heard the high-pitched cry and his eyes narrowed as he watched her.
He noted at once the tail in the water beneath him, but he did not react it to – at least, not overtly. His eyes widened somewhat, for he had heard tales of creatures of the deep who had the ken of men’s faces and the bodies of aquatic creatures, and while he had never witnessed such a creature with his own eyes, he was determined not to do anything to complicate this meeting.
His mind tacked back to the crone who had spoken his language that stood as apparent guard at the door, and he wondered if the creature before him was some sort of demon-spawn to be used as a weapon, or a prisoner to be held for threat of trade…
One thing was certain, he did not know much about her, and she did not seem to be inclined to speak, if she could even answer him.
At that moment ben-Hadad suddenly strode across the empty deck behind the door and Connor half-turned to the man.
“Did ye find anything aboard?” he asked ben-Hadad before the man could speak.
“With respect, sahib, there was little of note. The ship’s log was writ in some archaic tongue, else it was encoded, but Rinaldo is working on it.”
He seemed to be oblivious to the dead woman on the deck and was more interested in the signs of the door and the tub that Connor stood in front of.
“Have the lads take what goods there are to find aboard to our ship. This one’s not worth much, we can let it drift, I’d warrant, as I we dinna have the crew to con both vessels. As for the prisoners – ask them if they are willing to serve with us. Those who are give safe and fair treatment; those who aren’t, cut their throats and throw them overboard,” he said with a flat voice forestalling any questions by ben-Hadad who glanced behind his captain again, then looked at Connor and nodded.
Connor watched the man go and then turned to look at the creature before him.
He studied her for a moment, then placed his hand on his chest.
“Connor,” he said slowly, watching her carefully “Connor…” he repeated.
He put his hand toward her and hoped she might tell him at least her name, or a way to communicate, and then waited to see what she would say next.
She lowered herself into the water hearing footsteps approach the doorway, she whispered quietly to herself in her mother language…
What was being said? Who could say. Goods...they were stealing?
She wasn’t sure why she was surprised, they were pirates after all. Black hearted men who were cursed with dissatisfaction until the day they died, their greed being their main source of death.
“...C-Co-Conn-or” she spoke slowly she tilted her head when he put his hand towards her not understanding at first.
“...Asena,” she finally spoke after a few minutes.
His eyes narrowed a bit as he watched her.
“Asena…” he said slowly, doing his best to try to pronounce the word with the same tone and inflection.
He pointed to himself again, placing it on his chest and said slowly – “Connor” – then, placing his hand out gently toward her, he laid it on her chest gently and said softly – “Asena”…
He waited a moment for her to deduce he meant no harm and was not trying to hurt or harm her. All the while his eyes cast about the room, seeking for something to give him a clue as to what to do next.
He saw something interesting, then; a series of earthen jars caught his attention, for they were not fancy or impressive, though they seemed obvious for their simplicity.
As he fidgeted a bit, he lifted the lid of one of them, and noticed the smell of pickled seaweed in them, and in another of the jars he saw something that looked like dried strips of fish, possibly cod, but he wasn’t sure.
He reached inside and lifted one and suddenly wondered if it was food; or rather, if it was food that she would prefer?
He took the jar gingerly in his hands and offered it to her slowly. He suddenly realized he did not know how long she had been in the chamber and if she had eaten anything, but realized that food would not be a problem, at least, not to offer it.
He waited for her to study the contents of the jar and then see if she would take what was inside.
As he waited for her to act, he began to speak slowly to her, testing her patience for his words and trying to see if she could duplicate what he said.
“Eat… eat?” he asked, pointing his hand to the contents of the jar, then at his mouth as he pantomimed eating and watching her to see how she would react.
He feigned eating the food and then rubbed his stomach to demonstrate that he was supposed to be swallowing something, and waited to see how she would react.
“Connor,” he said again, pointing at himself – “Asena” he added as he pointed at her.
He smiled her, his smile obvious, but he tried to make sure it was not threatening, but merely peaceful so it did not cause her any distress.
He looked at the water again that she rested in, the tail still obvious, and wondered if he would take her on his ship if he would need to take the whole damn copper tub? And if he needed to, could he even move it? If he didn’t take the copper tub, what would happen to her once she left the water? Would she die at once, or would it take time, or would she not die at all with her tail not wet?
He didn’t know, but did what he could to maintain his calm and do everything he could to remain patient so as not to upset her.
He waited to see if she would try the food, then, and how she would react and simply remained patient with her, not know what she was thinking or feeling, but eager to know more.
She gave a small nod and smiled excitedly at the recognition of her own name.
“Asena” she spoke again placing her hand on her chest before pointing at the Northerner.
“Connor..” the pronunciation of his name seemed easier to say.
“Connor...Asena..” she mumbled watching as he walked over to an assortment of jars and opened one of them examining the remnants of what appeared to be seaweed. She tilted her head when the jar was offered to her and watched as he rubbed his stomach and pretended to eat it.
She reached into the jar pulling out a strand of Seaweed and began to rub her tail with it
“...Not..Food” she smiled continuing to use the green plant to exfoliate her tail. Once she was finished she grabbed Connor’s hand and slowly started to guide it to her tail for him to feel. “...Soft…”
He watched her first take the seaweed and instead of eating it, rub it gently on her tail and marveled at it. He had eaten his share of seaweed as a sailor, eating anything he had to so that he did not starve on long voyages. But it was clearly not meant to be for her to eat…
He nodded his head at what she did and smiled.
“Good,” he said in response, keeping his words simple to mirror her style.
He felt the delicate touch of her hand on his rough one and felt her guiding his hand to her tail slowly but gently.
“…Soft…” she had said, and he felt the soft press of her tail under his hand and marveled at the way the scales felt to him; not rough, but delicate and the way they blended together was, to him, surprising at their lucid feeling under his hand.
“…Soft…… smooth…” he added, trying to offer her more words to consider, as he moved his hand slowly up and down the length of her tail, to demonstrate that when he meant smooth he meant the feeling as he slid over it, rather than soft as he pressed into it.
He recalled absently how the tail had shimmered in color, seeming to blend to merge with the blanket, and wondered at what sort of power she might have. But beyond wondering he considered what to do next.
The ship she was on had been heavily damaged and he would need to take her off it and to his own ship for safety. Yet where would she stay on his ship? Could they even get the tub out of the chamber?
He knew that they had large wooden vats that had been used for holding fresh water that were empty. Perhaps they could be filled with seawater and she could rest in one of them, if she could even be moved safely from the tub she was in. But no matter what happened, he could see from the way the ship was listing somewhat drunkenly, that it was taking on water and he would need to get her out.
Or should he?
She seemed a prisoner to the folk who held her – perhaps he should let her make her own choice, to return to the sea or come with him?
He did not know why he felt so generous with her, but when he looked into her eyes he felt a sudden pang of tenderness for her; he did not wish to see her come to harm, though he could not explain the motivation for that feeling.
He called out behind him in a loud voice for one of his men.
As he waited for a response he looked at her.
“Asena… good…” he said gently, hoping that the words would be known and she would feel safe with him.
One of the mates rushed to the door and he turned and rapidly told him to take one of the casks they used for fresh water that was empty and fill it halfway with seawater, then prepare to cast off while he brought aboard something.
The mater nodded his head, his eyes flicking past Connor and saw the girl, but said nothing but hurried off to obey orders.
Connor waited a moment and stared at her.
“Asena… good… come?” he said the last, then gestured to her with his hands, knowing she could not walk, but hoping she might move to him so he could hold her and possibly carry her safely to his ship.
He waited a moment for her; would she move toward him so he could lift her in his arms, or would she cringe back in suspicion.
Only time would tell…
"..Smooth" she mused the word feeling strange on her tongue. He seemed to be intrigued by her tail as he touched it and stared at it intently almost as if he was waiting for something to happen. She placed her hand onto the edge of the tub her tail turning a light copper color.
She jumped slightly when Connor called over his shoulder for one of his mates and let out a small whine when another man rushed down to see what Connor desired. She lowered herself into the water again as the man gave her a quick glance. When Connor spoke again she stared at him unsure how to answer. She would have to go with him, she had no idea where she was, and ever since her encounter with the witch she didn't seem quite like herself, she felt weak.
"...will, come along" she spoke softly.
"...will, come along" she spoke softly.
He nodded his head in assent, marveling at the ease that she seemed to be grasping his tongue; though not overly surprised at it, given the fact she must have picked up some bit of the lingo of the sailors she had traveled with.
He then reached gently into the water and slid his hand delicately under her tail, his other brawny arm reaching gently around her slim back and he paused, looking into her eyes.
He was struck by a sudden feeling; as if he had recalled lifting her body up from the water and carrying her, holding her delicately in his arms – her weight negligible to him. Even so, that feeling passed and he stooped and then did indeed lift her gently from the water, feeling her arms around his shoulders and chest as he lifted her.
“It’ll be alright…” he said softly to her as he held her, looking into her eyes, his own eyes deep and filled with concern for her safety as he took her gently.
He was not surprised how easy it was to lift her and carry her, nor was he surprised how easily it was to hold her in his arms. He was struck only by the thought that he had held her like this before; that somewhere in some forgotten place in his past he had held her in his arms and carried her as she held him, and he wondered at it, but did not let it halt him as he lifted her gently from the tub and carried her in his arms outside the door of the cabin to head to the large chamber outside the small room she was in until he was at the stairs leading to the hatch above decks and held her gently, carrying her aloft.
The robe he had offered her was draped over his arm; she could take it and cover herself with it, but he was not worried that the other lads might see her, for they would surely see or know of her before long once she was taken to his ship.
As he carried her to the prow of the ship he continued to whisper softly to her.
“I’ll take care of ye, lass…” he said with a soft, gentle voice “I’ve done bad things, aye… but I’ll not do them with ye, or let bad things happen to ye again… Ye’ve my word; when I give my word on a thing I keep it, or else die in the attempt,” he added with a low voice for her ears only, not even certain she could understand what he was saying, knowing only that he wanted to say it; that he wanted her to trust him, to believe him.
He was not sure why it was important to him, that she trust him, or if she would understand him; and why she should trust him in the first place, considering the horrible things he had done on this ship to get to her, and all around her. Even so, he felt in his gut that it was important, and thus he was as gentle with her as he could be.
He stood with her in his arms a moment, staring at the sea between the ships and looked at her.
He knew if he let her fall into the waters it was likely she could be free, to swim where her heart would take her; to go where she wished, to swim anywhere she wanted. She would not have to stay with him, to stay with the other cutthroats that he sailed with; and even if he ordered them not to do anything harsh or dangerous to her, would it even matter? Why should she believe him; or anything he said? He was, after all, a pirate and a killer – he did horrible things so casually and so easily. That was clear enough from the stream of dead bodies that were littering the decks of the ship he was prepared to leave.
She had no reason to trust in him, and nothing he could offer to her that would make her want to say, or convince her that she would come to no harm in his care. He could do nothing to convince her, and – indeed – did not feel it was right to try to convince her if she wished freedom.
The only thing he could offer her at this point, the only thing that counted and that mattered, was that he would offer his word. A northman was brutal and harsh, aye; and they rarely gave their word openly, but when they did, they held on to it.
“If ye come with me lass, if ye come, I’ll protect ye; I’ll take care of ye. No harm will come of ye if ye come with me… I give ye my word… I promise…” he said the last gently, but then he said no more as he stood at the place near the sea between ships and held her gently.
If she desired to leave him, we would not stop her. He did not wish to stop her from having her freedom and feeling safe from the barbarism of him and his men.
Yet if she understood him, and she believed him, he knew that he would do nothing to harm her and everything to make sure she was safe and content.
After all, he had given his word.
He watched her then, and waited to see what she would do next…
She let out a nervous whine feeling one his rough hands slide under her tail while the other wrapped carefully around her back. She stared into his eyes for but a moment before looking away and crossing her arms over her chest. She didn't feel as nervous as she thought she would in his arms, though she wasn't about to let her guard down just yet.
She nodded when he stated that it would be alright, even if she didn't believe it, she appreciated the sentiment. Her nerves got the best of her as he brought her up onto the deck. She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face into it, not caring to meet each gaze that belonged to Connor's crewmen.
As he continued to speak she was able to understand bits and pieces of what he said. More promises it sounded like, it wasn't his choice of words that she appreciated as much as the gentleness of his tone. She took the robe and covered herself with it rubbing her face against the soft fabric and freeing her cheeks of the water drenched auburn tresses that once clung to them.
Connor seemed to be in deep thought, his movements had stopped and he seemed distracted by what she assumed was the water. Was he scared of it? She wondered, her gaze shifting back and forth from the water to the man from Thalore.
"...S-Ship.." she muttered.
When Connor still didn't move she looked at the water again, it did look enticing, but the waves were foreign to her and surely wouldn't be as welcoming as her own. She looked up at Connor once more, she wasn't sure what was going on with him, she couldn't read his mind in fact, she had a hard time reading him all together.
Maybe he was scared of the water? What else could he be worried about?
"...I'll protect ye" she mimicked.
"...S-Ship.." she muttered.
The words seemed enough for him; she did not struggle to free herself and dive into the waves and she seemed eager enough to be on the ship. He wondered if she meant the ship he took her from, but given the state of that vessel, he did not have time to worry about such things. He looked again at his own ship and hesitated before leaping across and carrying her aboard, instead offering only his oath as a surety of his sincerity to help her.
"...I'll protect ye" she mimicked.
Connor heard her words and paused moment, staring at her with surprise and a bit of confusion.
Could she indeed offer some sort of magical aid or protection for him and his ship? She was not like the men of his crew, or himself, but clearly a creature of strange powers. Could she then summon the aid of spiritual beings to stand by them on the waves?
Of course, it was also possible that she was testing the words he spoke, repeating them as she tried to learn his language.
As he looked into her haunting eyes all concerns of this matter washed away suddenly and he shook his head to clear it.
He was not used to overlong considerations being instead a man of action. He considered an option and then acted on it; sometimes rashly, but trusting to his instincts in most things and his luck where instinct failed him.
She was under his care – he had given his oath to protect her; that was the end of it.
To protect her he must take her to his ship and ensure she was safe, and that was what he would do.
With this in mind he leapt across the narrow space between the ships and landed hard on his booted feet and strode with a purpose to his cabin at the aft end of the ship. There, without preamble, his foot lifted and he reached his hand from under her sinuous body to grasp the handle to the door and open it, then carried her within. He glanced about the cabin, still impressed at the opulence of the late captain who had enlarged his personal living space in a way that seemed unseemly to the northman, for the very breadth and size of the cabin was beyond anything he was used to in his sailing in small, spartan-sized living spaces.
There was enough room to bring the cask inside the door to this place, perhaps. But it would then have to be filled within; and he would not allow her to stay in the tub below decks – no. He needed her to remain in a place that he could attend to her and ensure the door would be sealed from prying eyes.
For now he moved with a purpose to the bunk which was on the far side of the cabin and glancing it shook his head. It was clearly large enough for the late captain Montresor to enjoy the company of more than one occupant and Connor had scoffed at its size, but given the dimensions of his charge, it should be large enough to accommodate her tail and slender body.
He lowered her gently to the sheets upon the bed, not able to pull them back while he carried her, and knelt down by her as he stared at her intently, his rough hand brushing her hair back from her face as he watched her lift the robe to cover herself from his gaze.
It was not an issue for him, though.
It was true that he was a man of passion and fire, and as such, he would normally be impressed by the beauty of her form as any other man might be, especially when he had long been without a woman while sailing. But it was of no consequence to him; he had given his oath – such a thing, rarely given by him, when offered was binding and he could not turn from it, and so he put aside her beauty and form without conscious thought and considered only that she was someone under his protection.
As he felt her hair his hand sought mainly to ascertain the feeling of her skin; was it overly dry? Was it becoming chafed or worn from a lack of water? He did not know, but she seemed hale enough, at least for now, but for how long?
His mind tacked back to her words – “I’ll protect ye” – even as he had said. It could be that she desired to learn his tongue by repeating his words, or it could be that she had power of sea and storm with some uncanny power to move wave and water. He did not know, not yet, but such things needed to be discovered.
After all, there must be a reason that she was held in that ship; was it something simple as just a trophy taken from the sea to return to land for some sport or was there more?
He had taken prisoners, he knew as much for they were on the main deck outside awaiting their Fate; they may offer answers. Until then, though, he would see to her.
“Do ye wish water?” he asked her with a quiet voice, then glanced to a skin hanging on a hook by his bed that he knew was filled with fresh water and lifted it to her and offered it to her take and taste.
He paused a moment and squeezed a few drops from it, to let it fall on her skin so she knew it was water, and to see how she might react to it.
All the while his movements were slow and careful and his eyes tender on hers.
“Water?” he asked again after the drops fell on her, so she could at least be sure of the word. He knew that such a word, if she did not already know it, would be important to learn later on.
As he waited for a response, he slid the robe up from the edge of her tail to study it and examine how the scales seemed to be doing as she lounged in his bunk, not sure how the dry air – or at least, air rather than being submerged in water – would affect her scales and body below her slender waist.
He looked up at her eyes again and watched her.
“Asena… good?” he asked slowly, not sure of the right way to ask her if she was well, or needed food or drink or fresh water or salt; or if she needed none of these things but rest. Would she desire the tub of water he could prepare for her, or would the bunk alone be enough? And most important, she had no legs; would she be alright to lay like this on his bunk, or was the flat beams and mattress hurting her lower back where the tail had curved? After all, such a bunk was good enough for a man to recline in, yes; but for one with the lower half like hers, it may not be good enough…
He waited for her to speak, and as he waited he watched her eyes and considered things.
He was a pirate, a killer and had slain those who stood at her door. Were they her friends or her jailors? And now that she was with him, surely his brutal ways must trouble her – how could she trust him to be with him? She did not likely know his tongue well enough to know he had sworn her safety, and even if she did, what of it? Why should she trust his word, whether he gave an Oath or no?
Unsure of what to do he offered the skin of water for her to drink from and began to sing softly to her.
Óró, sé do bheatha bhaile
óró, sé do bheatha bhaile
óró, sé do bheatha bhaile
anois ar theacht an tsamhraidh.
’Sé do bheatha, a bhean ba léanmhar
do bé ár gcreach tú bheith i ngéibhinn
do dhúiche bhreá i seilbh meirleach
's tú díolta leis na Gallaibh.
Óró, sé do bheatha bhaile
óró, sé do bheatha bhaile
óró, sé do bheatha bhaile
anois ar theacht an tsamhraidh
The words he sung were that of his people, they told of a woman who had been sundered from her land but returned to it, and his words were soft and gentle, and he sang it to her, hoping it the words would ease any tension she had. He was worried that she might be confused by the words he used, but more interested in making sure his tone was calm to sooth her spirit.
Then, he waited to hear what she would say in response – about the water he offered, and possibly food, and how her back where the tail rested on the bunk – and, perhaps, how she felt in general, if she could tell him at all.
Yet if she could not, he would content himself with ensuring she felt secure and, more importantly, safe…