The fire that forged Rask into the man he is today was a slow build. Born with the sign of Besmara shining bright to a captain father, you would expect piracy to boil within his blood. However, sometimes the Gods take their time and slowly maneuver their pieces into place. When that father's captaincy is in the Taldan navy, a different path is required.
From his youth, Rask was raised on legends. Tales of the unnamed soldier who gave their all for the glory of the empire. His time was split between living and breathing his father's ship while it was in port or drilling at a youth's military academy while he was at sea. The dream, to be one of those heroes his father spoke of. That his father was. Raising the empire to greatness and being elevated by it.
By his early teenage years he had proven himself an able warrior with the troops on land and could dance his way around the rigging of the ship, and it seemed clear he was destined for recruitment in the naval academy and a rapid rise to prominence. But then his father was wounded. Not gravely, falling as a hero would have cemented his legend in Rasks' mind. Instead it was a cruel wound. A poisoned blade that didn't heal well and left him hobbled.
It seemed the expected rise in Rask was mirrored by the fall of his father. No longer having the ability he once did he was quietly shuffled from active duty, his officer's home replaced with squalor for the next able body to give to the empire. The old man took it all stoically, he gave what he could to his country and he had no more to offer, but Rask saw it differently. Those heroes he had idolized didn't carve a dais out of the surrounding realms that they could stand stand proudly upon, their people stood upon their backs.
His studies fell away as did his promise as Rask had a crisis of faith. Not disillusioned by a deity, but by his home and the code he had held so dear. He found himself seeking answers in the wildest of places. If Taldor was so wrong, certainly those they oppose must have some knowledge of what is right. The Chelish... They have no heroes, they too are ground into the empire. Andoran? Noble, certainly, its freedom fighters ready to die unknown for their ideals.
What of those that his father faced at sea? Those pirates, each floating upon a country of its own, hoisting a banner that calls out their own legend to any who see it. Beholden to no one but those who truly were their brothers. Rask felt a fool when it struck him. The flashy style, the quips, the dramatic entrances, the fear brought about by raids, the love of a daring rescue, or the passions left at port are what give a legend name. Pirates aren't nameless bandits or brigands. Flaring out or smoldering, their legend is their own to build and if they are truly great, they will be known. And who knows piracy better than the shackles?
Still in his late teens, Rask's first act of piracy was stealing a small skiff, moving from one boat to another and beginning to long journey to the Shackles. Somewhere high above, Besmara smiled.
