
Middle End Narrator |

August 5th
Time: Roughly 2:00 PM
Location: On the Ship The Black Star
Moon Cycle: Roughly Half Moon; Next Full Moon 8th of August
Moon Cycle
Weather Conditions: Cool, windy
Temperature: Roughly 50 F
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.