Blood of the Liberated
 

April 4th, 1702
St. Joseph's Cove, Britain
8:45 AM

"Someday, my son, this will all be yours." His father echoed to him as they walked atop the cobblestone path that ran along the edge of the hill. He reached out his hand, pointing out to the small yet bustling port below them, filled with the cobblestone streets and stone buildings that ran down in to the harbor, where the merchant ships small and large alike pulled in and out of port from the long, wooden docks. The air breezed on them lightly as the sun slowly rose to greet the morning. The sky was a clear, beautiful blue, sparkling alike the glistening bay.

"Yes, my son, you will inherit all of this not long after I'm gone. It is such a beautiful town, is it not?" The tall man smiled in approval.

"Yes, father, it truly is." John smiled, standing alongside his fathered as his loose linen shirt flapped in the wind. His short, golden blond hair whipped like fire in the wind, picking up off his brow. His blue eyes shimmered as he looked all throughout the town below them, fascinated by the livelihood that surrounded their everyday lives. It was magnificent to take a moment to see how the world looks like from above.

"This day marks one of your steps in to becoming a man, and you should be proud. You're entering a very profound bloodline, you know. All my achievements and my riches will fall in to your hands, and I can only entrust that you will keep them with the upmost enterprise. Do you understand?" His father said as he walked past John. The boy turned around and caught up to his father, as they walked slowly.

His father continued, "I'm going to be going out on another trading voyage soon, to a city along the coast of the Spain. I would enjoy your company, as perhaps I could teach you the ropes of how to be a real business man. You wouldn't have to worry about leeching from my fortune when you're older, now won't you?"

John was instantly ecstatic. "Really, father? A-are you sure I can join you?"

His father turned to him, stopping their walk once again. "You're fifteen now, my boy. I cannot afford to hesitate any longer in keeping you out of my wingspan. That mother of yours has sheltered you for too long, if you ask me. She's always so concerned that you'll perhaps be killed by pirates out on the open sea... ah, she should know better... If you ask me, this port is more vulnerable than anything."

John seemed to be confused by that remark. "Father, no means of rudeness intended, but could one honestly believe a town like this would be ransacked by pirates?"

John's father's eyes seemed to drift off for a moment, back towards the rolling hills that rose up on their left, behind the madness of the town. "Oh, surprised you would be, my son... but enough of this talk for now. Come, we must not keep your mother waiting home. Today is a day of celebration."


April 4th, 1702
Balnette Residence, St. Joseph's Cove
10:50 PM


"Adam, you surely can't be serious!" Amelia whispered sternly as she turned around to her husband, running her hands furiously through her apron. "He's much too young to be harbored around the world like a business associate of yours!"

Adam, who was sitting sloppily over the small wooden table in the middle of the room, slammed his mug down on top of it as he rubbed his hand over his forehead. His face was roughly unshaven, and his brown hair was messed. His ruffled shirt hung loose, as he slid his feet out of his heavy black boots. He turned to her, distraught. "And what do you expect me to do, let him stay here as a shut in? Sooner or later he's going to have to be brought in to the family bu-"

"Don't you dare call your dishonorable occupation anything a sort of a 'family business!' You'll be disgracing my name if you do!"

Adam stretched out his hand, frustrated, but trying to calm the situation. His wife looked as him as if he was crazy, but the feeling was mutual. "Look, all I'm trying to say is that if we don't tell him now, it will only be a bigger shock to him-"

"When WHAT?! When you're having a public hanging out in the fort a few towns down? By God, Adam, if you hadn't dragged me in to this, we wouldn't be here right-"

"DON'T, put the blame on me on this, Amelia. You knew as well as I did how I made a living, and you weren't in the least ashamed. I've gotten you everything you've ever wanted, by putting my neck on the line, so that better be good enough for you, damn it!" He bursted out, slamming his fist on the table.

At the top of the staircase that led to the second floor, John peaked down, out of sight from his mother and father. He knelt silently, trying to make sense of anything they were saying. He held his breath as the two before him sat silent, his father leaning back in his chair, and his mother leaning back on the counter in the kitchen. Finally, his father gathered to his feet, causing John to shift a step backward. As Adam put on the tricorne on the table, he turned to his wife. "I need to head down to the docks at once. There's a shipment coming in that I've been expecting, and I shant be late for such a deal." He turned about once more and walked over to the door, opening it up in to the crisp night, and shutting it behind him.

John slowly crept back silently, unsure of what had just transpired. He stood up and rubbed his chin, as he walked slowly back down the hallway. His eye caught the window that sat at the end of it, open just a tad to let in a nightly breeze. He looked back over his shoulder, and tip-toed silently over to it, preventing himself from making a sound.

Looking through the window, he saw one of the wider streets of the port that ran perpendicular to him, the right of it leading down the rest of the town, and to the bay. He peaked out his head, and was met with an easy, nightly breeze, that blew the bangs of his hair. He saw his father make a turn from the house, and walk down quickly in the direction of the bay, gripping on to his jacket to keep himself as warm as possible. As his father faded in the distance, John looked downward, right below the window. It was only a story down, leading straight in to a small dirt garden. He looked back over his shoulder once more, and very cautiously put himself over the sill of the window.

Unfortunately, he wasn't too skilled in the matter of sneaking out. He ended up toppling out over the window, slamming back-first down on to the harder-than-expected dirt. He struggled to keep himself from shrieking in pain, pounding his fists on to the ground to release some pressure. As his body untensed from the fall, he took a huff, made sure nobody was around, and rolled on to his chest, pushed himself up, and walked in a hunch down the cobblestone street.

Thoughts raced through his mind as he walked at a terrified pace down the dark street. It was his first time ever being out so late, and alone, and he was afraid of what lurked in the shadows around him. Even such a small port as this was bound to have a few robbers and thieves, waiting to plunge their knives in to the pocket of an unsuspecting victim. He also took in to account why his father of all people was going to make a trading deal at such a late hour, when he had the power to simply delay it for the morning, or even send somebody for him. An eerie presence on an eerie evening, indeed.

Finally, John slid down a narrow alleyway, which ended between two buildings at the base of the dock his father used. John always sat here as a child, playing an imaginary game of hide-and-seek as he watched his father go about daily routine - whenever he was around, of course. Being a merchant, he was hardly ever home - perhaps a few days every month or two. It was heart breaking, but John still loved to see him whenever possible.

He could make out on the base of the dock six figures, three with their back's to John facing the other three, who were walking back down the dock, off a very small galleon ship that parked itself right on the left side, it's back to the port. They each carried three large crates, which seemed heavy by the way they wobbled towards the group. They placed the boxes on top of a few others that were already waiting there in a pile, except for the largest one, which was popped down in front of the man in the middle. The crew from the ship stepped back, as the man bent down to take the lid off the small wooden box.

After a brief moment, the man grunted, and stood back up, holding what seemed to be a previously concealed miniature barrel. The man held it between his hands and privately examined it for a minute, twisting it around in his grip to make sure nothing seemed out of order. Then, pushing the container to cradle it in his left arm like a baby, he reached back with right and pulled out a small dagger. He brought the barrel back in front of his chest, and plucked off the top of it with the blade.

The man instantly thrusted his dagger down on to the dock, it clattering softly on the wood, and dug his free hand in to whatever was in the container. He seemed to shift his hand around in it for a moment, before slowly raising it up. John could barely see it, as the figures themselves were but mere silhouettes in his vision, but a dark substance poured slowly through his fingers, smoothly, back in to the barrel. As it finished running off his hand, he grabbed it firmly, shook it in rage, and threw it behind him, splashing up in to the waters.

The man standing opposite him looked over the side of the dock in outrage. "What is this?! I delivered your order precisely as you wanted it!"

"This isn't the cargo I asked for. It's much too rough to be of Spanish quality - all you're trying to do is con me, and my good sir, I am no fool." The man in the middle echoed. Although the voice was faint by distance, John knew without a doubt that the man who had spoken was indeed his father.

The three men who faced his father on the dock were silent, frozen in a stun. John's father huffed, and abruptly reached to his side. Much to everybody's surprise, he pulled out a small pistol, bringing it's barrel right before his opposition's forehead. "Now, am I going to be reimbursed, with extra, or not?"

The trader who had been talking shook his head. "You shouldn't be doing that, mate." The two men at his side then unisonally drew their own guns and pointed them at John's father. John's heart started racing in fear, not knowing what to do. He could vision himself running out to the dock and distracting them long enough for his father to escape, but that would simply kill him in the process. His legs quaked with fear, as he inched forward a little more against the barrel to see what was going on in a clearer line of view.

Unfortunately, he accidently tripped over, pounding his chest hard in to the keg, and toppling it downward. The heavy object crashed with a thud on to the cobblestone before him, alerting the two groups on the dock. John's eyes met his father's, whose widened in disbelief and concern. But before they could say anything, the man across from his father drew his own pistol, and aimed it straight at John. "Kill the street rat!" he shouted.

John didn't have any time to study the scene further. He turned about in a shake and sprinted back down the alley, his feet nearly slipping on the moist ground below his feet. He heard a shot ring out behind him, and threw his hands up over his head, as if it would do anything. But as he felt nothing pass by him, he threw them down and continued at his run as he broke out of the narrow path.

He made a quick left turn right out of the alley and sprinted down the street, whirling by the nearly identical stores and homes that whirled by him. He tried to shout for help, but his breathing was too heavy, and even the slightest of moments to stop for help may be his last. His legs started to slowly becoming aching and tired, and as much as he pushed them, they began to shut down on themselves, refusing to move any faster or further. He was becoming desperate and crazed with the thought of being captured, or even killed, but nothing could go beyond his body's limits. He had trapped himself.

As he paced towards an intersection of four streets somewhere in the farther side of town, he started to feel safe, as though he had finally outrun his aggressors. But as he trudged out in to the crossroads, his body was suddenly flung to the right, after a tremendous, sharp force had rammed him in the left. His body twisted through the air, until he landed down face first on to the stone, at least two meters from where he had stood. He could feel a warm trickle on blood run down his cheek, as he tried to push himself up with his arms.

Instead, his support was swooped out from under him, and he crashed to the floor again. He felt his legs being scooped off the ground, and then being carried backwards, dragging him along the ground. He had just enough time of realization to begin kicking wildly, trying to free himself. But as he fought, he heard a loud pounding sound of from his right. He turned, and had just enough time to see the bottom of a large, black boot bring itself down on his face.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You can expect a new chapter from me... well, I'm going to keep that a secret. It adds to the surprise of a new chapter if you don't know when it's coming, aye? ;)

Tell me what ya think, mates. Love it, hate it, DESPISE it? I'm waiting to hear.

Thanks for reading, and see you soon!

Yay! more death and ambush XD

Thank you both! And yes, plenty of death and destruction in this story, too :)

New chapter, as promised, mates! I hope ye all like it! But enough of my blabbing - read it for yerself! So, I present to all of you, my fellow readers...


April 5th, 1702
Somewhere off the British Coastline
11:50 AM

A warm, dingy air plastered itself against John's cold skin as he slowly regained consciousness. The world spun rapidly around him, though his eyes were still shut tight. He could feel his body laid out restlessly on what felt like a wet, hard wood floor. He rubbed his hands on the surface, trying to get a feel for where he was, as he struggled to open his eyes, and push himself up.

The edges of his vision were dark, but it receded the more and more his eyes throbbed in pain. He saw himself facing a darkly shaded wooden wall, that was dressed in a scraped, green fungus. The floor below him was just in the same condition, greasy and moldy to the touch. He instantly threw him hands up, disgusted by the contact with the floor, and stayed sitting on his knees. He coughed a few very dry, painful coughs, before looking at the rest of his surroundings.

At his sides were the bars of jail cells, which another wall of bars behind him. They gave way to the two other cells, one on each side of him. They were empty in terms of people, but they were filled with mis-cared-for barrels and boxes, thrown roughly in to a pile in to them. Turning around, he saw the rest of the room - the opposite side of it was lined with huge crates and boxes held under netting, with only a narrow path to walk down between the cells and the containers. To the far right of the room, a wooden staircase raised itself up to an aura of light.

John's eyes widened with fear as soon as he realized where he was. He jumped to his feet, and ran towards the bars of his cell, to try and peak out the window on the opposite side of the hull. Yet as he got close to the bar, he felt his leg tugged back in a violent pull. He nearly skidded to the floor, but caught himself as he looked backwards. He saw himself chained to the wall of the ship, at his ankle.

He instantly began jiggling and twisting his foot, trying to slip it out of the imprisonment. It's rusted paint scarped against his leg, which hide under the bottoms of his frayed linen pants. He tugged and tugged with all of his might, but nothing managed to free him.

Suddenly, his spine quivered at any unexpected sound. He heard off to the side the heavy thud of a man's footsteps, pounding downward towards him. He turned abruptly, backing away as he did, to the sight of a large, grizzly man. A long, rough beard sat below his old, cracked face. He had to have been quite old, judging by the kink in his walk and the cracks on his face, but nonetheless, he was muscular, and daunting. He was decorated in an unusual manner - he was draped in heavy, murky clothing, as though he was trying to both flaunt his wealth, and shield his body in the most chaotic and flashy way. Nothing matched when it came to his large layers of shirts, his large, tanned overcoat, his long, silky pants, and his thick back boots. He was both scary, and laughable in sight.

"Whataya' doin' frettin' about, boy?" the man said in a raspy, angry voice. "Nothin' you could do can set yer foot free."

John was frozen in fear. He tried to say something, but his throat was hard-pressed to make any sounds. Finally, he petered out in a weak voice, "H--h-who are you..?"

"Who the 'ell are you, is the question! Damn street rat, meddlin' in other's business. Who sent you here?! The Francs, it was, wasn't it!"

"I-I--I, what?! No, I have no bu-"

"DAMN right ye don't!" The man then reached to his side, and pulled out the all-familiar pistol. He shoved it right through the cell bars, inches away from John. "Why, I oughta blast yer brains out..." Then, almost as if he was going against his will, be pulled it back. "Unfortunately, me mates back on the shores won't like that.... Not yet, at least." The man pocketed his gun, and turned away, to walk back up to the surface.

"Oh, thank god, I thought you were gonna eat me." John chuckled to himself, trying to make himself smile.

Unfortunately, the man caught ear of that statement. His face clenched in unruly anger, as he twisted around. He reached at his side and pulled out a long, heavy, rusted sword, carrying a thick silver blade that reached down the length of his leg. He swung it back, and swooped it down over his head to crash in to the clunky metal lock that was nailed to the door of the cell. It dropped to the floor in a snap, but the man had his arm around the door before it even hit it.

John started to stumble backward, trying to flee as the massive aggressor gained on him. But he was trapped, and the huge man broke in to the cell, and planted a massive hand on the boy's blonde hair. John shrieked in pain as he felt the chain at his feet being cut, and his body being forced out of the cell.

The man whipped the boy around and then tossed him down to the ground. He hit the floor with a painful boom on his back, trying to scratch his way back to escape. The staircase leading above was sitting behind the man, on the other side - there was no escape.

Suddenly, a flurry of shouts started to erupt from the deck of the ship. The air above their heads became filled with the drowned sounds of men barking battle orders, and the deep, blasting sound of cannon fire. John has always wondered what it sounds like - even living in a port, he had never heard a cannon release it's load. It was tremoring, leaving you wondering where it was gonna land. It was terrifying, almost.

The man whizzed around to see what was going on, standing in his same spot, but shouting profanities at the staircase. John took the moment to study his surroundings, for a way to escape - when he saw it. The metal lock to the cell had landed right by his foot, sitting their with no purpose. But Balnette knew he would find it one.

In a dash, John threw his body forward, scooped up the heavy, metal object, and scurried to his feet. By the time his opponent had turned around to see what happened, the lock met him square in the forehead, delivering a painful crunch. John watched as the man jiggled backward, before slinking to the floor in a heap, blood pouring from his head.

John was frozen by the thought of killing somebody, but he knew he had to run if he wanted to survive. With a finally curse, he took the lock and tossed it at the man's body, jumping over his corpse, and running up the staircase.


John walked out in to the blinding sun, to see what was going on. He instantly looked off the sides of the ship, where, to the right, a long, elevated coastline ran from the ship, perhaps a kilometer away. He realized he was aboard a roughly medium-sized ship - a galleon, judging by the shape of it at first glance - but it was packed with a lot more action than one would suspect.

Bodies of dirty, raggedy looking men lined the deck, small swords and other cutlery sticking out of the bloody punctures in their bodies. The ones that were alive were in a line - roughly five sailors - on their knees, surrounded by a group of men cloaked in red uniforms, a group three times theirs. They carried large bayonets, which poked at the throats of the crewmen. They were stern, but showed no emotion as a man, obviously their superior, looked over the crew. Soldiers of the British Royal Navy, they were.

"EY, ANOTHER!" A man pointed from the side of the Officer. As all the soldiers turned their heads, he raised his bayonet, preparing to fire. John raised his hands above his head, as he slowly knelt to his knees.

"Hold, hold damn it, hold!" The Officer shouted. He seemed in shock, as he rushed around the crowd towards John. "Can you not see he is not only a boy, but not one of them!?"

As the Naval man stood before him, John put his hands over his brow to block the sunlight out, and get a clearer view. "Captain Rutherford!?" John exclaimed. "My God, thank you so much sir, thank you!"

Captain Rutherford was on of the Navy Officers who were in charge of doing patrols of St. Joseph's every week or so. He had known his father well, as his father was one of the usual men you would see out in the bay, whenever he was not out traveling the seas. "What in God's name are you doing aboard a pirate ship, boy!?"

"Pirates?!" John gasped. Why would my father have any business with such ruthless dogs?, he thought to himself.

"Yes, pirates. Spanish mercenaries, if you want the truth of it. Hired to do business in these waters, ferrying the profits back to a higher crime lord somewhere in Spain. Why are you here?"

"I was... wa... captured..." John blinked. He was still wondering if this was still just a sick, twisted dream, that he might wake up in his home.

"Captured? From St. Joseph's!?"

"Yes, captain! They were at the docks, and I spotted them... and... yes!"

Rutherford rubbed his hand on his head. "Men, help Mr. Balnette here on to the ship. Oh, and disperse of the flotsam."

As John rose to his feet, the wall of Navy soldiers rose their bayonets in a simultaneous action, and fired them unmercifully in to the surrendered pirates.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

See, I'm getting better! No unbearably long chapters.... yet!

Please be sure to comment, rate, and review, mates! My ears are as eager as my fingers!

Del, I'm going to start following this story. Its very good... everything. I especially love the language that you use. Its very... formal, but easy to understand. You're writing is very good. Expect me to comment frequently.

You should publish your stories Del! They are that good :)

WOW Del! This story is incredible!

Great story, Del! Absolutely wunderbar. :] You're a natural at story writing, undoubtedly. I'll be following this story. :D

These are very well written del. I love the plot so far, though developing I really can't wait to see what's next.

Awesome story! Love your writing style, you have very detailed descriptions, and you greatly show the characters emotions.

I'm definately gonna be checking up on this thread every once in a while.

No unbearably long chapters YET, huh Delmaria? Hmm... I'm waiting. HAha, fantstic job, mate.

Oh my! Well, that's certainly a record for the most consecutive comments for a chapter of mine - thank you, thank you!

I think this one is a little longer than the others. Whether that's good, or bad, you decide! So, mates, without further adieu, I present to you:


April 5th, 1702
Somewhere off the British Coastline
9:40 PM

John made himself comfortable as he leaned back in to the cushion chair, trying to conserve his body heat to warm himself. The crew had supplied him a change from his humid, dirtied clothing in to some clothes that they found aboard - a stark white linen shirt, with a black outline along a V neck, and loose, red sailor's pants. He tucked his hands under his armpits, as he looked around the room.

He was sitting inside a comfortable captain's quarters, shadowed by only a single candle on the hand-carved desk before him. The room was covered in maps of all the channels and waterways in England, with tapestries hanging down regally by the two windows on the opposite sides of the room. He listened to the creaking of the ship as it sailed through the nightly waters along the British coast, burrowing back in to the tower, red-cushioned chair he took home in.

Captain Rutherford walked to the back of his desk as he smoked a short Alderman pipe in his mouth, blowing out short strings of smoke. He slipped easily in to the chair opposite John, where he leaned back to make himself comfortable. "We should be arriving back to St. Joseph's by tomorrow afternoon, so long as we don't have another malfunction with our sails like earlier." He took another puff from his pipe, before taking out of his mouth, and swirling it around in his hand.

"Captain, do you believe everything in the port shall be.... as we found it?" John perked, sitting up slightly in the chair.

The captain followed the same motion, interested by the question. "I do not see why not.... why do you ask, boy?"

John scratched the back of head. "Well.... to be honest, I'm still concerned as to why those men were in the port. It doesn't make me feel as... secure, as before, you can say?"

"I'm sure that their stop in St. Joseph's was only a minor passing through - perhaps as a point of rendezvous so that the Navy wouldn't be on their tails - but, as you can plainly see," he smiled deviously, "the Navy pays no pardon to any trouble."

"I understand that Captain, but I have to... respectfully disagree. Wouldn't it be possible that these gangsters of sorts were simply trying to establish their own base here in England? And what if they already have in other ports? Certainly if the Navy was actually able to pursue their covert affairs efficiently, they would have anticipated them being there."

Rutherford's face tensed as he became increasingly frustrated with John, taking his pipe and throwing it at him. John took cover, and swatted it away with one hand, as the captain shouted "Shut up, you jail dog! So long as you are aboard my ship, you will respect my authority, and my service name!" John hushed, as did the room, tense under the moment. Seeing the sad defeat in John's eyes, the captain cleared his throat, straightened his back, and continued. "Now then. You'll find that the crew has fixed for you an empty hammock in the crew's quarter's below - poor fellow that slept there passed from sickness a few days ago. Now, leave me to my night - we'll see you in the morning, unfortunately."


April 6th, 1702
Outside St. Joseph's Cove, Great Britian
7:00 PM

The red skies of dusk were blocked out by a blanket of dark grey clouds, dubbing over the normally magic whisper of the transition to night. The dark shadows that lingered over the light fog on the waters cut off much of one's farther vision, as it whipped out to you a sharp wind in your face. The bleakness only became more and more prevalent, as the small aura of the sun that shined through the clouds slowly descended to the horizon.

John waited off in the middle of the small English Galleon, as the rest of the crew lined the sides of the ship, staring off the bow to challenge the mysterious feeling it gave off. He had around himself a light, weak blanket that flapped it's ends in the wind, in a desperate attempt to keep his shivering body warm. All he wanted to do was to hear the port had been reached, so he could depart from the ship and return home, away from this ungodly weather. He could feel the warm embrace of his mother just away from his reach - he was eager beyond bounds to see her again.

"There she is! I can see the docks, Cap'n!" one of the younger soldiers shouted back to Rutherford, who was pacing back and forth on the deck. In haste, he hurried up to the bow, brushing violently past his men to see for himself that they had returned to the town. Interested and excited, John stood up from his seat by the mast, holding the blanket around his torso, and walked towards the bow of the ship.

He could peak just over the shoulders of the group of men, down in to the fog that lined his view. He could just barely make out what seemed to the be the docks of St. Joseph's, low and shadowed, and what seemed to be a few ships lining next to them. Yet these ships were different - they were larger schooners, the sides of whom were tilted inward to face the town itself. Their sails were closed, but they were in no way attached to the dock - as though they positioned themselves like that, just to look at the port. An eerie silence fell over the seas, as no man dared to breath, blink, or make any sudden movement. This mysterious presence had offset them all, and they were unsure of what would happen next.

Suddenly, a bright, loud explosion rocked the sides of the schooners that faced in towards the town. It was like a tremendous fireball, shooting out in a brilliant burst of energy that struck to you both awe and terror. John's eyes widened, as his eyes were forced to turn away from the deafening blast. He could feel the outer remnants from the heat of the eruption wisp across his cheek, like the tips of it's fingers just grazed his face.

As the blast receded, the men returned their vision to the ships, to a terrific sight. The blast had come from the broadsides of the ships, which were now unloading mercilessly in to the murky city. Rounds and rounds of lead shot in to and over the first row of buildings that lined themselves before the docks, cracking and rumbling them as they were pummeled over and over again. Rutherford stumbled back, horrified by the unexpected occurrence. He shouted, "Ah, AH! Ca-call to arms, all of you! Load the ca-c-c-nnons! NOW, NOW!"

While the captain roared, John could feel his heart sink to the depths of his chest. His spine ran cold, at the thought of his home being attacked so ruthlessly - images of all those that he made ever met and loved flashed before him, as though they, like the visions, were flashing before his eyes. His head felt light, and his hands shook with anxiety and worry. He knew that he was watching everything he ever loved die before him, and he wanted to be with them when it happened.

It only took an impulse for John to throw his blanket on to the deck, and run towards the side of the ship. Before Rutherford or the crew even had a chance to respond, John had rammed himself in to the banister, throwing himself off the ship. As the shouts behind him screamed, and his feet slowly left the security of the ship behind him, John could only repeat to himself how truly defective his decision was.

His body slammed itself chest-first in to the ice cold waters, submerging him in a swirling whirlpool of what felt like frozen water. His head felt as though it was chilling right atop his body as it poked out of the surface, dripping water and exasperated. He splashed around, trying desperately to find direction, when he caught eye of yet another broadside. He steadied himself in the water, trying not to go completely still. His muscles were already clamping and numbing in the waters, so he knew every motion mattered.

He began to paddle towards the outline of the town, trying to remember vaguely where he could reach land. Fires that had begun to spark on the forefront of St. Joseph's made his target much easier to view - a small strip of sand that acted as a small beach at the very end of the town, where it's limits reached a steep cliff that ran along the coastline. He was breaking his journey back home in to smaller objectives - and he was in the stage where making it to the shore alive would be an accomplishment.

He finally flopped on to the small sand patch, nearly tossing himself in to a large fire that started next to it to warm himself. He could feel his blood slowly pouring back in to his limbs, giving him back his flexibility. He gasped for air heavily, but gratified himself for being able to pull through swimming through something just short of an arctic ocean.

He slowly jiggled to his feet, and gained speed as he stumbled up the street that hugged the cliff that ran at the edge of town. It was a narrow street, just longer than an alleyway, but he slipped through in quickly. He reached on the other side of it a long, wide road, that ran down horizontally the length of the port. John looked down it, to analyze the scene beyond the front lines; people poured out of their homes, carrying children and prized possessions, weeping as they dodged the fires and ammunition that consumed their homes. Some men were brandishing large muskets, preparing to defend their town in the event of an invasion - to the death.

John ran down the street as fast as his ailing body allowed him, juggling around the chaotic people that zoomed by him, as he passed building by rubble, child by mother, and fire by rubble. The breath of the fires breathed heavily on his neck, but he tried to escape them, his legs moving faster and faster, as though he were being motivated.

Just as he reached the street that ran back up through the town, towards his house, John realized he and the townspeople were not alone - gruesome, raggedy men, gripping large rusted swords were running about, pulling people of all ages out of their homes, and torturing them. Balnette timed it just so that he witnessed only a few dozen feet away from him the beheading of an entire family - children as well. The sight of their headless bodies nearly made him turn away, but he knew he could not abandon his family now.

Against all of his thought, he sprinted with all his might up the street, avoiding any closeness towards the demonic men that taunted him on the sides of the street. He tried to pretend they were not there, but it was hard to block out the image of the devil from your mind. His ugliness, the sheer cruelness of his smile, burrowed itself in to your soul - he brought with him things that could never be unseen.

Finally, he reached the small side street his home sat on. He ran right around the corner, where the door of his house waited, facing in to the street. John didn't take a breath to go full speed in to the door, outreaching a stern arm and blasting through it.

He walked in to the dark, small kitchen of his house, the normally quaint table in the middle of it violently tossed over. In the middle of the room, standing over some sort of bundle, was a lanky, shaggy man, that turned to John as soon as he walked in. He had in his hand a bloody dagger, that he licked almost seductively the blood from. His face was unruly, disproportional, and of all things, disgusting. He smiled a yellow teethed smile "Hello."

John couldn't take it anymore. He clenched his face and let out a ferocious scream, charging right towards the man. It took a few steps for him to sweep the man of the ground, slamming his back in to the wall that sat near the staircase. As he felt the two of them stop, Balnette unleashed a remorseless flurry of punch after punch in to the grizzly man's face, splattering blood and snot all over his fists. The man's eyes closed in pain, but John only pounded harder and harder, leaving a blood stain on the wall behind the man as his lifeless body slinked to the ground.

As John looked over his victory, his senses reawakened, alerting him to a heavy, shallow wheezing noise behind him. John turned, and nearly cried instantly at the sight. A woman, stabbed in the stomach roughly eight times, was lying out right on the chair, her eyes shutting and blood pouring out in to her plain cloths. Her beautiful face was covered in tears, and blood.

"MOTHER!" John shrieked, nearly collapsing to his knees in shock. He crawled to his mother, his arms shaking violently with each palm on the floor. He scurried next to her head, and scooped it up in to his lap.

His mother was breathing sharply, and violently. Her head and neck rocked back and forth as she tried to speak. "W--wh--wh-whe-eres m-yy-y-y ba--by....." she gulped, swallowing a mouth full of blood.

John was exasperated in grief, as though every emotion that had ever poured in to a situation with his mother was returning. "OH, I'M SO SORRY!" he screamed at her. His head turned down towards her, touching his forehead with hers. "I LOVE YOU, I'-I'M S-S-SH-SH-SO SORRY! I NEVER- I- I--"

All his mother did was smile, as her eyes closed. "My b-b-b-bab-y-y..." she whispered "H-he's he-r-re.... I l-lov-love..." Her body went in to a final quake, jumbling back and forth in John's arms.

"NO, YOU CAN'T DIE, NO!" He yelled at her, as her body slowly seeped itself to peace. "NO NO NO, NO NO! PLEASE!" he cried out, his voice quaking hysterically as tears poured down his face. "DON'T LEAVE ME!"

John felt his arm pits being scooped off the ground, pulling him back and up. He could feel Captain Rutherford's arms wrapping around his body, as he pulled him back towards the door. "COME NOW BOY, THERE'S NO TIME LEFT!"

John hunched in the man's grasping, kicking and flailing towards the dead body. "NOO, NO!" he cried out. "SHE'S G-HONE! NO!" his voice cracked, as his body gave way to the captain's grasp. He continued sobbing heavily and loud, as his feet were dragged backwards, away from the house.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This chapter was particularly painful to write - it was really unbearable to ever think I could lose my mother.

Tell me what you think mates - let's hope I get as many comments as the last chapter, aye? :)

Wow Del... That was.... Jeesh. I can only imagine how that was to write, but you did it beautifully...course, that's not talking about the whole beheading, blood on the dagger whatnot. I'm eager to see what John encounters next.

As I promised, Crest :)

Yes, this chapter is a little longer than the others, but that doesn't mean it's full of fluff! I hope you all get the chance to enjoy it, so, without further adiue....


John rocked back and forth in his hammock below the deck in the empty hull, sobbing on and on as he cradled himself. The visions of the deaths of all of his friends and family still haunted his mind - he continuously thought of their cold bodies left behind, so ruthlessly disposed of without care. He had been crying for so long that he could feel the muscles in his face straining themselves, making it more painful to show emotion as he went on. But he did it anyway - he intended to keep crying until his tear ducts dried themselves, and beyond that, until he cried all the blood left in his body. He didn't care what anybody else thought, because everyone that ever mattered to him was gone.

Captain Rutherford paced back and forth in his quarters, skidding his feet along the wooden floor. He rubbed his hands through his sweated hair, as he contemplated what he had gotten himself in to. He was recollecting back to his youth, when he wanted to be a blacksmith. But he gave in to his father's pressure, and joined the Navy, a choice he knew he could never undo. He felt angry, as though he had thrown away his life to feed somebody else's cause.

"GOD DAMN IT!" Rutherford shouted sporadically. "JONES, tell that rat to shut his trap or we'll drop him off in the waters.

Two soldiers stood erect in his room, at attention as the shaggy man battled with himself. The taller of the two tilted his head and winced at the order. "Aw, Cap'n, but 'e's just a lad. Can't ya have any m-"

Rutherford spun around at the soldier. "Either you or him, make your choice." he growled.

Jones quaked in his boots. The two soldiers saluted the Captain, ushering an affirmation, and then turning on their heels to walk out the door.

Rutherford let out a heavy sigh as he walked back to behind his desk, where his chair sat. He plopped down in it, and leaned it back, rubbing his forehead in agony as he tried to rid of his headache. He could feel all the pressure he was under floating straight up to his forehead, nearly suffocating him. He felt like he was finally at peace, when it was shattered by a call for his name out on the deck. "Oh, what now..." he sighed.


John rubbed his hands viciously at his eye sockets, drenched from the constant flow of tears. It wasn't so much the fact of death that got to him, as how she died - alone. He could have only wished his mother's last few moments could have been with him by her side. It sent a shiver down his spine, the thought of ever dying such a cruel and laughable death.

And on top of that, was the feeling of loneliness. The only people he had known in his life were either gone, or missing - his mother dead, and his father likely off somewhere to be left for dead. It was a scary thing, having the mercy of your fate in the hands of somebody you hardly knew. But even scarier, was the fact you couldn't escape it; nobody that you could run away to, to help you. He was alone in the world, for the first time in his life.

His ears perked up to the sound of a loud racket coming from the deck of the ship, like the pounding of a few dozen men running about for no reason. He could hear the sound of two men exchanging conversation back and forth, though it was casual - no screaming or yelling out of place. Intrigued, John got up from his hammock, and slowly crept towards the small staircase at the end of the room that led in to the world above.

As he slowly crept up the staircase stealthily, on both hands and feet, he was able to poke out his vision across the deck of the Galleon. He saw double the size of men he did as before - two large crews of Navy soldiers, each standing opposite one another in groups. To the right, Rutherford stood, back straight, hands folded sternly behind his back. And at the forefront of the other group, was a man about a few inches taller, but nearly identical in size. He was decorated in thick, heavy clothing - a long, black long coat, a Navy uniform seized under an assortment of medals, and at the top of his head, a ridiculous looking Commodore's hat, which looked more of a tall white mow-hawk than it did a hat.

Rutherford stepped forward, an intimidated look on his face. He saluted the man. "Ahoy, Edward..." he gulped.

The man opposite him scoffed a little bit. "That's Commodore to you, Howard. What's the matter, too ashamed?"

Rutherford tilted his head down a little bit. "Not ashamed, sir.."

"Please. Show yourself a little respect for once." The Commodore chuckled as he looked around the ship. "...At least, more than your crew does to this ship. What say you? Still enjoy your time gallivanting around the Channel?"

Rutherford looked up. "Much less of gallivanting, I'll tell you that. One of the ports - St. Joseph's - was attacked yesterday, by a group of Spanish pirates."

The Commodore's eyes widened a little bit, but his face still looked as though he didn't believe him. "Attacked, you say? Why would a group of Spaniards attack such a small po- hell, why were YOU heading to that port?"

"We were sending back a prisoner aboard a ship of the same group. He was abducted from St. Joseph's a few days before the attacks, and I assure you I'm not lying about that."

The Commodore raised his brow a little. "A prisoner aboard a pirate ship? Nonsense - if you have such an exploit, than prove yourself!"

Rutherford nodded, and turned to the small group of soldiers behind him. The two of them closest to him instinctively walked past him, heading straight towards where John was hiding. The boy became alert, and tried to flee back down the stairs, but before he knew it, he felt two sets of large hands grabbing each of his arms, and pulling him up out in to the sunlight. John kicked his legs, ordering the men to let go of him, but they paid no heed - they simply tossed him in the direction of the Commodore.

John caught himself before he toppled over, and almost straightened himself before he remembered where he was. He slowly turned around, to face the boasting Commodore. The man scanned his vision up and down the bruised and cut boy, trying to make sense of it all. The Commodore flicked his arms out, to push his sleeves up his arm, and then crossed them before his chest. "And what is your name, boy?"

John was still in too much of shock to talk properly. He sheepishly petered out "John.. B-Balnette..."

"Hmpf." The Commodore turned to Rutherford. "And how do I know you simply didn't take one of your own crew mates and simply rough him up a bit? Come now, brother, I know better of your techniques than this."

Rutherford protested. "I would never do such a thing! Can't you tell that he's much too young to even know how to handle a sword!"

The Commodore took that as a challenge, laughing. "Oh really now? Then I guess we'll just have to prove that." The Commodore walked in a circle, waving his hand at all of the soldiers across the ship's deck, instructing them, "Back, the lot of you, back!" As all the soldiers lined the outskirts of the deck, the Commodore turned back around and walked in between Rutherford and John, who stood in the center of the ship. He reached at his side, and pulled out a long, shimmering saber, plunging the point of it to stand it straight up in the wooden floor. He then walked backwards, smiling. "Have fun, gentlemen."

The two of them just stood there, frozen, unsure of what to do. They looked back at the sword, and then back at one another, deciphering the match in their own way. Rutherford knew that he would end up killing a boy - and John knew that if he fought, he would be killed.

Suddenly, Rutherford became enraged. The anger that he manifested towards his brother slowly began to exhilarate towards John, like a raging bull pounding to be released from its cage. His muscles became tense as he gritted his teeth, pushing his legs forward in a tremendously intimidating pound. He reached out his arm and plucked the saber right out of the deck, clenching his grip around it, and advancing on the boy.

John started to stagger backward, overcome with fear. He tried to put his hands out, to mean he meant no harm, but he was afraid the man would simply cut them off with the smooth cut of a sword. He contemplated just letting Rutherford take the blade to him, to end the miserable existence his life had become. He wanted all of the pain to go away - a life of sorrow surely must be worse than death itself, he thought.

Yet as Rutherford brought back the sword to prepare to stab the boy, all of John's mindsets switched away from that. He felt as though surviving his mother was now his mission in life, one which he planned not to fail. He quickly side-stepped the blow, just barely dodging it as Rutherford plunged the sword forward, almost impaling the pale soldier before him. John back-pedaled away from the Captain, as the man pulled back his blade and set his sights back on the boy.

As John continued thinking of ways to get himself out of this situation, he felt his back walk in to one of the Navy soldiers behind him. He whirled around in shock, but felt the man roughly push him in the chest, throttling him back to the center of the little arena they had formed. The soldiers that watched all laughed in unison, as though it was an amusing show to them - John felt as though they were laughing at his suffering.

John spun around yet again, to keep his eyes back on his opponent, but his eyes became overpoweringly watered as he felt a dull, yet thundering pain right in his stomach. He clutched at his body and crumpled down to the ground, trying to coax away the pain that the Captain's blunt punch had caused. He rolled on to his side for a brief moment, but Rutherford delivered a stern kick to him, rolling him over on to his back.

John ended up looking straight up at the man, who stood right over him. He still had the long sword in his hand, that gently brushed against John's side as he laid there, motionless. John tried to escape, but he could barely move - the pain had numbed his limbs.

The Captain let out another dream, and tossed the blade out of his hands, across the deck. He then nearly jumped down to the boy, sitting down on his chest and nailing his fists down in to any region of John's body he could manage to reach. John let out shrieks and cries of pain, begging the man to stop, as each fist pounded away at his face and chest. He tried to squirm free, but he felt prisoner to the world, as though it had forsaken him to be its rag doll. Each blow was a drilling thud, which made him slowly lose the feeling in his body. He could slowly feel himself dying, and he was angry at the world, because it was watching.

Finally, Rutherford knocked out a final haymaker, an upper cut straight to John's jaw. As his teeth pounded against one another in a streak of pain, John could fill his mouth filling with his own warm, flowing blood. He spit out on the deck in coughs, as Rutherford got up from the boy, feeling victorious even after brutalizing a child. He tapped John with his boot again, rolling him on to his side, so John could face the deck.

John's hearing and sight became a blur, a slow-motioned painting with no defined edges or endings. He could only just make out the panels of the wood floor, the boots of the soldiers opposite to him. But along with that, was a large pair of blue boots, that slowly walked itself over towards the shimmer of a saber that sat on the deck. When he reached it, the man put his boot behind it, and kicked it, sending it sliding across the deck, right towards John.

John could feel the hilt of the blade perfectly stop right at his outreached hand, at the tip of his left arm that rested down on the deck. His eyes widened as far as they could go, though it wasn't much, in excitement. With any remnants of strength remaining, John pushed his body with a hop off the ground, and landed his palm right around the hilt of the blade. And as he rolled over, the sword heavy in his pain-ridden arm, he saw the flurry of a figure trying to rush at him once more - and with little time to lose, he acted.

He pushed his arm with all of his might upward, the blade's path stiffening and stopping only a few seconds later. John let out a heavy breath of relief, as the blurred lines of his vision slowly began to sharpen. All but a few blinks was it took to see what he had done, and he gasped at the sight.

John had run the saber right up through Captain Rutherford's stomach and diaphragm, spilling blood down in an easy stream as it pattered on the deck. The Navy man's body swayed back and forth, his eyes unmoving and his arms slunked downward. He let out a soft breath, before his knees gave in, and he fell backwards, hitting his head down on the deck with a loud clamber.

The entire ship broke out in gasps and whispers, before the Commodore raised his hand for silence. He walked slowly past John, towards the fallen body of his younger brother, soaked in its own blood. He stopped, to let his eyes run over the sight. He was at a loss for words for a moment, but solemnly nodded at the end of it. "A lion-hearted warrior we have among us.... men... help Mr. Balnette back down the stairs. The rest of you... get rid of it."

As John was helped up slowly by a group of soldiers, his numb body being helped back down the stairs, he heard the splash of a heavy, lifeless corpse being tossed overboard, to be hidden in the waters of the British Channel.

~~~~~~~~~~

Even more death and destruction!

Love it? Hate it? Be sure to tell me, mates - thanks for reading! :buds:

You have the taste of blood in your mouth, don't you Delmaria? I'm wondering if you can go one chapter without killing someone, though I will admit, I was not a fan of Rutherford, but that was the point, aye? Reminds me of Kat a little though... anyway. You're building up little John here very well. He'll definitely have some things haunting him as he gets older.

I love the characters you have in this story. Quite realistic for the time period. Brutal and uncaring. Obsessed with their image. I love how John just sticks out. He's the different one, the underdog you could say. Although with every chapter he changes just a little bit, slowly rising, and inevitably he will be at the top.

Continue writing, I am curious as to what John will become.

Thank you both - glad to see I've found myself a few dedicated readers :)

This may be a bit on the long side, but you might just find it worth it - either way, you decide. So, my mates, without further adieu....



The fire burns, stinging and swelling his skin as he pushes further and further in to it's mouth. It consumes him, the thick sparks and ashes cutting deep in to his face. The blood stains on his cheek, on all parts of his body, but goes no further - the blood, too, is eaten.

The ashes, burnt wood, and debris crumple and crack under his feet as he runs at a heightening pace through the desolant void of devastation, the blood in his body boiling under the immense heat that sends a rapture through his spine. If he who feels like dying shall be dead, he was buried.

He tried to drag his feet further, but the supreme blazes that he walked through finally cut him down like a small sapling in the wake of a great cleansing wildfire. His legs buckled, giving out and slamming his bare chest down on to the ashen floor, scraping and cutting his body by the coarse objects defeated as he. He could feel his body going numb, his skin melting from his bones, and his veins whipping and exploding against his skin as if a final punishment against him. All hope had been lost, and he let his body lie there, waiting to be consumed.

"You're dead to the world..." the voices in his head whispered. "You are the forsaken, the downtrodden, God's damned abomination on this blackened earth... Your ashes will be consumed." The voice repeated over and over. It was not a foreign voice, but his own - and it raged and ranted at him, kicking his mind and beating the very existence from his heart. He tried to cry, but the hellfire would simply steal them away.

"Begone..." it whispered, as a final farewell. "Begone as you are..."


April 8th, 1702
Aboard Commodore Edward Rutherford's Ship, The Darkskull
1:20 AM

John's eyes opened slowly, as if he was awaking at any other moment in time. Except all was not normal - his heart raced faster than any gust of wind, and his body shivering uncomfortably in a cold sweat. And not only than, as he had forgotten his surrounds - a dank, dreary, darkened ship's hull, filled with hammocks upon hammocks filled with the sleeping bodies of unclean, rugged Navy soldiers.

He sat up, turning his head wildly all around him, to make sure nothing watched him in the night, and then he leaned back in to his blanket, to try and hide himself. He was breathing heavily, try to calm himself. He closed his eyes, and opened them again, hoping that his situation would somehow change. Yet, it did not - he was still in the dreary ship, surrounded by militaristic men, and still haunted by the ghosts of an ill past behind him.

As he tried to drift back to sleep, he felt his hammock begin to rock firmly. He quaked in fear, unexpecting it. He almost thought for a moment it was the death he faced in his dreams, lingering outside of his mind to come and drag him off. But as he saw a rim of light poke out, the creature that shook him became illuminated - it was a young, scrawny looking Navy soldier, holding the lantern obnoxiously close to John's face. "Com'dore wans'a see ya, mate."

John was ferried quietly through the hull, past the snoring and sleeping men that lined the entire room. He looked around at all of them, wondering the horrors each of them had experienced, and how they were able to suppress them far enough to sleep soundly at night.

The boy and the soldier walked up to the moon-lit deck, a cool, stiff air blowing in their face. It chilled John to the bone as he walked back down the large schooner, stepping over ropes, barrels, and all sorts of things which crossed his path. He rubbed his hands up and down his body, to try and gather some warmth, and he walked faster and faster behind the soldiers to avoid the eerie night.

They finally reached the small wooden door at the end of the ship, which the soldier easily creaked open. John stepped a little forward, in to the doorframe of the open room. It was larger than Rutherford's quarters, but other than that, it was nothing special. Normally a man such as a Commodore would lavish himself in the finest spoils of war, but apparently not he - all that filled his room was a desk, about three simple chairs, and a few cabinets, dressers, and other pieces of furniture that sat next to the few yet large windows in the room. And in the center of it all, was the Commodore himself, still fully in uniform. John stepped in to the room, and heard the soldier close the door behind him.

The room was briefly filled with a silence, as like it was with moon light, until the Commodore spoke. "Surely you haven't been getting much sleep, as I haven't. But that's understandable, given your current situation." The man sipped from a small silver glass, before walking around, behind the desk. John noticed he was much more formal and reasonable now than he was before - whether it was the restlessness which he fought with, or simply the calm of the night, he couldn't tell. He sat down in the chair behind the desk, and ushered the boy to sit in the chair before it.

John was wreary because of the past experience he faced with the Commodore's brother, but nethertheless took the seat. He noticed, as the Commodore began to speak, that he liked to sit the same way as his brother when in a chair. "I assume you don't plan to be spending much time at sea when you find a piece of dry land, but, I would prefer if that didn't happen."

John was perplexed. "What do you mean, sir?"

"You have some very... good traits in your blood, as demonstrated by what we saw today. Now, whether or not that dissepated as soon as it spilled out on the deck, and on our doctor, I do not know - but you must realize you have a gift. And not many people are gifted in the art of war."

John's eyes bugged for a moment. "War? Oh, I assure you, I'm in no means-"

The Commodore leaned forward on the desk, a stern look on his face. "Boy, trust a man who has experienced it first hand. I've never seen somebody take such a beating and still forge on as you - the closest I've seen to that is the French army." He chuckled to himself. "Either way, I want people like you aboard my ship, regardless of your age."

"You're asking me... to join... the Navy?" John tilted his head, scratching it. "Well... I'm not sure..."

"Would you rather us drop you off in the next slum port, or what?" The Commodore stated gruffly.

After a brief moment of reflection, John sighed heavily, and nodded his head, knowing that it would be his only option of survival. The Commodore clapped his hands, overjoyed. "Excellent! We'll be heading over to a port along the Northern coastline of Spain, known as Martliona, within the next few days. It's just a few kilometers from the border between Spain and France, and a key point along the Bay of Biscay. We'll be meeting with a group of Spaniards - good Spaniards, I entrust you - where we will go over a few, "plans," of sorts. In the mean time, however, you need to be... prepared."


April 8th, 1702
Aboard The Darkskull
Noon

Commodore Rutherford paced back and forth in front of John, who watched him intently, waiting for instruction. His dingy swabby clothes flapped in the wind, pushing on from the clear blue, bright skies of the morning. Around them, from where they stood in the center of the ship, the crew ran back and forth, trying to manage and keep their ship tidy and orderly. John tried to keep his eyes on the Commodore, not allowing for the immense chaos around him to consume his thought.

The Commodore walked to boy's side, looking over his posture. When the boy's head turned to see what he was doing, the Commodore wiped out a hand and turned it back to where it was watching. Without saying a word, the Commodore drew some sort of sword to which John couldn't make out from the corner of his eye, and began to use it to prode John at with lightly. Ever area he brushed the blade's tip with, came an instruction. "Shorten your stance - straighten your back - tilt your chin - hands at your side - and stop fidgeting, too."

Once the Commodore had corrected the boy's position, he walked in front of him, standing only a few feet away, and looked up and down, to make sure everything was as it should have been. John took to note the sword the Commodore was holding - a sparkling steel cutlass that glistened against the sun's rays. Yet the Commodore grabbed at his side yet another sword - another cutlass, only much less impressive. It was old, rusted and gray, cut and dull. It looked more heavy than it would be efficient. The Commodore took the blade and handed it to John, stating "It's yours. Let's hope you can use it."

The Commodore then turned around, and walked up a few feet to one of the masts of the ship. It was clean and smooth, obviously shaven down to remove any cuts or bruises to it. Rutherford went down to his side yet again, pulling up a small dagger. He leaned his face close to the pool, raising up the blade close to his face, and began digging it in to the wood, obviously inscribing something. He was in the way, however, which prevented John from seeing what.

Suddenly, John had a vision. He saw himself plunging his old, rusted cutlass in to Rutherford's turned back, jutting in to his spine and collapsing him to the ground in a hurtle of his own blood. He saw himself laughing and clapping in joy, as the soldiers from across the ship grabbed at their guns, shooting John in a fury at the back of the head.

John snapped back to attention as the Commodore stepped out from in front of the mast. He had crudely inscribed in to the mast the word "PYRATE," to which he seemed proud of. John could tell Rutherford was not the kind to be that learned, and usually he would make a comment as such - but not now.

"Alright boy. Show me what you can do." The Commodore scoffed. John looked down at his blade, then at the Commodore, and then back at the mast, unsure of how to approach this. He took a few steps forward, slowly raised his sword, and dove forward, attempt to lunge at it. However, before his blade could make contact, the Commodore swatted John's down with his own. "WRONG." The Commodore stepped in front of him, and raised his blade, beginning to cut in to the mast with powerful, decisive, diagonal cuts, over and over. "Find your pattern, don't go in to battle like that. Fighting is like your heart, because it is part of your heart - without a repeated pattern, you'll die."

The Commodore stepped out of John's way, so he may see the mast. Yet this time, the mast looked different. In it's cuts and bruises, John saw a face - the face of the pirate who abducted him, the face of the pirate who killed his mother, the face of the pirate who his father fought with, and in between them, the face of the devil. They laughed at his misery, knowing they had done that too him.

The boy instantly erupted in rage, taking his blade and mightily striking swing after swing in to it. Wood flew towards him as he screamed, digging in the weapon in his hands wherever he could. He watched the faces slowly disappear in to the wood, becoming fainter and fainter in ever flash. His teeth gritted, his eyes clenched, and his soul yelled forth a battle cry of sheer power, meant to blast out any fear left inside him.

He threw the sword to the ground in front of him, throwing his hands to his face, and screaming out whatever he could. The entire ship watched in silence - all except for the Commodore, who once again nodded, smiling.

~~~~~~~~~~`

Well mates, tell me what you think. Love it, or hate it, I always love seeing comments on here.

Thanks for reading! :bookishfj7:

I do believe that should be "He rubbed his hands. With that grammar mistake, I hate this chapter.

Lol, I kid. Very good. Not much to say, but I really like Commodore Rutherford. An interesting character he is... so is John of course, but Rutherford is an interesting one... I can't wait to see what he does with John next.

I noticed something: The ship is called The Darkskull. :D


Great chapter mate!!

Hey nobody died! ;) I'm kidding Del. I think what interests me most about this chapter is the Commodore's interest in the boy, even after he's killed his brother. I mean, yes, he may be fantastic and have that instinct for war, but he still killed a member of the man's family. I feel like that will creep up on him sometime... but I can't be sure.

Love it Del :)

I'm impressed Del.Definitely going to follow this story.

Days slowly began to turn in to weeks aboard The Darkskull, as it continued to plow through the humid and murky waters of the English Channel. Every day seemed to become a little brighter as time went on, the days becoming warmer and the sunlight sustaining itself for just a little longer each afternoon. John could not tell whether this was a sign of his future clearing before him, or just simply the affects of heading due south - either way, he welcomed the change in atmosphere. He had never been outside the damp and boring climate to which he had assimilated to.

John slowly began to mingle in to a spot amongst the crew. He began to memorize names, appearances, preferences, routines, and ranks among the vast crew that the ship had to it, so that he could make it feel as though he were fitting in. And to that much effect, it did - by learning who everybody was throughout the ship, he was given the same respects by his fellow shipmates. And while he was still subject to the constant harassment and mockery that came with the job of a swabby - the animal noises, the kicking of his equipment as he tried to go about this work, and the usual unnecessary spit or slap - it came with a lighter sort of dignity, as though they did it not out of punishment or disliking, but simply because it was protocol.

Whenever John found himself without much work to be done aboard the ship, which was usually in the late afternoon when the ship's activities began to quiet, he would not lollygag like the rest, playing cards or lying about, but instead put himself to practice. He would take the cutlass that Commodore Rutherford had given him out from its hiding spot, under the farther stack of utility barrels behind the staircase, and practice his motions on the deck of the ship, off to the side where he would not be a bother, nor gather any attention. He began to learn how the blade moved in his hand; how to properly hold it to keep it from wavering as he cut, how to follow through and pull back his swings, and how to steady his balance by putting the right amount of weight on each area of the foot. It took him at least a week to get to the hang of it, but once he did, he knew he could begin to deviate from the basics, and learn the ways of a sword like a real soldier.

It was on one particular evening when John was working on a few variations of the traditional hack-slash-cleave method did Commodore Rutherford watch silently from the helm, accompanied by his long-time friend, who he had served alongside with in many campaigns by the British, First Mate Roberts. The two soldiers watched silently from across the ship as they watched the teenager repeat through the same pattern over and over, slowly gathering force and speed, and then repeating back at beginning of the sequence. Rutherford commented, "Do you see what I see in the boy, Hugh?"

Roberts returned the Commodore's comment without turning away his vision. "What do you mean, sir?"

"He's driven, my friend. Not like the drive that comes with any warrior, the need to serve his country, but something higher than that. It makes him.... stronger."

The First Mate tilted his head a little bit, as though he were questioning the Commodore. "Commodore, are you trying to imply this simple boy would be put to use someday?"

Rutherford took a heavy sigh, looking back over the ship. "Not so much as put to use, as being useful."


April 23rd, 1702
Martliona, Basque Country, Spain
Sometime before noon

"Yes, there, the third one past the small beach. That one should be his." Commodore Rutherford pointed out across the bow as he spoke to Roberts, the First Mate guiding the schooner through the crystal clear waters of the warm port. John could feel the hot sun radiating on him as watched over the railing of the ship, gazing out at the port that waited before them.

The port circled around them as they proceeded through the curving bay, which seemed more like a river than a bay as it narrowed upon you. Small docks poked out of the base of the areas around them, which were the arms of the port. The entire city around them was not dominated by large, beautiful buildings, or crowded living quarters. Instead, it was hilly land that was led through by dirt and stone roads, connecting plain, spaced out stone homes that lived amongst the vast amounts of trees, plants, and other greenery. The town gave off the feel of a warm, delicate countryside, yet still maintaining a calm sense of economy with its abundance of full, yet quiet docks. In itself, it was like a perfect harmony between urban meccas and nestled villages, so pure and cultural that it felt as though you were looking at a painting of the rural regions of the most serene European countries. It left the entire ship in awe at its magnificence, particularly John - he had never seen anything remotely close to such a marvel.

The ship docked itself at the dock the Commodore had pointed out to Roberts, at the very end of the channel. The crew went back to their business as usual, John trying to concentrate on waxing the mast, yet so distracted by his surroundings that his eye kept wandering over the banister of the ship, to scan his eyes over the port. The Commodore walked down from the helm, and within twenty minutes, had managed to get a small group of soldiers to proper themselves, uniforms and weaponry tidy and in place. He whispered something to them, which John couldn't make out despite his efforts to ease towards them, and then prepared to lead them off the ship. But as his small militia ferried out in front of him, he caught eye of John.

"John, boy, how’s about you take the trip with us?" The Commodore turned his head just as he prepared to step down off the ship. John turned around, his face showing signs of inner struggle, of whether to accept the offer or not.

"Oh.... no, Commodore, I'm sure I'll just get in the way. I'm much more useful on the ship." He reluctantly said, rubbing his hands slowly up and down his sides as he looked downward. He wanted to go with the Commodore, but felt he would get in the way of things.

"Nonsense! C'mon, you'll be just fine." The Commodore waved his hand, beckoning John towards him. Trying not to act overly excited, the boy put down his tools and walked over to the board that descended off the ship, where the Commodore was going down.

The small group of soldiers, the Commodore, and John ferried themselves up the low, stone dock, which was odd in comparison to all the wooden docks that were parallel with it along the little cove of the bay. The docks were empty, despite them being lined with ships and boxes. The silence was only monitored by the chirping of birds or bugs, but there were so few that they could not be pointed out in the vegetation that waited in the port, nor be heard so profoundly.

They marched up from the short dock up a dirt road that led up the crowning hill that met them right as they hit land, twisting up to where it began to curve over not too far up. They passed a few small cut outs of the road that led towards homes, quaint and tidy on the side of the street. They passed rarely any people, and when they did, it was either a young child, or an older woman, carrying baskets on their heads, bags in their arms, or so forth. They weren't in any sort of hurry, regardless of their age - they were quiet slothish, actually, like they wanted to take their time with their walk.

The road they followed took them far from the bay, continuously up the hill that flattened, steepened, and slanted at random points through the journey. After a good twenty minutes of well-paced moving, they could look out towards the docks from where they stood a good height from which they had covered. The path had finally flattened, and they trudged onward, assured by the Commodore they were almost there.

After making a sharp left, the crew was able to walk along a narrow, covered, dug-in-the-ground path, with the hill descending out towards the waters steeply to their left, and in the same equivalence upward on their right. There were large gaps in between the ferns that were at their left, which let them look out towards the water, them noticing that they were now walking along side it, instead of away from it. They gasped in awe of the beauty of the view, so natural, yet homely and serene.

Finally, they reached two large yellow, stone pillars from which the road converted from wild and dirt to kept and stone. From behind a large fountain that sat in a small unwalled courtyard was a large mansion, wider than it was tall. The face of the building was lined by twenty glass windows, six on the first floor, and seven on the two floors above it. It was decorated lightly with twinning vines that ran down the sides, and small carved stones running as the cornerstones. But while the soldiers focused on the beauty of the home, John had his eyes caught on something else. On the side of the house facing outward towards the bay, a small balcony stuck out from the second floor. Light silk curtains flew in the wind outward, as they skirted by a lean, tall figure, looking out to the waters. It was shadowed, but nevertheless it caught John's eye, and would not let go.

John was then drawn back forward where the rest of the group proceeded, around the fountain, up a few small stone steps, and to the front of a thick, dramatic wooden door. Commodore Rutherford reached out a hand and knocked on it, waiting a few moments until the door was finally answered by one of the servants of the household - obviously, a slave. He was dusted up in almost regal attire, the proper jackets and ruffles, but you could tell by the soulless look in his eyes that the wealth he was draped in was but a mask over his real emotions.

Before the slave was given the proper opportunity to ask any questions, a shout came from the inside of the house, which could not be seen past the small creak in the door. "¿Quién está ahí?" a deep male voice echoed, as the apparent noise of footsteps against echoing marble came closer and closer to them. The slave was pushed aside by a large man, around six foot four inches. His face was very robust and stern, looking almost as thought it would feel like sandpaper if you rubbed your hand against it. He had no facial hair except for a small patch of fuzz on his chin, sitting neatly under a shimmering red ring on his lower lip. He was dressed in no so much proper attire, as it was that which was meant to boast his richness - a heavy, Spanish leather long coat, a gold silk vest laying over a royal-looking lined shirt, with bright red pants. And at the top of his head sat a wide brimmed hat, brown with a golden feather, and two Spanish pieces of eight balancing on the edge ever-so slightly.

When the gruff man caught eye of Rutherford, he let out a smile and outreached his hand to shake the Commodore's, them both laughing happily. The man spoke in an almost maniacal Spanish accent, "Ah, Señor Rutherford, pleasure to meet you again."

"The pleasure is mine, Señor Avaricia!" Rutherford responded, patting the man on the back as they proceeded to step inside.


April 23rd, 1702
Pazo de García de la Avaricia, Martliona, Spain
2:30 PM

John on looked on the two men as they casually talked back and forth in the center of the room. They stood in a large living room on the second floor, with a high ceiling and white wooden walls with gold lining along the sides. It was lavished in tables, cabinets, and other furnishments of materials ranging from marble and granite to simple wood. The floor was covered by a soft, white carpet depicting the Spanish Coat of Arms, with a small sitting area in the middle of the room where two couches, two chairs, and a small table cloaked over by a large map sat. The outside of the room was lined by the soldiers of Rutherford, as well as the servants of Avaricia, all standing neatly at attention.

"I personally don't agree with any of this succession nonsense - if the king just so happens to be interjecting in to both lines, then let it be so, hmm?" Rutherford scoffed as he threw his hand back.

"Oh, but it's so easy to say that as a man of the British flag. I would dare not have myself intermingled with those vile Frenchmen - I've had them stab me in the back much too many times to even consider being ruled under the same throne. I would not dare." Avaricia shook his head.

"Alas, it might be so. Either way, as long as I'm not called forth to supply anything, it's fine by me. So, shall we get to those maps?"

"Sí, sí." Avaricia leaned forward to point at the maps. "I suspect the bandits are somewhere around *here," in a small cove along the coastline just a few kilometers from here. There's only one entrance, which is the mouth by the beach - hence, I'd abstain by approaching it by boat."

John let his eyes wander around the room, becoming increasingly bored by the conversation at hand. He looked at all the carvings and details of the room, but they too became drab by the second pass over of the eyes. He felt lost, until he looked over to his right, and caught eye of a small wooden door just a few steps away. Noticing it's position, he took to it as an escape, and eased against the wall, slipping to the door, creaking it ever so slightly open, and dashing through it, silently closing it behind him.

He found himself in a fore room, farther to his left and his right, than forward, where there sat a wall of glass doors in between stone arches. One of the doors, the one right in front of him, was open, leading out on to a sundrenched balcony - and there, over at its end, stood the figure he had saw earlier. It turned around to face him, and he nearly stumbled back in surprise.

It was a girl, roughly around John's age. She was beautiful - sun kissed, Spanish skin giving away to an elegant yet attractive face, that almost smiled at you even though she wasn't. She had sparkling brown eyes, with long, black hair, that fell in waves like the ocean down to her shoulders. She wore a light nightgown, suggesting she had not changed since when she woke up. Even without any makeup, John could not attempt to take his eyes off of her - she was stunning.

"I assume you're one of my father's acquaintances, yes?" She turned back around, to look back over the bay.

John walked forward. "Perfect English - I thought you were Spanish, though?" he asked.

"Don't let my father's regrettable intelligence give you the wrong image of me, sir. I'd much rather limit myself to reading and writing than to swashbuckling, trading, and all that." she snapped.

John walked up next to her on the balcony, and she turned to look at him. He almost had to look away, the light radiating off of her face. "What do you mean? And who would teach a woman to read and write in this county?" John was perplexed.

"I taught myself, thank you very much. And the books? I received them through my father's trade."

"I don't so much care about the books, as I do his trade itself."

She sighed, rolling her eyes. "Ignorant as they all are. How do you think we could acquire so much with so little? My father gets what he wants by hiring others to do the work for him. He's almost like a crime lord - a pirate lord, if you will."

"Pirates?!" John gasped. The thoughts of his parents suddenly rushed back to his mind; by the possibility Rutherford was conspirating with the man who brought about their demise.

"If you think we're the ones who attacked that little town in England, you're mistaken - we're much too above that, even though I consider pirates below everything." She shook her head.

"How did you....?" John began to step back, becoming even more intrigued by who this girl was.

"I always read my father's letters before he does - not like he can read in the first place. I knew of your arrival most likely before you did." John chose not to answer, just looking wearily at the girl. When she realized she had created a more-than-awkward atmosphere, she stood straight up and grabbed John's hand, shaking it. "Maria."

"John." He nodded.

Soon, a loud clamber of footsteps came from inside, suggesting that everything had been finished. "I suggest you go back to your Commodore now - and best of luck."

"What do you mean?"

Maria looked at John, running her eyes up and down him. "You'll see. Go."

OoOoh! Good Chapter Mate!

Cliffhanger!OOOOHHH!

Great chapter!

Thanks, mates!

Sorry this took so long - not only was this chapter quite long, but it came at a time where I had very little time to type. However, I finished it - and so, without further adieu:


April 24th, 1702
Pazo de García de la Avaricia, Martliona, Spain
10:58 PM

The crickets chirped in the background as fireflies swam through the humid night air, flashing in a hidden but prevalent pattern. They danced in between the lush vegetation that surrounded the small courtyard, now drenched in the thick darkness of the night. The babbling of the fountain chuckled next to the cackling of the torches, lit a flame and held up high by the group of men in the square. The crew of Navy soldiers stood in a circle around Commodore Rutherford, who watched over all of them as he waited outside the doors of the large mansion.

John sat on the edge of the fountain, extremely anxious and in wonderment as to what was going on. The ran his hands on the stone of the fountain, ever so often reaching his hand back to splash a little up on his hands to keep them from going uncomfortably dry and harsh. He kept in the lap of his unwashed swabby cloths his old, rusted, chipped cutlass, which he looked down on under the dim firelight.

No instruction had ever been given to him as to what was going to transpire. The past few days he has been nearly isolated from the crew, sent to simply wash and wax as his few sailors walked about on the dock, talking and whispering under their breaths. They would hurry on and off the dock in varying groups, looking like they had to get somewhere, but John was confined to the ship, never being allowed to even step on to the dock. Whatever they had planned had been restricted to soldiers - originally, at least.

It was after a half hour of waiting the doors to the mansion opened, all the men who waited in the courtyard halting their whispers and correcting their posture. John stood up as though to follow the others, as Commodore Rutherford stepped up a step to meet Garcia. The man stepped out from behind the shadows of the home, wrapped in an evening robe. He had a small pipe poking out of his mouth, that let out small plumes of smoke as his raspy lungs breathed in and out. He took the pipe out of his mouth and shook Rutherford's hand, as the Commodore spoke. "Everything is planned out as we collaborated, Avaricia. I anticipate that we'll be able to make it over there in a few hours."

Avaricia hesitated for a moment, before nodding. "Bueno, bueno. I apologize for not allowing you and your men to use my horses," Avaricia said as he strutted down the steps from the door, "but it would cause too much of a noise anyway, yes?"

The Commodore shrugged as he walked forward to stand next to Avaricia. "I'm sure we won't need them anyway. There's no need to use them if we can march there in good time."

John felt something lightly hit his back as he stood far from behind the group of men. Startled, he jumped forward a little, before turning around to see what it was. Off to the side of the fountain, poking out of the courtyard, was a small, narrow path leading in to the woods. A slender figure hurried down it, but turned its head as to make sure that John would follow it. Plagued by interest, John looked over his shoulder to check to see if nobody was looking, and then scurried halfway around the fountain, towards, and down the path.

It was a short dirt path, so tight that the leaves of the trees practically covered your path, only letting through if you brushed right through them. It became dark as John stepped down it, the noise of from the courtyard silencing itself as he progressed from it. It was only after about 10 meters of walking or so did the path come to an end - a small, circular area, with nothing but a bird-bath in the middle of it. There were two old, raggedy wooden stools sitting in front of the bird bath, though one of which was already occupied.

Maria sat quietly on top of the small stool, her right leg folded over her left. Her hair was braided down behind her back, letting the moonlight shine on her royally beautiful face. She wore a blue light silk night gown, that sat from her shoulders all the way down to her feet. Her face was mired with concerned, as she motioned with her hand towards the other stool, right in front of her.

John slowly walked over to the seat, and stood next to it wearily, before choosing to quietly sit down. When he was comfortable, Maria leaned in towards him, and he did the same. "Please tell me you realize what you're getting yourself in to." she asked, worried.

"What do you mean?" John questioned.

"Oh dear..." she gulped. "My father isn't exactly being as honest as he seems to be. Please, just, don't go to where he's leading you all too."

"And where is that? I'm the most clueless fool in this town, so I should have a right to know by now."

She looked over John's shoulder, back down the passage to the small cove that sat in, before she continued. "I overheard the Commodore and my father discussing this sort of cave that lies on the beach east of here.... I only know of one such as it near here, and I doubt it's where you want to be."

Just before John could ask a further question, a few murmured shouts began to call off in the distance. Faintly could be heard Garcia yelling about for Maria, over and over, his voice deep and angry. Each time he yelled, it grew louder, as if he were closing in on them. Maria instantly dove her hands down in to a pocket in her dress, and fiddled out a very small square bundle of cloth. She grasped John's hand vigorously, stuffing it in to it and closing his grip around it. "Just hold on to that. When they ask you, show them that."

Just as she finished her statement, Avaricia came bursting in to the small area. He turned and looked to Maria, barking "DIOS, MALDITA SEA MARIA! ¿Dónde has estado?!" He violently walked over to her, grabbing her harmfully at the arm before kicking the seat out from underneath her. She panted in pain as she stayed off the ground by the painful grip of her father, before being pulled up to a standing position and thrown over towards the entrance to the enclosure. She stumbled forward, catching herself on a small stone spire that stood at the gate, before running back towards the mansion in fear. Avaricia followed after her intently, shouting in his native tongue at her.


April 25th, 1702
Northeast of Martliona, Spain
1:30 AM

The night sky was clear as it was deep and dark overhead as the group of men creeped down the long, sandy beach. The waves of the ocean slowly caressed the sands as they purred underneath the strong aura of the moonlight. The beach they walked on was long, the lush vegetation of the forests to their right a length away from the hushed sea at their left. They felt almost exposed, although it seemed as though there was nobody around them to watch them.

John's heart raced in all sorts of directions as he stood at the back of the pack of soldiers, his light, rusted sword held firmly in his hand, dragging along at his side. The light and exciting prowess of adventure quaked his heart, but at the same time, the intensity and bleakness of fear swelled over him like a tremendous, crashing wave. The light specks of sweat under his arms and on his back measured the toll the moment was taking on him, and he was unsure if he was looking forward to what was to come, or not - then again, he was still unsure of what this elusive moment actually was.

"Sssh...." Commodore Rutherford whispered from the head of the group. He stretched out an arm, and pointed diagonally from the crew. In the distance, the stone mouth of a cave poked out roughly behind a light cover of vegetation over the entrance. John's eyes widened in anticipation, knowing that the time was nearing, as all the soldiers began to slowly grab at their bayonets. Rutherford made an ushering motion towards the cavern, and began to pick up the pace.

Standing before the silent mouth of the cave, the group stood in wonder, mystification, and fear. As they stepped inside it, their buckled shoes rung in an echo throughout the cave. It was a small-sized cave, only one sizable room consisting of it - from the entrance, the ground led down a small decline in to a shallow pool of water, which was the main floor of the room. Small cliffs and hills ran along the side of the cave, where a few random boxes and crates netted down on the rock sat looming, as if they were abandoned, with no purpose. A flat bedrock sat in the middle of the room, in the middle of scatters of beams of moonlight that poked through the ceiling on the room. The entire cave was vacant - no noise, no motion, no signs of life.

John tried to control his heavily shaking breathing as he stepped down behind the Commodore, who had progressed on to the flat altar of stone in the middle of the cave. He looked around the room, scanning for something that may point out something strange or unusual. The Commodore scoffed in disgust as he threw up his arms, turning back to his crew. "Would you look at this? Seems the rats scurried out from under us."

"Don't think of yourself so highly, Rutherford." Garcia's voice called out. The crew turned to see Avaricia standing in the shadow of the moonlight, high at the entrance of the cave. His horse neighed behind him as he took a few staggering steps down, before stopping. He smirked at the crew, keeping his hands down at his sides.

"Garcia, what is the meaning of all this? You told us the pirates w-" just as the Commodore was about to complete his statement, Garcia scratched from his side a short-barreled pistol, pointing it out from his side and shooting it random, a plume of smoke rising from its tip. John, startled, nearly fell backwards, as the images of his past began to revert back to him - the guns, the cannons, the smoke, the fire, all filling his mind.

Rutherford stepped back, beginning to realize what he had gotten himself in to. Garcia clapped his hands, and then panned one of them over the view of the room. Like magic, the room began to rustle - water began to shift, rocks began to move out of place, and the loud clutter of footsteps rose up. Men of all sizes rose from the shadows and behind rocks, gruesome, grizzly, and ugly in appearance as they all glared at the crew of soldiers mischievously.

The entire crew seemed distraught, but none more than the Commodore. He stared at Garcia with not a face of fear, but disappointment. The Navy soldier's began to slowly raise their bayonets, preparing to defend themselves, but Garcia shot out another bullet. "You best have your men lower those guns, mate."

As Rutherford made the motion, and the crew of men waveringly dropped their weaponry, the Commodore shook his head. "Why, Garcia? I thought I could confide in your trust?"

"Trust is a feeble thing, Commodore. Not something you should hand around on a silver platter - and that's what you did with me." As Avaricia spoke, the pirates began to come down, encircling the crew by standing around the flat rock, in the water. "You brought your needs to the doorstep of a man you knew was a criminal, all for politics. You are the disappointing one here, Rutherford."

The Commodore sighed heavily, looking around him, at the men, at the pirates, and at the entire landscape of the room. When he turned his vision back to Garcia, his face was not of fear, or strength, or determination - no, it was of resolve. Rutherford shrugged, before throwing his hand down at his side, grabbing a pistol, and shooting the pirate that stood directly in front of him squarely in the nose.

The entire cave was immediately thrown in to chaos, as soldiers and pirates alike dove to the ground as a flurry of bullets and explosions rocked out in to the room. John landed a few feet away from where he stood, down on his stomach, with his cutlass still in his hand. He threw his hands up over his head, trying to look around as to where to go. Men ran back and forth across his vision, some of their boots nearly stampeding over him. He tried to scamper to his feet, but every shot of a gun made him cower in fear, with the thought of accompanying his mother coming with it.

Finally, he felt the back of his shirt being pulled up, and he felt his body being picked up off the floor, and nearly rolled in to the water. His body thudded in to the shallow waters, wetting his entire body as the water ran up through his clothes. He felt a knee hit beside him, and he turned to see Commodore Rutherford on his knees, bent over to communicate with John. He pointed out across the cave, to which John followed with his vision. A small rock beckoned to him on the outskirt of the room, which sat just out of the length of the firefight.

John immediately pushed up to his feet, and still in a crouch, sprinted towards the rock, keeping his hands on top of his head to guard himself. He didn't stop for a moment to think, rest, or put any caution in to his action - instead, he was driven by a single kick of adrenaline, which turned in to a wave of decisive action. As he placed his hands on top of the rock and hurtled over it, the Commodore in tow behind him, he could feel an exhilarating feeling inside of him, as though the fear that once overpowered him was turning itself in to courage, the need to feel the fury of battle in his blood.

Rutherford panted heavily next to him, looking down to the cutlass that John still had wrapped in his hand. "You're sure you know how to use that, boy?"

John nodded at the Commodore, closing his eyes so he could steady his own breath. Although Rutherford was skeptical, he had no choice but to approve of it. "Alright, then. Whenever you're rea-"

Before the Commodore could even finish the sentence, a wild blade crashed over the top of the rock, clanging loudly as its tip landed right in between the two of them. John dove off to the side of the rock as the blade swung towards him, quickly scraping himself up to a stand position as he tried to gather himself. His body still stumbled forward, himself nearly tripping over his own feet before he finally caught himself on the base of a small cliff.

John turned around to see a massive, thick man, tossed around in tattered, dirty cloths ripped at the arms and knees. His bald, obese face glared with the upmost severity as he played with a wide, clumsy blade in his hand. He started marching forward like an elephant, pounding his feet in to the water as he came closer and closer. And he grasped the sword with both hands, preparing to deliver a punishing, horrendous swing, John frozen, unsure of what to do. He began to doubt whether his abilities after only a few weeks of practice would pay out in actual battle, and for a moment, thought that it would be such a pathetic way to die. Yet as the moment bore down upon him, his mood shifted.

John side-stepped the swing off to his right, ducking as the blade came up from behind him, over his head. The mammoth grunted under the force of the shot, nearly turning completely around as it came about him. John turned around to face the man, and almost instinctively took his cutlass with him, driving a light cut in to his opponent's side. It felt like his blade had hit a rock wall, but it had driven in to the leathery skin, leaving a small trickle of blood as John jumped backwards in shock.

The pirate screeched in pain, grabbing at his side as he turned around to see what had cut him. He locked his eyes on John, and roared a terrifying battle cry, taking his longsword in his right hand and brandishing it above his head. John took his blade and guarded it in front of him, as his enemy chopped down his sword, clanging against the small rusted cutlass. John's arm jerked down with his blade, but he sprung back upwards as he rebounded to make sure another swing wouldn't clock his head off. The giant picked back his sword and swung again, but the boy twirled by it, spinning just as the tip of the sword nicked his arm. John coughed in pain as he stopped himself, but he took a deep breath and tried his best to ignoring the warm, throbbing pain.

The pirate was now become frustrated, his cut becoming more aggravated every time he twisted or turned. He threw his sword across the room, launching and taking out the leg of one of his fellow crew men, and began to charge at John with his huge, bare fists. John pointed out his sword as a way to possible cast away the man, but the brute outreached an arm and slapped the sword right out of John's hand, it landing vaguely in the murky waters of the cave. As John tried to look to see where it went, a stern hand punched him right in the chest, knocking him backward.

For a brief moment, as he landed on his back on the floor, he flashed back to that terrible moment back aboard the ship, where Captain Rutherford came down upon him, punch by punch. He could feel himself being degraded once more as he remember the blood running from his nose like a faucet, his senses knocked out of him and his body rocked with fear. That horrific sense of hopelessness tried to break itself back to him, badgering the corner of his mind - but this time, he chose not to let it control him.

In a snap of rage, John ran to his feet and threw himself at the behemoth, flailing like a wild bobcat as he punched, slapped, and scraped where ever he could reach. He gripped his hands around the neck of the man, holding him off the ground due to his extreme height, and then used his freely-swinging legs to bring up his knee in to the open cut, thrusting it harder and harder with each blow. He could feel the man struggling to stay alive, but with a final plunge of John's knee in to his side, the pirate's body gave way to pressure, toppling over. John unlatched himself as the man fell back on to the ground, falling like a tree in the forest as he slammed to the rock-hard ground, unconscious.

John's sense of accomplishment filled his pain-ridden body, making him feel less of a boy, and more of a man. He felt like cheering in joy because of his own private victory, before he heard an unexpected sound - a third, loud, thundering pistol shot, that silenced the room.

John turned to see Commodore Rutherford bent over on his knees, clutching his chest as he heaved in pain. In front of him, Avaricia towered, his pistol lying at his side. He didn't look as though he was happy with the victory as he was stern, like he felt Rutherford deserved to be punished. "You should have known better... your kind will NEVER touch my brethren again!" Avaricia shouted. He looked around the room, feeling the eyes on him, and ran back up the entrance of the cave.

John hurried over to the Commodore. "Sir, SIR!" John shook him. "Sir!" He was furious with fear, not wanting to lose the only person left in his life that could watch over him.

The Commodore shook his head, gasping in pain. "It's alright boy... I'll be fine..." he wheezed. "Ta-- take my gun...."

John shook feverishly, reaching to the Commodore's side and pulling out a long, crafted pistol. It was of a beautiful Italian designed, small angels etched in to a metal plate on the side of the gun. John looked at the Commodore, who automatically nodded in approval. "You'll need it..." Rutherford gripped the boy's shirt quickly, taking a final breath. "Make me proud, son...."

The Commodore's body collapsed forward, landing off to the side of John. John looked at him, wishing it was all still a dream - the man who he thought to be his new father, was dead. John jerked his head around, to where the exit to the cave was. "GARCIA!" he roared in a violent, hoarse voice.


April 25th, 1702
Pazo de García de la Avaricia, Martliona, Spain
4:55 AM

John ran to the foot of the mansion, his body aching from the long, frantic run. He felt as though he was about to collapse, the lactic acid feeling like a cobra made out of barbed wire was strapped to his legs. He knelt down at the side of the fountain to rest himself, catching his breath and letting his legs relax. He tilted his head up to look at the mansion, the face of building coated in nothing but darkness. The windows were locked, the torches were burnt out - the only thing that was out of order was the door, which was flung wide open.

John staggered to his feet, pedaling towards the house, up the stairs, and in to the large doorway. He clasped a hand down on the dark wood door frame, which separated the outside world from the foyer. It was a wide, circular room, with a marble floor with a spiraling design that spun its way to the center of the room. At the other end of the room, a staircase huge the cylindrical rooms ran along the room to the second floor, that loomed overhead in the lack of light. His feet caused a loud echo as he slowly progressed across the room.

He inched up each step one by one, trying to see if he could catch a glimpse of what waited on the floor above him as we came closer to it. As his right hand ran along the wooden banister on the inside of the staircase, he slowly moved his left towards the Commodore's pistol, which he kept in the holster that he took from Rutherford's body as he ran out of the ongoing battle.

He stepped out on to the second floor, which opened to a large carpeted room that was a large hallway, wide and expansive like a hall that ran far back in the mansion. Its walls were lined with mirrors and paintings, with doors to other rooms lining the sides. At the far end of the room, the last door to the right was open, a small table that sat next to it thrown over with shards of glass near it.

John crept down the hallway, trying not to make a sound as he went step by step. He raised the pistol to align with his face, it beginning to shake a little with his nervousness. He had never used a gun, nor even held one before now, but he knew that he would have to use it sooner or later.

Just as he was about to round the door, a loud thud came from behind him. John spun around, pointing the pistol in the direction of where it came from, but it did not meet Garcia's face - it met somebody else's.

Garcia held in front of him his daughter, her mouth tied with a bandanna and a long carving knife to her throat. His face was vicious, as though he was ready to slice her neck even if John did nothing. John was stunned, watching in horror as Garcia gripped Maria tighter. "Put the gun down, boy." he growled ominously quiet.

John slowly lowered the pistol, his face filled with caution and worry. "Okay, okay - just let her go."

"That SWINE Rutherford things he can infringe on everything we've been doing - him and his god damn, self-righteous country. Just a lot of fat, imperialist pigs is what they are. If I ever have to see another British flag in my waters, I'll set fire to London myself!" Garcia roared, each jerk of his arm moving the blade closer and closer to Maria's jugular.

"Easy, easy. Just let her go." John said, keeping his hand still around the pistol's handle, in the event he would have to use it. Whether he would use it correctly, however, was still in his mind.

"NO!" Garcia barked. "All my life I've been pranced over at the hands of those British rats, trying ring their greasy palms around my country." His voice shivered, like he was horrified. "One blood spilled on the floor will be just the beginning...."

At that moment, Maria jolted her leg, kicking Avaricia in the shin. He untensed his hands, allowing for her hands to shoot upward and pry his dagger-hand away from her. John outshot an arm, grabbing Maria, and tossing her behind him. As Garcia tried to lunge forward to latch back on to her dress, John rocked his head with an uppercut from the hand that held the pistol, knocking him back a little. The pirate stumbled back, landing on his knee before a small table with a vase on top of it. Before he could think, John took the pistol, raised it, and shot it at Garcia's forehead.

John was unsure of what happened in the few seconds between when he shot the pistol, and the realization that he had shot it. The room was silent, all except for Avaricia's wild screaming. John's eyes focused on what he had done - the bullet had missed the pirate's head, and instead, shattered the vase that sat aligned with his face. Aside from a few small shards that had plunged in to the side of his face, a large piece of glass had shot up in to his left eye, leading a river of blood streaming down his face.

As John stood there, caught in a daze, Maria grabbed his hand, tugging him as they ran through the hall, down the stairs, and out of the mansion.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Think this story ain't true? Go speak with Mr. Avaricia yourself in-game ;)

Be sure to comment and review mates! Thanks for reading!

You should write a book, Del. No joke.

What he said. Great Chapter mate!! I can sense this is going to build up to something big!

Thank you, mates!

This chapter is a little on the shorter/slower side, but that's mainly because it's more of a transition chapter. Regardless, I hope you all enjoy it! So, without further adieu...


April 25th, 1702
Martliona, Spain
5:45 AM

The Spanish sun had just peaked over the horizon as the two squandered out by the docks of the town, huffing and panting in exhaustion and pain. They had ran all the way from the mansion to the mouth of the port, not stopping or slowing at any point, for fear that somebody may come up from behind and capture them. John bent over to sit on the ground, while Maria held herself up against the stone wall of a home that stood next to them.

John laid back on the dirt beneath him, letting the Commodore's pistol rest atop his chest. He wiped his hand at his brow, pushing aside his bangs; he tried to ease his restless body from all the pain that stroked through his body, both physically and mentally. The sight of what he had done to Garcia at the hands of the gun, the meshed and cut tissue that surrounded a gouged, bleeding eye, haunted him with a constant taunt, as though he had done something wrong. It sent shivers down his spine, the thought of the mutilation that he caused.

He looked across from him, where Maria was. She stood with her back against the wall, almost as though she was sitting on air. Her face wasn't at the slightest worried, or scared, or remorseful - she was just exhausted, and of all things, liberated. Where Garcia had gripped her forearms was marked by his hands, so much so that smears of blood ran up across her arm. She rubbed at it, not like it pained her, but that she was simply getting the blood off of her body.

John started to stand up, taking the pistol and sliding it back in to its holster. He walked back and forth, rubbing his right hand on the back of his sweaty head. "You should have allowed me to put him out of his misery, you know."

Maria shook her head no, wincing as her hands ran over her scars. "I'd sleep much sounder knowing that he has to suffer, much like how he did to me."

"I'm sure, then, you'll be glad to know he won't rest until he has us at his doorstep again, then?" John challenged her. He pointed his hand out to the path they had come from. "For all we know, he has his men chasing after us as we speak... God, why did I ever-"

Maria interrupted. "You did the right thing, regardless. If you had not shot him like that, I can assure you we would have been dead long before we escaped that mansion."

"Ah, excellent. So we might just prolong our executions so I can let that manifest in my mind for a little bit." John huffed; kicking the dirt as he angrily resumed pacing back and forth. He felt like as though he was just waiting to be killed in this paradise, stranded and left for dead. But as his vision was caught by the bay, he paused - and idea had come to his mind. "The ship!"

Maria looked at him his curiosity. "What ship?"

"Ruthe-t-therford's ship, The Darkskull, it still has to be in the bay. Maybe the others haven't reached it yet, or maybe they haven't left yet - perhaps they'll take us in!"

Maria froze for a minute. She looked at John, wide-eyed, before pushing up off the wall and walking up to him. "Hurry, let's see." she ushered to him.

Immediately John turned around and started running at top speed down the remainder of the road, and breaking off in to the dock area. He ran down the length of the beach, hoping that he would remember where the ship itself was parked - and he did, noticing the peak of its top mast towering over the tops of the other ships that were parked to the docks adjacent it. His heart raced as he imagined seeing his fellow crew members, and then departing back across the channel. He imagined being back home, with his childhood friends and neighbors - but it was at that point, he remembered his past.

John, as a child, was sheltered by his mother. She was incredibly protective over him, in the sense that if he was gone, she would be alone during the extensive merchant journeys that his father would embark on. She kept him confined to their home, aside from the very few times John was able to weasel away from the home when she was too busy to notice. He went no further than down the street, and the only friend he ever had to interact with was with his eyes.

As he reached the start of the stone dock, he banked at the turn and sprinted down it with whatever energy he had left. He propelled himself right to the foot of the board that led on ot the ship, and steadied himself before he strode up it, trying not to topple over in to the crystal waters below. He hit the deck with a slam, and much to his pleasure, he was met with four Navy soldiers with their backs turned to him. His thud on the ground grabbed their attention, but just as he prepared to walk forward and explain himself, he found the barrel of a long, steel musket pointed right at his teeth.

"Oh no," the soldier with the gun said, shaking his head sternly. "I don't think so, mate. Off the ship, now."

John was in utter shock, the men who he had spent his limited time on the ship interacting so tranquilly with. "What?! Surely there must be a misunderstanding, gentlemen, I mean no har-"

"Shut yer trap!" the short, stubby soldier to the right of the man with the musket barked. He turned and nodded to the soldier with the gun, who John could now recognize as Commodore Rutherford's First Mate, Hugh Roberts.

"I was sick of listening to Rutherford talking about you forever and ever on end, saying how you would 'fulfill the spot of a son he never had.'" Roberts making a mocking voice of the Commodore as he inched closer with the gun. "Sick of it, I tell you. Almost as sick I became of you as I did him, that arrogant little twat."

"DON'T talk about him like that!" John snarled. The three men surrounding Roberts took an intimidating jolt forward, but stopped right there. "You sick monster, you wanted him to die, didn't you?"

Roberts shrugged. "I wasn't the one who shot the bullet, but I sure as hell wanted to." Roberts rose the musket a little higher, pointing at John's head. "Now, I do suggest you leave. It's a long way back to London, and I'm not going to let you leech off us anymore."

Just at that instant, Maria gleefully bounded on top of the deck of the ship. John tried to swing his hand back to shoo her away, but before he could, Roberts turned the musket on her. He eyed the girl up and down, from head to toe. He licked his lips before smiling, and shrugged. "Well, I assume we can make one.... exception. The girl can stay, but the boy must go."

Two of the soldiers instantly lunged forward, grabbing Maria towards them and pulling her close. She tried to kick and flail against them, but they held her so tight she could barely move. They breathed heavily down her neck as they carried her off to the crew's quarters, her eyes like that of a puppy as she looked at John. "Hmm, I see they've already taken a liking to their new toy." Roberts chuckled. "You," he motioned to the remaining soldier, "take our acquaintance here off my ship."

As the greasy, lanky soldier crept towards John, the boy stumbled back, hitting his back against the banister of the ship. He accidentally had backed up in to a rope that was loosely tied to the side, which came undone as he hit it. The rope flung upward, to the first beam of the ship, where a barrel which had been lifted up from underneath the ship's deck had been hoisted. It fell straight down on to the dock, slamming with a tremendous force down on to Robert's shoulder. As his captain shot the musket blankly to the ground, collapsing under pain, the crew mate turned to see what was going on. With this opportunity, John grabbed at his pistol and tried to fire at the soldier - but it was jammed.

The soldier turned to the click of the gun, but by that time John had flipped over the gun and pistol-whipped the man straight on the forehead, so hard that it sent him to the ground in an unconscious clamber. Immediately disregarding Roberts, who was wailing in pain on the deck, John scooped up his musket and made a run for the staircase leading down in to the crew's quarters, holding it firmly at his side.

As he jumped down in to the dark hull, John was met with a wall of darkness. It was eerily still, not a thing to be seen. As John tried to motion through the void, a high-pitched scream rocketed far in front of him. Stunned, he paused a little, unsure of whether to respond or not. "...Maria....?" he whispered, trying to find her in the abyss.

A cry for help came forward from the same direction, and it was at this time John shifted in to action. He started trudging through the lack of light, bumping regularly in to buckets, stools, crates, beds, hammocks, and posts, but nevertheless moving onward. Each little scream seemed louder and louder as he progressed step by step, and each time he became filled with more and more anger. His face clenched with anger at the visions of what they may be doing to Maria - he would make them regret every second of it.

John pointed the gun at the back of one of the soldiers as their starch white skin pointed through the air. He turned around, his shirt already torn off, as he and the other soldier gasped in shock. Maria still screamed in terror as she nearly dove off the hammock they had thrown her on, crawling on the ground towards John. "Both of you, up!" he motioned them up towards the main deck, towards the little beam of light emanating near the stairs.

On the deck, Roberts just briefly began to scramble to his feet, catching himself on the mast. As he turned around, his two fellow men were thrown at him, knocking him back in to the mast. Before they could collect themselves fully, and get an understanding of what was going on, John began to bark at them. "Don't just stand there like idiots, set the sails!"

The entire group of men turned and looked at him as if they hadn't understood a word he said. Even Maria gave him a questioning glare, but he dismissed all of them. "Get to work, dammit!"

Slowly and shamefully, the three men went around the ship, fastening the riggings, tightening the knots, checking the sails, and coordinating anything that was regularly done before a journey. They all moved in an odd mood, however, a sense of confusedness and denial among them. Roberts felt as though he was about to throw himself over the banister and let himself drown, the thought that his dreams of running his own ship were being squandered by a fifteen-year-old - not that John wouldn't mind if he did. Not anymore, at least.

As John watched the three downfallen soldiers work about from the helm, he felt with him a transformation, as though he had been reborn. No longer did he feel squeamish, nor did he feel remorseful fr what he put his enemies through. Watching Maria being tortured slowly, emotionally and physically, brought an idea to his mind that he was meant to stand up for himself once in a while. He could feel his skin becoming thicker as he gripped the wheel of the ship for the first time, running his fingers over it. It was incredibly smooth, soft, and easy to the touch. Yet at the same time, it was firm, strong, and empowering, sending a shockwave through him.

When the ship was prepared, John gave Roberts the honor of steering her away from the dock. He seemed to do it in an utterly depressed manner, but John stood right by the wheel, his musket in hand, to make sure Hugh didn't try anything. The soldier easily got the ship away from the dock methodically, trying to hold back from tears as he literally drove away from his dreams. John saw the man grip the wheel tighter as the back of the ship pulled away from the tip of the stone dock, but he tried not to feel bad.

Once they had progressed in to the middle of the harbor, John called for Maria. "Alright, Maria, come and steady the wheel for a minute." As Maria took the wheel from Roberts, John shoved the man away from the helm. "The rest of you, down on the deck! NOW!" he yelled.

The three men stood in a small group in the middle of the main deck, worried as to what was about to happen. They rubbed their hands together feverishly, watching *** John descended down the stairs of the helm with the musket still in hand. Maria tried to watch what was going on over the wheel as John jumped down off the last step, stopping in his tracks. He raised the musket and pointed it at the group of men, causing them all to flinch a little. "Get off." John simply instructed them.

They were confused. "What do you mean?" the fat one asked.

"Get off my damn ship." John told them off, pointing with his free hand over the side of the ship.

The men's eyes widened in shock. "Surely you can't be serious!" Roberts protested.

"Would you prefer if I killed you, and disposed of you in the water?" John asked. It was with that statement he finally realized that he had changed completely from what he had been. He had gone from a peaceful, submissive child, to an aggressive, hardened man, and it felt good. But at the same time, he knew from this point on he was no longer an innocent - he was a criminal.

Slowly, the group of men backtracked to the side of the ship, looking over the banister. They buckled at the knees as they watched the waters splash up against the side of the ship, but just as they prepared to ease over, John called them one final time. "Oh," he said, pointing the barrel of the musket to their still knocked-out ally on the ground, "Don't forget about him, now."

Their friend in tow, the group of men sat themselves on the side of the ship, one leg hanging over the side of the ship, and the other still on the inside (with the exception of their unconscious friend, who had already been ruthlessly tossed in to the ocean.) Just as they prepared to go over, they were knocked violently in to the waters below, slamming in to them at a great, bruising speed. John had swiped the boots of the knocked out soldier and chucked them at the men, hitting the fat one with one boot, and Roberts with the other. The third, a fit yet dumb witted man, jumped off in fear something would hit him too.

John chuckled softly as he placed the musket down on the deck. "Would you look at that, I stole a ship with a gun with no bullets."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Comments? Reviews? You know the drill, mates!


Thanks for reading! :buds:

Not bad for a transition chapter mate! Not bad at all..

Best part was the last bit.That was hilarious.

Okay mates, I have a treat for you!

I was really eager to finish this chapter (mainly because of what is explained in it, and because the next few chapters are going to be huge and action packed.), so I got to work today, and was able to finish it! I hope you all are able to enjoy it - think of it as a gift right before Lady Gaga's new album is released ;)

So, without further adieu, I give thee....


The next few days were on the verge of being both exciting, and perilous. Every minute the pair looked over their shoulders, across the back of the ship, to see if they were being followed. In between chores around the ship, they each would try to reassure the other that they would survive, but neither of them was completely convinced. This was the first time either of them had been completely on their own, and it sent a shockwave of both fear and exhilaration through both of them as they paused, watching a questionable merchant ship sail past them a few miles in the distance. They learned to stand on their toes, and every time the ship creaked, they nearly jolted in to a run.

Maria had told John that she knew of a man by the name of Hernan Jaenada in Cadiz who would be able to help them, and possibly shed light on the situation they were caught in. She remembers meeting him when she was younger, and before her father's wickedness really burned her skin. He was the head of an out-of-touch branch of the Spanish nobility, believed to have gone rogue from the crown a long while ago, yet still managing to stay away from any imperial or military trouble. He had sparked a rivalry with Avaricia, and was positive that if anybody could help them, he could.

It was a rough time handling the ship all to themselves, seeing as how they had only learned through watching from the corner of their eyes. Still, having watched ships go in and out of ports all his life, John had a good grasp of it, and kept the ship out of many binds. Every day that passed, he became more and more protective over the ship, like it hadn't yet fully clicked in his head that it was his. Instead, the thought slowly progressed in to his head with each rise of the sun, and his sense of accomplishment grew with it.

About a week in to their venture, Maria brought up a subject John hadn't even thought about. It happened as John was standing at the helm, gliding the ship through the easy Spanish winds. "You know," she called from the deck of the ship, "it would be a smart idea to rename the ship."

John was in awe of the idea. He knew the ship was his, and it may be dangerous to keep the name, but also knew renaming a ship was like enchanting it with a curse. "I'm not sure... I'd feel like it'd just be a further burden."

"Relax," Maria reassured him. "I know of a way."

The next time they reached port, a small fishing village somewhere on the Northwestern tip of Spain, Maria grabbed a bucket of paint left out on the dock and began to get to work. She instructed John to go find any logs or journals of Rutherford's, or any of the crew mates’s for that matter, and discard them in to the sea. Meanwhile, she began painting over any carving or painting of the ship's name. "We need to wipe the ship out of the Ledger of the Deep, unless you want Poseidon to come hunting for us." she told him.

Once all previous records of the ship were discarded, Maria removed the main board from the back of the ship and placed it on top of a few crates on the small wood dock. "Well, Captain, what shall we name it?"

John took a few minutes to ponder the name of the ship. He had always been fond of the old ship name, but he was even fonder of the new subject of his eye - Maria. Every moment he was around her, he felt consumed in her swaying, graceful presence, like the scent of her sea-washed hair created a high for him.

John grabbed the paint brush, and slowly and delicately created the name of choice. Each stroke had to be perfect, or else it would not do proper justice to it - but when he was finished, he was confident in his work. He and Maria both smiled at the new name of the ship, as they held up the board to get a better look at it in the light.

Once they were ready, Maria grabbed a bottle of champagne from the hull of the ship and met with John at the base of the dock. She went through the entire chant necessary in the ceremony, closing her eyes and holding John's hand as she recited it in an eerily beautiful tone, speaking as mystically as the Oracle at Delphi. She poured half of the bottle in to the ocean, East to West, and then she and John took two heavy swigs of the bottle. It was an odd taste for John, who had never had alcohol before, but he planned to assimilate to it.

Another bottle in hand, Maria recited the second half of the chant, this time replacing the old name of the ship with its new one. She then poured one glass for John, and one for her, and poured the rest in to the ocean, from West to East. After that, she addressed each of the gods of the winds, tossing a little champagne in each of their directions, as though the wind would lap it up like their eternal tongues.

At the completion of the ceremony, John happily revealed the new name on the back of the ship, for all to see. Maria lightly kissed him on the cheek as they walked back onboard the ship, the Maria Darkskull's name glittering in its red paint.

It was just a few days before reaching their destination that they made stop in a small port town to rest. However, an old Spanish crone, who proudly called himself the Harbor Master, pestered the two as soon as they stepped on to the dock to stretch their legs. Maria translated to John that the old man, screaming by his bad hearing, not asked, but demanded what ship John captained.

"I'm Captain of the Maria Darkskull, sir." John told him, to which Maria translated to him.

However, the old man was poor at comprehending their answer. "¿Qué?!" he roared every time they tried to answer. Finally, Maria violently screamed the name of the ship in his face, but the poor man still didn't hear it completely right.

"CAPITÁN DELMARIA DARKSKULL?" he yelled in question. He began to laugh, commenting how silly the name was, but Maria simply chose to ignore him, disgruntled by his lack of comprehension. John, however, thought over the name as they proceeded down in to the marketplace. He liked the sound of it.


May 16th, 1702
Cadiz, Spain
5:50 PM

There was a heavy downpour that drenched the late afternoon, coating it in a rough mist in between the bombardment of water droplets. The rain patted heavily against the gigantic stone dock of the city, which rose up like a great winding hill, far and long away from the bay, to the walled gates of the port. From within, it's magnificent towers, mansions and palaces alike were hidden behind a fog only the likes of the gods themselves could see through, as the rain violently clashed against the stained-glass windows. Waves ten, maybe twenty feet high rose up and smashed in to the long, jagged cliff from which the city on top of, though not themselves reaching the great buildings.

The many plazas of the city, filled with outstanding gothic cathedrals and halls, were flooded with about half an inch of water, pattering up and around as fisherman, merchants, and couriers ran every which way. Even in such a torrential storm did the town still thrive, it's rich heart beating like that on an unhampered giant. In these times, what was one of the centers of the modern world was soon to be transformed in to one of its primal stages, a showcase of economic, political, and military might.

John and Maria sprinted down off the ship as they finished tying down everything, using a few clothes left behind on the ship to protect their heads. Paying no mind to the Spanish guards that hurried them along, they began to sprint up the large stone structure, around it's weaving corners as they nearly slipped between the wetness and the incline. They scurried as giant waves tried to jump over the side of the path, just nearly sweeping them off their feet. If it wasn't for Maria, John would have walked through the rain peacefully - he enjoyed the rain hitting against him.

As they reached the top of the dock, they marveled at the large stone archway that greeted them. At its highest point on the arch, it had to have reached at least thirty feet, towering over the two Spanish soldiers who stood on either side. Two lanterns that sat halfway up its columns illuminated the wide wooden gate, wide open to allow them to walk in to the courtyard before them. It was a small cobblestone square, the palace wrapping tightly around it. In the center was a small fountain, being overflowed by the onslaught of rain. The pair hurried around it, and went right up to the two guards who stood under the little overhang of a small wooden door leading in to the building. "Detener, ¿que van allí?" one of the guards asked, both of them blocking the door by creating an "X" shape with their bayonets.

"Yo soy la hija de la Garcia de Avaricia. Tengo que hablar con Hernan." Maria yelled over roar of the rain. The two guards looked at each other, then stepped aside and opened up the doors, hurrying them inside away from the storm.

Dripping wet from the rain, John and Maria looked down the long, chambered corridor of the building. It was long, with small walls jutting in to separate the parts of the hall, yet no doors were used, allowing them to vaguely see the end of it. The floor, flat and smooth (to the point it was almost slippery) had small black tiles that ran down the middle, like a singular line continuous through each chamber. A wall of windows ran along the left side of the room, flashing the stain-glass depictions of saints every time lightning cracked its whip outside.

As they slowly began to step down the room, the door all the way down the corridor slammed open, and down came it a tall, angry Spanish man. He was tall, a black long coat with golden buckles running down it. He wore a thick black vest, behind it sitting a dark dress shirt, a few buttons undone. As he came closer, John could make out the top of a tattoo, but he was more interested in the glare he was being given than the man's chest. He was a sharp-looking man, a small mustache and goatee on his face. Atop his head, sat a strange hat - it was wide brimmed, black, with a bird's father sticking out the top of the hat.

He slammed his feet as he stopped right in front of the two. He began to yell at them in Spanish, throwing his arms up and jumping his eyes between both of them. John couldn't understand a word of the blunt cursing, but he felt automatically intimidated. It was only when he calmed when Maria held up her hand, and told him who she was.

"...María?" He said, his jaw dropping in awe. "Oh, ¡pobre niña! Vamos, vamos!" he cried to her, ushering the two of them as he jogged back down the corridor.


The room they stood in was just a small room with a single, expansive glass window that looked out over the waters that sat beneath the cliffs of the port. The waves clashed high and mighty as the dark night began to roll in on the port, the winds only becoming stronger and the rain only falling harder. The only thing different from before was the escape of the fog, which now let John see down the coast of the city. Buildings of stone hid behind walls just before the edge of the drop off, trying to hide from weary eyes. Yet the tops of the buildings themselves poked over the walls, and when they did, they were magnificent - domes, spires, and towers alike poked up from the grand feats of the port.

They all looked out the window, staring out to the blank darkness that was the Atlantic. Hernan, who fought through an extremely heavy, fiery Spanish accent when he spoke in English, listened intently as Maria explained what had led them here. She told him of the ambush at the pirate cave, the standoff in the mansion, and their hijacking of the British ship. With each word, Hernan just stood there and nodded, taking in every word.

He turned to John when she was done. "You stole a British ship?" he smirked. "I wish one of my men could do that." He chuckled as he turned back to the mirror.

"We were hoping you could explain to us why Garcia had such interests in the waters he ventures - and, more in particular, why he ordered his men to attack my home." John gritted his teeth a little. The mere thought that Garcia wanted his father killed made him want to snap.

"Ah, yes." Hernan took a very deep breath. "I have known Avaricia for many years - longer than how long you've lived - as both a friend and enemy. I've seen him collaborate nearly every little devious idea of his, and one could say I've studied his inner workings. He's very much an interesting man, to say the least.

"Garcia.... seems to be after a certain object in your father's possession. I myself know this because Garcia has met with your father on numerous occasions to work out certain negotiations and trade deals, many of which are much farther than the extent of the law. But this one time, the one in question, your father did not allow Avaricia to have what he wanted - and I believe I know why.

"You see, my son," Hernan took a quick sip of wine from his glass. "Your father came in to the prospect of earning a very high-valued item on the black market, so pricey that nobody even knew it existed. Your father, by some stretch of the imagination, recovered a journal from the Draque himself - Sir Francis Drake."

John's eyes widened, the thought of his father hiding such a prize from him. "The journal of Sir Francis Drake!? The navigator?"

"And the pirate. The scars he caused to this city can still be seen in the rocks of Cadiz." Hernan pointed out, his voice turning a little cold as he panned his eyes over the coast of the city. "Regardless, your father found it. Avaricia wanted it, but he couldn't get it."

"So what happened the journal?" Maria asked.

Hernan smiled. "Balnette may have turned sour against Garcia - but he could still confide in me." Jaenada reached in to his coat, and pulled out of it a small, black, waterlogged journal. Slowly, he handed it over to John.

Shaking, John took it in his hands. Etched in on the leather cover of the book was carved the name "Francis Drake," so steadily it looked as though it had been imprinted in to the book. He flipped through the book, the pages incredibly tanned and thin. The ink on them was slightly running, but still readable, each stroke of the cursive so quick, yet fine and precise. Each page had a different feature to it - a drawing, a map, a course, and so forth. John felt as though he could read this book to eternity, and still never completely finish it.

Just as Jaenada prepared to speak again, he was startled by the loud bang of a cannon. He ran up to the window, trying to see where it came from, and saw a terrible sight. Off on the horizon, an armada of white-sailed ships, perhaps a hundred of them, loomed towards the city, a few already unloading their cannons on the walls of the city.

"Damn Englishmen...." Jaenada growled.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Big things to come, mates! Be sure to rate and review!

Thanks for reading! :buds:

Thanks for the extra chapter Del! I needed that mate! Great chapter as always, and know we know we got your name and hat, aye? (Im guessing Hernan's hat is yours.)

Nice!Darn cliffhangers...
Anyway, a great chapter mate.

Here at Last
 

I want to thank everybody who follows this story for being so patient this time around. Usually I'm pretty good with typing out chapters - this time, however, not only did I have to type through end-of-the-year chaos, guild events, and a vacation, but I also had to deal with the fact this chapter was a MONSTER.

This is not for the faint of heat - tackle this beast at your own risk! So, my mates, I present to you....


May 16th, 1702
Cadiz, Spain
7:30 PM

The seas churned in a violent surge as the British ship pushed through the waters, encroaching on the city of Cadiz. Their starch white sails flapped in the gales as the downpours of rain slapped themselves in to hats of the red-coated soldiers, who worked tirelessly to feed the heavy iron balls in to the cannons. They yelled at each other, and in between boats, trying to coordinate the attack well enough so that they didn't end up ramming in to each other. A group of thirty ships began to break off to take land at a small fishing village north from the port, while the remaining fleet broke to bombard the city from both sides of the peninsula.

Immersed in the middle of the armada was a large British Indiaman, thick yet slender in design. An army of British crewmen ran back and forth across the deck, scurrying as barrels and crates were lifted up through the openings to the deckhands. At the helm of the ship, underneath a makeshift tent, stood a very plump, proud man, his face more focused on watching and overseeing than participating. Atop his head was an extravagant, pompous powdered wig that curved its way down to his shoulders, where covering his entire body was a long red robe, with golden trimmings. He stroked a white handkerchief that was wrapped around his neck, as he leaned his massive body weight against a cane.

One of his Officers ran up next to him, sending a salute to the careless man before proceeding to speak. "Admiral Sir Rooke, His Grace the Duke says his men are preparing to make their land on Fort St. Catherine and Rota. He insists on you providing naval support so that his men aren't decimated by enemy artillery." The Officer yelled over the rain.

"He comes to me so that I can sacrifice more men on my advance? The Dutch are here for a reason, and if he needs any subordinates than he can find friends in them." The Admiral instructed, keeping his eyes panned on the horizon, where Cadiz stood.

"Admiral Sir, the Duke was very urgent about this. He said they won't make it as far as Port R-"

The Admiral began to protest. "You tell him and the Prince that if they need help, they can go to those damn Dutchmen! I don't need them in my navy in the first place." The Admiral began to walk away from the soldier, in to the rain. "I'm going to my quarters! Tell me when Cadiz is ours!"

Within the Jaenada residence, the noble hurried across an open garden courtyard in the center of his palace, walking straight across the grass, underneath a few trees planted inside it as the rain began to trickle down from the roof of the home, and the leaves. He busted through a dark wooden door on the other side, leading in to a large, stone, circular room.

John and Maria entered in behind him, daunted by the sight as Hernan began to storm up the wooden staircase that followed the side of the room. They stood within a magnificently tall lighthouse, about a few feet less than a hundred high. It was wide, and slowly became narrower as it rose. They looked around before speeding after the nobleman, who had already taken off up the steps.

John ran up behind him on the narrow path, followed by Maria. "Please tell me all of those ships aren't after us and this book." John said, waving it in front of himself as to gesture to it.

"No no no," Jaenada said as he pounded his feet up the staircase. "This is our own war that you two have stumbled in to. A war of politics, greed, and self-gain, that shouldn't be happening right now if man cared for his fellow man. It's a war for power and power alone, and every master to his dirtiest servant has to fight so somebody else can take it." Hernan rioted as he walked faster and faster towards the top of the staircase. "If the Bourbons wouldn't have brought our country to this, then I wouldn't be standing here, fighting for somebody I don't support. This is Spain, DAMMIT!" He slammed his fist against the wood railing. "Maldición de los Borbones, todos y cada uno."

They finally reached a door on the roof, which led them out to the top of the lighthouse. It was a circular space with no walls, stone beams supporting a cone-like roof to the structure. Running around it was a large group of Spanish Officers, yelling back and forth as they looked over the situation. Being so high up provided a much more dramatic touch to the scene - an armada of British and Dutch ships shooting off their cannons towards all three sides of the city that were exposed by the water, erupting chaos down below in the city. Buildings began to collapse and fires ripped through the town as men, women, and children ran through the streets, trying to find a refuge from the attacks. Some of them banged on the doors of the church, though it itself was under attack. Some tried to break in to the homes of the other high-class merchants and officials, but they were either beaten back or shot at by their personal guards. The fire of the lighthouse, which shined bright in the center of the room, seemed like the only beacon of hope in this darkness.

Jaenada ran to the far side of the lighthouse and caught himself on the edge, looking out over the ship-infested Atlantic. Schooners, Corvettes, Cutters, Frigates, Galleons, and even a few Indiamen and Rates swarmed towards the city, making Hernan nearly buckle at the knees. "Alguien encontrar Marqués y dile que conseguir su acto juntos. Si tanto como ver una casaca roja en mi ciudad...." Hernan slammed his fist on the ledge of the lighthouse. He pointed down at the end of the long stone dock, where the Maria Darkskull wavered next to a few ships. "Obtener algunos hombres hacia abajo en los barcos!"

Maria gasped in anger as the men near Jaenada ran past her. "Usted no puede hacer eso, ese es nuestro barco!" she roared at him.

Hernan turned right around to her, grabbing her by the arms. "En estos momentos nuestras vidas son más importantes que su vuelo!" Maria flinched at his voicing yelling in his face, so he backed up a little bit. He looked at John, so he could talk to both of them. "Listen, both of you need to get out of her. Right now, we need to focus on organizing our defenses. Do not leave the city - you don't know what those dogs will do to you if they catch you. Find an abandoned home, tavern, building, and barricade yourselves in there until the first siege ends. Understood?"

Maria and John looked at each other. They were afraid as to what their fates would be, waiting here to be eaten alive by the British, but they had no other option. They nodded in agreement, and Jaenada nodded back. "Good."

Just as the two of them turned their backs to hurry back down the lighthouse, they were called on one more time. "Wait!" he called to them. They turned to see Hernan pull from his side a small dagger, gold and slim at the hilt, twisting like the trunk of an ancient tree, and a curved blade, like that of a snake. He flipped it in his hand, so that the blade sat in his palm and the handle faced John. "Take this for now. I'd give you a sword, but I don't want to leave myself unarmed."

John took the dagger in his hand, feeling it cruise through the air with almost no effort. "Gracias." he bowed his head to Hernan, thanking him with the only Spanish word he knew.

Jaenada patted John on the shoulder and sent them off. "Godspeed, chicos."


The cannon fire from the seas, the rapid explosions and shockwaves, could only be seen at this point as they flew over the city and crashed in to one of the nearby buildings. But it did not take sight to understand the sense of the moment - the very vibrations that rocked as the iron balls shot through the air chilled you to the bone, at the same moment it sent a pulse through your body with each rumble. Even after about an hour of the initial fire, with the shots becoming less and less frequent, the state of the port remained the same - lost, chaotic, and dark.

John held on to Maria's hand as he led her through the cobblestone streets of Cadiz, staying away from the main avenues, as they were quick to become overflowing with people and sites of a riot. They stayed to the smaller roads that avoided cutting through the squares, hidden under the shadows of the churches and estates that loomed dominantly over the city. Even they, however, were easily filled with a few people; the two of them were walking in the heart of Cadiz, away from the Isla de Leon, where only the most elite officials and merchants lived. Therefore, the main part of the city itself was quite small, but bustling none the less, as though it were in a paradox of sorts.

They finally reached a small tavern on the outskirts of a small square, with a babbling fountain in the middle. Without taking a moment of delay, they bursted through the doors - to an odd sight. The bar was set across from them, along the wall, with a little seating area to its right before the back entrance, and an area before them filled with tables and chairs. A staircase to the right of the door led up to a small seating area with two tables on the second floor, which then exited off to a hallway. The walls were lined with maps, displays of national affection, and so forth, which would be expected. However, it wasn't this that they were interested in - it was the people in the tavern.

Sitting on the tables, on the bar, and across the floor, huddled and in the fetal position, were a few dozen people. Most of them seemed as though they were meant for dresses and frills, with their lean, beautiful faces and their high-class fragrances and makeup. Instead, however, they were dressed in leisure clothes and nightgowns, curled in fear with their families as they uncertainly looked up at the two who had entered. Whether the sight was dreadful, or pathetic, was debatable.

One man, a burly, unshaven man stood up from the back of the tavern came strutting towards them. His powerful appearance almost made John back off a little, but he knew how to handle himself now. The man approached in a violent manner, but when he took notice of John - his skin color, his facial features, and how he poised himself - he became even more angry. "Englishman!" he yelled, reaching out to grab him.

As the man yelled it, the entire tavern began to rile themselves. Some, especially the women and children, began to flinch and cower in fear, while some of the men nearly jumped to their feet in action, pulled back by their wives. And as this happened, the Spaniard latched out a large hand, grabbing John forcefully and preparing to pull him in for a lesson. But as this happened, John's actions fell to instinct, with no use of thought. He plunged his hand to his side, grabbing the dagger and pointing it straight in the man's throat.

At that point, the entire tavern broke out in hysteria. Women began praying, children started to cry, and men tried frantically to reassure their families it would be alright, fighting back their own fear. The burly man let go of John, and backed away slowly, raising his hands in the air in an innocent surrender. John looked around the bar at the disarray in the room, and threw his hands in the air. "QUIET!" he shouted gruffly at the top of his lungs.

The entire room hushed themselves at the resounding of his voice. Although they did not understand him, they knew what he had meant for. John turned to Maria, and nodding to her, meaning she would translate for him. He mustered up a good orating voice, cleared his throat, and prepared to speak - instead, however, he was interrupted.

From the second floor of the tavern, on the balcony above, came the slow walk of two powerful, heavy boots. The crowd that sat there, before the railing, turned to see who was passing by. Over the tops of their heads, John could faintly make out the silhouette of a large, flimsy Admiral’s hat, a wide array of feathers peaking up from the top. As the shadowy figure approached the top of the staircase, John could see the man clear, as the rest of the room’s eyes followed to him.
A tall, lanky man stood there, the heavy, gigantic hat tipping just over his brow. Dreadlocks from underneath the hat reached down just at his shoulders, following alongside a very young, yet rusted face. He looked very stern for this age – roughly in his mid-twenties – but that was more than likely due to what he had seen in his life, judged by how he was dressed. A long redcoat hung down his body, layered beneath it with shirts, medals, beads, and other various trinkets. For a moment, John was reminded of the pirate who had abducted him from his home, but by now that memory had become ineffective to him. The man was very gruff in what he said, gargling through a rough voice, “Who the ‘ell are you?”

“John Ba-“ John caught himself. He had given his name away to too many sources by now – for all he knew, the man before him could shoot him pleasantly in the face. “Captain Delmaria Darkskull. And you?”

The man stepped down the steps of the staircase. He tilted his head just a bit to the side, to slide the hat off of his gaze. “Del-mar-ee-uh Dark-skull, hm? Peculiar name…. sounds like a pirate name, if you ask me.”

“Pirate? No, no sir, not I.” John shook his head, starting to fear the man before him was a soldier in disguise.

“Don’t act like such a tomfool around me, boy, it’s not something to be ashamed of.” He said, by now standing right before John and Maria. “I’m a friend to you here, and let that be assured.” He outreached his hand, as to shake John’s. “Lord Edward Teague, of Madagascar.”

John was weary to shake the man's hand. The heavy aurora of booze that wavered off of his coat was almost overpowering if not for it being damped by some sort of high priced, presumably stolen perfume. He looked too young to be entirely villainous, yet he still gave off that sort of vibe he meant trouble. Yet John knew that he had no other option to go towards - though the noose was always the safe way out, he didn't want to be safe in this situation. He returned the motion, his hand crushed by a powerful handshake from the end of the hand.



Days turned in to weeks within the tavern, as the siege of Cadiz began to become less explosive with th settings of the sun. Still, every few hours or so, a few shots would be fired over in to the middle of the city, often just landing blankly in one of the side streets, or a pile of rubble from an already destroyed area of town. Yet there were times where it came down upon a new target, or even came dangerously close to striking the tavern - just a few days after they had settled here had a cannonball struck down a blacksmith across from them. Regardless, they stayed intact, as though a malevolent shield was over them to protect them.

Some of the residents felt they were capable of going away from the tavern and returning to the households they abandoned, assuming that the worst of the attacks was over. Yet many of those who left - about half of those previously dwelling within - were met with unmistakably bad fortune. Take, for example, Richardo Albertino, a very high-priced merchant who lived in a nice, cozy estate on the southern end of the city. When the attacks began, he took him and his family, one wife, two mistresses and five children, to take hold within the tavern, leaving behind all of his loyal servants and accountants to fend for themselves. When he chose to return, his men locked the gates and doors and attacked his entire family in the courtyard before their home, beating all nine of them to death with brooms, buckets, books, and rocks.

Regardless, the tavern had become much more spacious, peaceful, and orderly, allowing for a small pecking order of organization to develop. John was chosen to oversee functions in the tavern, from the hand of Teague, who saw that things would "be better managed under a boy than under a group of greedy trade mongers." John was there to make sure rations collected from deserted stores from across the port (a few pieces of bread, a glass of water, and a glass of wine a day per person) was handed out equally, that quarrels remained at a minimum, and under no circumstances was anybody allowed into the tavern.

In the down time within the tavern, which came frequently, John and Maria developed a mutual relationship, in which they would both gain from one another - John would use all his knowledge of swordplay to teach Maria how to defend himself, and in return, she would teach him how to speak Spanish. And as John passed on his limited footwork to Maria, Teague himself had picked up off where John's self-tutoring aboard Commodore Rutherford's ship had left off.

And, least to say, the Captain was brutal on him. From morning until night, in between his session's with Maria and keeping order, Teague would mercilessly push John to the limit. He would often find something double the amount John could properly lift, then tie it to his back with a rope and force him to stand on top of a barstool, on his toes. "The key to defending yourself is finding a balance to work off of under extreme conditions. You'll be hard-pressed to not find a fight where you have to keep going when your body tells you not too." Other times, he would duel with Teague himself, who was a much better fighter than he looked like behind that ridiculous clothing of his. In their first fight, it only took him about fifteen seconds to disarm John - by the end of the first week, he had worked himself up to forty.

At the end of one of his first practices, Teague lead John in to the back room behind the main area of the tavern, just next to the bar. It was empty in this small room, aside from a few crates and large barrels where the supplies were stored. Teague reached behind a small stack of crates, and pulled out a thin, shining cutlass. The blade was much thinner than his previous sword, with a slightly smaller curve. It moved lighter in the air than his previous sword, and instead of being a rusted mess, it had a clear glimmer off of its spotless steel face - maybe this one wouldn't get lost if dropped in to the water. "That was my sword at one point." Teague said, watching the boy play with it in his grasp. "Simple, I know - but sometimes simplicity is all you need."

And while John couldn't get over the fact the man probably got rid of this sword because it didn't cut bone fast enough, he knew behind his rugged appearance, one could find a peaceful, tender soul. One night in to their third week, when John believed everybody had gone to sleep, he heard a fiery, yet passionate noise coming from the little sitting area above the tavern. There, with his feet propped up on the table, sat the Captain with a small flamenco guitar cradled in his lap. He ran his fingers up and down the instrument furiously, yet in such a light way that it all felt connected, smooth, and without effort. The song he played was that of a dance of love, swirling through the air carefree and magically, like the gypsies from whom it originated.

John felt himself draw to the second floor, stepping slowly up the steps. He stood behind Teague, who was just about reaching an explosive end to the song. When he finished, the strings ringing through the room, he spoke over his shoulder. "I'm not sure what I should call it. It’s part of this new type of music that originated here in Spain.... perhaps.... the Malagueña will do."

“That was quite beautiful.” John said, awe-struck.

“Gypsy music, it is. When language barriers are too much of a border between two groups, they demonstrate where they are from by their music. I picked this little beauty up from a travelling caravan of gypsies from Malaga.”

John nodded for no reason, walking around Teague to sit at the chair adjacent from him, on the other side of the table. It sat right before the railing, giving him a good view of the camp of people who slept silently on the floor, wrapped in thin wool blankets. As he looked out over the dark room, John asked “How much longer do you think this will last?”

Teague took his guitar and sat it down on the floor next to his chair, shrugging. “Could be days, weeks, months before we even see the light of day. It all depends on how badly the British want to get a good start on this war."

“Food supplies are getting low. I don’t know if we’ll last by next week.” John shook his head, looking down over the tavern. His eye was caught on Maria, who even slept gracefully on the floor, her breathing easy and steady. He sighed.

“The girl, Maria, you care for her, don’t you?”Teague nodded.

John looked at him, mystified. “I ca- well, I- How did you know?”

Teague chuckled. “Have you not learned by now? I can tell these things.” He took a sip from a mug that sat on the table. His voice became very hushed. “The sparkle that she ignites in your eyes is one I’ve never seen out of something outside of love.”

John stayed silent. Perhaps it had become very apparent of his feelings for Maria – he had fallen for her as the sun falls for the stars, except she shined brighter. He was unsure of how to go forward, though, as he was reluctant to draw towards her, should something happen to him.

Teague continued once more. “Delmaria is based off of her name, isn’t it?” he said.

“It may not be my own name, but it might as well from henceforth. I’ve destroyed my old one to the point that even shuttering it in an open port would get me shot.” John ranted, trying to keep his voice low.

Teague chuckled again. “That’s the magic of recreating yourself, as a pirate.” Teague reached in his to pocket, and pulled out an old circle of metal, roughly coin sized, covered in dirt. He held it up in between his thumb and his middle finger before John. “Men like you and I are like this coin. Damned and condemned by the qualities that society has casted us aside for. We have been beaten, cursed and tainted to the point we can’t even see ourselves anymore. But, when one man devotes his life to the sea…” Teague began to rub the coin in between his fingers, scrapping off a layer of dirt to reveal a small glimpse of gold underneath. “…He is reborn, in such a free and magnificent form that no man can put in to words."

Without another word, Teague stood up, flipping the coin is to John’s lap. As John picked it up, rubbing off more and more dirt, Teague walked down the hallway leading over to the few bedrooms housed in the tavern, saluting a good night.

The night after Teague and Delmaria spoke, Delmaria woke up to a loud commotion coming from beneath him. He woke abruptly in his chair, where he had fell asleep, to see that a group of men had forced themselves in to the tavern. Delmaria grabbed his dagger and ran down the staircase, stopping at the bottom step just as the rest of the bar awoke in shock. “Speak now! Who are you?” he yelled pointing the dagger at the five men. They were dressed much like a British soldier, except their red shirt was accompanied by gold instead of white, and were covered by a blue long coat.

Before they answered, Teague’s voice, which hushed the room, came clambering down, behind, and past him. “Easy, boy. They’re friends.” The pirate stuck his hand out to calm Delmaria. He then turned his attention to the head of the group, a tall, very angry-looking man with a short yet thick head of hair hanging down from his head. “It’s about time, Fajardo.”

The man scoffed. “I should have known you’d be here! What are you here for, holding all of this innocent people hostage?”

“More like defending them in their time of need, when you weren’t. I suppose the Spanish are more than happy about cowering under their beds while innocents die, yes?”

“We have been doing the fighting, rat! Unlike you, who has been hiding here in this tavern, it took my men two weeks just to get here!”

“Cartwheeling, I assume?” Teague laughed. In response, Francisco spat on the ground. Teague, whose boot was hit by the demonstration, tensed his face and jumped forward to try and attack the Spaniard, but was held back by a quick-reflexed Delmaria.

“Now, are you going to help us, or not?” The Spaniard said, stepping back comfortably amongst his men.

“I suppose we don’t have much of choice. May we at least know how we are going to die?” Edward smiled sarcastically.

Fajardo pulled out a rolled up, crinkled map from his inside coat pocket, which he revealed to be a miniature version of Cadiz, and lands surrounding it. “The British have made their foot advance along the coast parallel to the Cadiz peninsula to Fort St. Matagorda, which will give them an even distance of attacking the adjacent Fort, St. Lawrence, and marching straight to Cadiz. I managed to get a few open ships to slip down to one of the remaining docks just east of this tavern, which we can fill up with your men and send them off to fight back the British. If all goes as planned, we can reverse the tide.”

Teague nodded. “Prepare the ships. We’ll be right there.” Teague turned to the bar, and began barking orders in Spanish, causing all the men to jump to their feet to answer the call of battle. They began to run about, collecting their things, while women and young children clung and shrieked so that they may not go.

Amidst the confusion and chaos, Delmaria was interrupted as he gathered his stuff by Maria, who grabbed his arm. “Please don’t tell me you’re throwing yourself in to the fray.”

Delmaria shook her off and continue to organize his things, throwing small pieces of ammunition foraged from the back of the tavern in to the pocket in his sailor pants. “I’m not letting all of this go to waste. If the British want to hang me, then I need to fight back.” A little magic and tingling sensation accompanied that phrase, realizing that he really was about to go to war, as a man.

Caught in the moment, he turned to Maria, grabbing her arms. “I’m not so much doing this for myself, as I am for the both of us.”

Maria was flustered, but she still objected. "Well... you simply can't expect me to fend for myself here! What if you don't come back!?"

Delmaria hushed her, putting a finger over her lips. "Promise me you'll stay safe." He whispered, still carrying his voice over the screaming and yelling in the room.

"Bu-bu-" Maria stammered, but Delmaria hushed her again. She saw something in his eyes. No more was he that quiet foregrounder that she had met not too long ago. He reflected confidence in his eyes.

Maria nodded quietly, and held herself close to Delmaria. For a moment, he could feel her heart beat against his, strong and pulsating. “Be careful.” She whispered.
Delmaria held her forehead to his, rubbing his hand on the hair on the back of her head. What was once pampered, clean and straight had become dirtied and curled, but nevertheless she was more beautiful than the gem of the highest sheen.


June 13th, 1702
Bai Von Puntales, Cadiz, Spain
11:20 PM

Teague had intercepted Delmaria as the small militia of men from the tavern began to ferry themselves down towards the far walls of the city, where the docks shrouded in night shadow sat. Edward walked by him, and as he did, grabbed the boy’s sleeve and tugged him violently as he continued, letting go not to simply drag him, but give him the implication he was to follow him. In this, Delmaria nodded as quickened his pace, keeping his view focused on the small Flamenco guitar that was strapped to the man’s back.

It was a quiet, humid night, a simple breeze pressing on a few clouds that glaciered across the black glistening sky. The sounds of the city had longed been hushed, so the silence was expected, and not as uncomfortable and awkward as those moments you feel as a room falls silent halfway through a conversation. In fact, the only thing that came as a shock was the sound of noise itself – the whistle and howl of the wind whipping through the battered streets, the rolling and writhing of the ocean waves as they came up on the Cadizan walls, before receding back to plan for a next assault, much like the British.

They were brought to a small opening in the wall, though it was more of a large crevice at the end of a dead road than anything else. They passed in between the chipped, narrow sides, and stood on a lengthy yet thin strip of bare dirt than rose like a cliff against the stone walls of the city. Before them , five poorly constructed wooden docks, much like those you would see in small fishing villages of the South Asian Third-World, rose down to the seas, where two ships sat before one large, wavering beneath a massive galleon.

The galleon itself was a daunting sight. Painted black, it blended in so strongly with the night that its massive hull could only be detected by a sharp eye seeing the contrast of it with its background. Giant masts rose up the sky to pierce it, like sharp daggers that plunged themselves in to its stomach. It was wide, and seemed like a heavy ship – but at the same time, it gave to you the sense it was agile as it was powerful, outrunning any ship that should try to pursue her. Teague smiled happily as he saw his ship, as though for the first time, and pointed to her name written on the back – the “Wicked Wench.”

They stammered down the dock, heading towards the ships in a flurry of eager men waiting to assume their dooms in honor. Only Delmaria was picked out of the group to follow Teague, so he automatically assumed he and Teague might be sailing out alone. This all changed, however, as they reached the end of the dilapidated dock, where from the side of the ship a few dozen men stared down at them.

They hung from the masts, the ropes, the nets, and the railings, all staring down at the boy and the pirate. Some were as young as ten, and others were as old as fifty, their individual experience and valor judged by the stains and cracks that lined their faces. They were wrapped in rags and torn linens that hung loosely down from their shoulders, dirtied vests, crew tanks and other strange yet poor wear the norm among them. They were all stern as a wall, and the thickness of the crowd, which lined the entire side of the ship was almost an emotional sight. Their tear ducts had run dry, each and every one of them here because they wanted to spend their limited time on earth fighting for something. They weren’t ready to die – just waiting.

Teague pounded his boots on the starch black deck, yelling at his crew, “Don’t just stand there! Places to go, people to see! Move!”

The flood of men instantly dispersed, running to their respective spots across the ship. As the organized confusion burst out across the ship, Teague walked towards the tall, towering, disconnected staircase that led up to the helm of the ship. Delmaria still couldn’t comprehend the greatness of the ship, but that didn’t distract him from hearing what Teague had to say as he strode ahead. “Do not automatically assume the nobility of my crew by misconception – my crew is one that fights to run, not one that runs to fight. We are not a mindless crew that lives off of blood, and I pride myself in that. A pirate should have as much dignity and conduct as that of an Englishmen.” Teague hurried up the staircase, and turned himself right up to the large, dark steering wheel, just as the massive sails of the ship fell open like black tidal waves falling down from the sky. As the ship kicked forward in the window, Teague called out, “SILENCE! Bring out the darkness!”

One by one, the lanterns that hung on the edge of the ship were blown out, submerging the ship in an enclave of darkness. For a moment, Delmaria felt as though he was not so much aboard a ship as he was mystically drifting through the night, by how well the ship blended in to the bleak atmosphere of the open waters. Over the side, Delmaria could see only a few miles ahead of the ship the outline of a stout fort on the flat horizon before them.

The fort had obviously undertaken a beating judging by the scars on its walls only a few days after it’s capture. Small holes, cracks, and fire stains littered any visible area of the fort, although it wasn’t much. The fort was short in height, about thirty feet off the ground, though it was more than likely built further inward than it was upward. From a flagpole that sat square in the middle atop the front wall, wavered a tattered British flag in the wind.

Approaching the building, Teague reached in to his pocket with his free left hand and pulled out a small white handkerchief, waving it above his head in a counterclockwise circle. This motioned for the two ships at the Wench’s side to prepare to turn to the left, which they did in the slightest and smoothest of motions. Delmaria turned his vision around to the right side of the ship so he could further view the fort, and it was from then that he realized just how close they were to the fort, it being less than a quarter of a mile away from them.

For just a brief moment, the crew was left in to take in the remainders of the silence, it possibly being the last that they would experience. Teague looked to his right, then to his left, and then looked out over the ship. “OPEN FIRE!”

The sheer force of the initial explosion was enough to send Delmaria rocking back to the railing behind him, the feeling of the ship tilt for just a brief moment under the cannon fire. The force of sixteen twelve-pound cannons unloading on to the fort might not have been much for an accustomed sailor, but it was enough to give Delmaria a startle reminiscent of the fire time he heard the dreadful sound.

As the three ships unloaded mercilessly on the fort, which had just begun to fire back in a laughably bad and disorganized manner, Teague motioned to his First Mate to take the wheel from him. He passed by Delmaria, and once again tugged him by the shirt as he passed (this seemed to be a normality of the man) telling “The battle has begun, my boy! Follow me to the dinghies!”

“But, Captain, I only have a pistol! Surely you must be joking?” Delmaria cautiously questioned as he followed Teague down the stairs.

Teague turned to Delmaria, and said simply, “Then you better know how to use it damn well, aye?”

The crew Teague had picked out of the chaos aboard the ship piled in to two dinghies, Delmaria jumping carefully in to the one the Captain had piled in to. It tipped back and forth unstably as the last pirate jumped in to the boat, and for a moment, Delmaria had a flashback to his experience just prior with the Rutherfords. He remembered the blood and the smoke on his face as he was forced in to the small boat... it was right after one of his first murders.

One of his first. It resonated in his head, the thought that he was starting to keep count of how many men died at his hands. What would the tally be by next month? Next year? In five years? If there was a man that lived in a cell inside his mind, would he begin to run out of places on the wall to etch in how many he'd killed? To think it was becoming an afterthought, it sickened him. It was at this point he started to once again question what he had become.

And this questioning blocked his vision up to the point he hadn't realized they reached the base of the cliff. The small boat crashed in to a small opening that was sandwiched in between two large patches of rocks, which quickly narrowed to a single-file path that snaked up the steep, rocky hill towards an opening that sat on the side of the fort. The men around Delmaria began to push him around like a doll to get to the path, almost with eagerness in their eyes. Did they really want to die? Was this the life that Delmaria was soon to live?

He was the last one to slowly stumble out of the dinghy, besides Teague, who watched him as he went about exiting. Delmaria tried to ignore everything that was around him, though - the explosions of the cannons, the shouts and howls from the inside of the fort, and the stone glare of Edward - so that he may concentrate on simply surviving the remainder of this brutal battle. He figured the fault of most was that they caught themselves in the midst of battle, and more importantly, in themselves.

Delmaria began to climb up the hard rock incline, his feet pounding under pressure. He caught up quickly to the line of pirates, who were pushing one by one through the small hole they were climbing through on the side of the fort wall. When it came Delmaria's turn, he threw his arms through and practically dove through the opening, though his flawless entry was interrupted by the fact he landed flat on his face. Still, he stammered to his feet, waiting to see what was going on.

The fort was a flat plain, with four thin walls surrounding it. It looked almost like an arena of sorts, with dozens upon dozens of pirates fighting against dozens of red coats. It was a sight to behold, the battle carrying on in individual fights scattered all across the fort.

Delmaria couldn't help but feel the rush of battle run through him, charging at the back of one of the soldiers. He ran up right behind him and cut the British man down the back, his red blood just adding a dark menace to his uniform. He yelped in pain as he slinked to the ground, and normally Delmaria felt compelled to help him. But not today - today, Delmaria was not fighting for another man, but for himself. And perhaps a selfish idea, but it was enough justification to let himself lose.

Though not engaging directly in to combat, he was a strong ally. He would run across, trying to dodge the battle, as he would cut and chop his sword in to the skin and limbs of anything that wore red. He was a blur in the battle, swinging and gutting so quickly that he hadn't a drop of blood on him. But he could feel his weapon picking away at every enemy, soldier, and officer, with no discrimination other than doing his best to not harm his fellow pirate.

And it felt good, too. He had found a medium to relieve himself of the stress that had built up in him, and each and every blow and strike had a little piece of his soul riding on it. He could feel himself feeling better and better every time he heard the drop and gash of blood, and from this, his doubts once again became an afterthought. It was as though here, on the battlefield, he became a new person - an evil person.

But his hell and fury came to an abrupt halt. He felt his legs knocked out from under him, sending him throttling to the ground. His sword stuck out in front of him, causing the hilt to jam in to his stomach as he fell, knocking the wind out of him. He twisted his pain-stricken abdominal as he thudded on the ground, trying to gain a sense of where he was.

His eyes locked on to a torn redcoat uniform, bayonet in hand, trudging towards him. He tried to get up, but he had no energy left in him, so he just fell back on to his rear. The soldier began to raise his bayonet menacingly, so in desperate action, Delmaria threw his sword up in the air to block the blow. But the soldier wouldn't let that get in his way - he hit the sword away with the barrel of his gun, and then raised up the tip, plunging it down towards the boy.

Delmaria felt the sharp metal point dive straight in to his left leg, digging in to his left thigh just in the middle of the muscle. He could feel the blood vessels throb as the blood ran out and on to the ground - and he screamed a loud, echoing scream, half in pain, and half in fear. He knew that he was trapped - he couldn't walk any further.

The soldier gritted his teeth and pulled the weapon out, pulling it back to go in for the final blow. Delmaria thought that the idea of how stupid his recklessness was would be such a terrible last thought - such a pitiful way to die. He tried to crawl away, but it was useless - some pirate he was. The pain was starting to take hold - his vision was becoming darker and darker. He prepared to be consumed.

Just then, the soldier paused. His face tangled and stretched in pain, before he dropped his bayonet right on the floor. Before the man's body even hit the ground, it was pushed violently aside like a rag doll, nearly spiraling through the air. The last thing Delmaria Darkskull saw before he passed out was a cloak - a heavy, leather cloak, pushing towards him. He felt a pair of thick swordsman's gloves scoop him up, the smell of Spanish spices faintly resonating in the air.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

FINALLY.

Well mates, now that that is over, I'm pleased to announce I will be able to keep up with posting once again. So, look forward to seeing more posts on here more frequently!

You know I love all those comments and reviews, so post them! Thanks, mates!

Oh good lord, what will Crest say!?


That took a LONG while to read. Good chapter mate! And yes, we are even for not posting in a while. ;)

O.O that was long.And exciting.And cliffhanging....aghhh cliffhangers!But epic chapter mate!

So, I was nice with chapter - made it nice and short :)

And so, to make this introduction short as well, I give you....



The city was quiet underneath the dawn of the early morning. Smoke from the battle's end was still settling over, passing in between the orange and purple clouds that fluttered over the horizon in a silent migration from side to side across the sky. The wind carried the warm whispers of the morning far - today was going to be warmer than usual, it told you. It wanted to tell you to watch out for a thunderstorm later that night, though it would only last for a few moments. It wanted to tell you to be wary of a shift in the tide, not large enough to throw you off course but large enough to leave you confused for a few moments. And it wanted to tell you that the wind may pick up now and then, and that you should make sure that anything light enough to drift away should secured, but that was not the case for today. No, today was different.

The streets of Cadiz were quieted under the whispers of the wind, expecting that knowledge would flow along them. But, not today - not because the wind had become lazy, nor because it was misinformed. Today was a day where the day itself took a backseat to what it stood for - today, nothing seemed to have as much of an importance as it usually did. Today, nobody would bicker over how increasing tax rates would slowly kill the people of the peninsula. Nobody would bargain over getting that bushel of food for just a coin or two less, or debate over which duke had a better duchess as his pair. Politics, economics, and all those things which we revolve our lives around took a breath for today.

What the people of Cadiz had forgotten in their systematic, bureaucratic lives was that not all the details of life were their necessities. Perhaps their lives had become too important, and too busy to remember that perhaps the occasional recognition of the others around us was more important than a torn lace on one's finest dress. Perhaps the glitter of one's rings had become a much more pressing matter than the glitter in a child's eyes. And perhaps the routes of ships entering and exiting port had become more exciting than first steps or words - but, I digress.

Yes, the people of Cadiz had certainly lost themselves within themselves. Or should I say, in the shadows of their former selves - for the pleasures of life had lost their simplicity, and though that may be related directly to the loss of simplicity in itself, why would one want to match their pleasures on the same levels as their strains and difficulties?

But at least the people of Cadiz, for today, would return to themselves for this day. They came back this day to clean up the remains of their homes; to clean the blood and the dirt from their wounds; and to carry the bodies of the dead to the sea, as even the cemeteries had been ruined, destroyed, or burned. Perhaps now the husbands who carried their wives would remember to think of them, or perhaps the women who carried their child would remember a nurse can only come as close to a mother as a friend can. And yet, most of them were too late at all.

So perhaps now the men and women of Cadiz will appreciate what they have not from where they are now, but for what they always have had.



Throbbing was the first sense that returned to Delmaria as he regained consciousness, beating like a miniature heart in his forehead at first. Then, as his senses strengthened, he felt the pain in his leg - or the vague area where his leg felt like it was. It took him a while to realize he was awake, but when he did, he didn't want to - even trying to open his eyes gave him a drilling, pestering pain, as if small weights were strapped to his eyelids.

Eventually, however, he began to open his eyes, slowly so that he could ease out of the blurriness that usually comes after a long sleep. But it was dark still - he was not blind, affirmed by waving his hand in front of his face. But it seemed as though the room that he was in had no light, with dark grey walls enclosing on no light or sound. Slowly Delmaria sat up, rubbing his eyes to confirm that they were not fooling him.

But they were correct - and he was not sitting up on a bed, but a wooden table, carvings and marks cutting all over it. It had designs and symbols dug in to it roughly, mainly crosses and other religious symbols. He had a few splinters sticking in to his skin, which he easily pulled out before investigating the small stone room.

It was only after removing the final piece of wood from his body did he realize that the wall to his back was not a stone wall, consisting of heavy, stoic bricks like the other three walls, but instead a wall of steel bars. He turned to look at them, rusted and cracked, giving away to a hallway much better lit. It was a wide yet short hallway, cutting to the left and around the corner. Torches on both sides of the hallway sat next to two cells roughly like that of Delmaria's, one on either side, though he judged by the silence that they were vacant. At the end of the short hallway, before the turn, there was a little cut in where stacks of crates and boxes sat. They had black writing on the side of them, though Delmaria could not see because of the dim orange light the fires provided.

It was after a few minutes of silence did Delmaria finally hear something. Around the corner of the hallway came the patter of light footsteps, tapping along the dingy cobblestone. Delmaria waited anxiously to see who was coming, but seeing as how it sounded far off, he took a few moments to study his room. It was blank still, except for a strange sight - despite being in a jail cell, his sword and pistol sat quietly in the corner, polished and with a bag of ammunition sitting quietly below them. He scratched his head in confusement as he stepped off the table to go gather his things, when he felt something wrapped tightly around his leg, which still pained him. He lifted his pant leg, leaning his backside up on the edge of the table, and saw that a fresh linen bandage was wrapped around where the wound was supposed to be, obviously coated in some sort of heavy liquid.

It was by this time he heard the patter of footsteps turn down towards him, so he wobbled around to see who was coming. It was one of those cloaked figures yet again, a brown, leather coat hanging down their body, with a hood tucked over their head, shading their face. In between the cloak, on the body, was what looked like a long, light purple vest, with elegant golden lining.

The figure came right up to the bars of the cell, lifting their head of a little just to look up and down Delmaria. Expecting a deep, mysterious man's voice, he was instead met with a kind, lightly accented voice. "Good, you're awake." it sighed in relief. The figure lifted up its hood, revealing a woman, somewhere in her late twenties. Her brown eyes smiled at Darkskull as he reached over to the side of the cell, a key in hand, leaning towards the lock of the steel door. It creaked and clanked as the keys turned within, slowly opening the old, rusted door.

Delmaria watched confused as she stepped back from the cell, waiting for him to respond. She gave off the same weary aurora as did Teague when he first met him, though he assumed that could be a good thing. He began to turn to the back corner to fetch his stuff, when her voice called from behind. "That won't be necessary."

Delmaria turned curiously, now starting to fiercely question her credibility. "And why is that?"

"No need to be rude, Mr. Balnette, but weaponry is strictly forbidden where we are going. I promise none of the shadows will jump at you." She lifted up the sides of her cloak, better revealing what was underneath. Running across a royal purple vest with rich golden branches cutting over and across the torso was an array of sashes and belts, though no weapons were visible. "Just follow me, aye?"

Delmaria shivered. "I'm not a 'Balnette' any more.... but... aye..." He hobbled out of the cell slowly, making sure to keep a safe distance from the woman in question.

He was led back up the small hallway and then around the corner, proving to just be a further extension of a network of similar ends. The cells persisted to be one on either side, and one at the end wall before cutting over either left or right, which often walked the two under a heavy metal gate, its points raised off the ground just high enough so they could walk through without having their scalps impaled. It didn't take Delmaria long to realize he was inside an old, rustic jail, long abandoned, and possibly taken over by whoever had brought him here.

Eventually after hobbling through four or five of these small hallways did they reach a final, small room, a cell on the wall to the right and just before them, with the left wall replaced by a staircase that ascended upward in to a dark abyss. The stairs were at first a strain to the boy's leg, but soon he became in to the motion and developed a pattern that kept his pain to a minimum.

The stairs led them up and around a short distance, before they cut in to a circular room lined on the outer walls with more cells. These, however, were actually occupied - entire crews dressed in uniforms from all nations were penned up, and being prodded through the bars like cattle by laughing guards, taunting and hollering. The floor of the room was metal, with small square holes punched in like a grid to allow view of the dark murky waters that sat below. In the water were rocks - and vaguely, Delmaria could make out the outlines of decomposing bodies.

They walked across to another staircase which held itself against a tall stone wall, running from left to right. As they climbed it, Darkskull took notice of what hung from the towering ceiling - chains suspended small, iron cages where men, either alive or dead, were left to be food for viciously hungry crows. Some of them were still screaming in agony, whether trying to express their fear, or just take their minds off of the pain.

They made a U-turn once they hit the top of the stairs and walked along the high plateau, up a few more small steps before they were led up to another staircase, which led off of the platform, and eerily hugged the wall as it went up to a small door just sitting at the top of the room. The woman pushed Delmaria forward, and slowly he eased his way up the narrow walkway, leaning towards the wall to make sure he would not fall off.

After what seemed like a never ending journey, he reached the small wooden door, not before looking back down to the floor way below. The woman easily stepped in front of him as to not knock him off the little area they had to stand, and pushed the door open, stepping aside as it moved so that Delmaria could enter first.

It revealed to be a small storage room of sorts, the sides lined by chests and crates. The center of the room was occupied by a small, poorly lit table, with a group of men crowding around the sides. When they turned around to look at him, he almost had to look away - their faces were covered in tattoos, jewelry, and all these eccentric pieces that made them seem more gruesome than they did rich.

"Step aside, mates." A voice called from the other side. Delmaria halted. His heart sunk, his stomach emptied, and his body ran cold. He had heard that voice before, and he should have - most people he has known have. His knees began to quake at the very idea, wondering if it was simply his mind playing games with a voice that just sounded similar. But no - his thoughts were confirmed, as it's origin stepped around the table, in to plain view.

"FATHER!" Delmaria yelled, beginning to run towards him. He wanted to embrace his father, knowing the idea that he was alone in the world was gone. He was finally free from this mess - or so it seemed.

He was halted by the points of three blades jutted out in front of him, in a desperate attempt to keep him from approaching his father. Almost instantly, his father turned to the other men. "LOWER YOUR BLADES, YOU DAMN SAVAGES!"

Delmaria was shocked - he had never seen his father talk like this. And it was at this point Delmaria took in his father's appearance. He wore a cut up, torn shirt beneath a very long coat, nearly done to his ankles, where it frayed. It was patched and padded in all sorts of places, and atop his head his hair had nearly turned a dark gray, slimming over a cracked face with a small scar on his cheek. He looked disgusting - he was not who he knew him has.

Adam saw the dismay in his son's face, and sighed. "Son..."

"Wait." Delmaria stuck out his hand. "What is all of this.... You mean to tell me... You've been a PIRATE?... all this time along?"

"It's much more complicated than you think i-"

"YOU'RE the reason why mother is dead! YOU brought this curse upon us! YOU.. YOU..."

"I DID IT SO WE COULD LIVE, DAMN IT. If it wasn't for me, we'd be living off the streets, and your mother damn well knew that! I'm the reason you lived the life you did!" The room fell silent. Delmaria flinched under his father's voice. As his heavy breathing beginning to slow, Adam relaxed, and began to walk back around the table to where he stood, now in sight. "I was going to tell you on our first voyage together, but I never got the chance to. Not like I need to tell you now."

Delmaria sighed. Yelling and fighting would only tear him away from what he had left. "How did you find me?"

"I got word from a few spies in the Navy that after you had turned up, you had somehow gotten abducted by Avaricia's men. Of course, I didn't believe it - so I went hunting for one of his ships off the coast of Portugal, and eventually one of his less-than-loyal captains tipped us off that you had run away with his daughter. I put the pieces of the puzzle together from there."

Delmaria's heart sank. He had completely forgotten about Maria. "His daughter, Maria, do you know what happened to her?" he asked his father, hoping they had rescued her too.

"I can testify to that." a gruff voice called from behind. Delmaria turned, and there in the doorway stood Teague, smoke still ridden on his face from the battle.

"Ah, captain, there you are." Adam said. "I was beginning to wonder where you had gone."

"I assure you, captain," Edward said as he stepped forward, revealing his left arm caught in a sling. "It was fun making a short-noticed journey here to your little fortress with a half-sunken ship." He stepped next to Delmaria, and looked up and down at him. "I'll give you my leg, and you give me your arm, aye?" to which they both chuckled.

"Mr. Teague," Adam called. Both of them looked over, and there, in the man's had, was an old, leather bound book, with the initials "FD" inscribed on the front.

"Aah, there it is. The journal of Sir Francis Drake." Teague walked up to an empty space in the table. Adam slid the book across the table too him, and he picked it up, easily flipping through the pages.

"Mr. Teague, what happened to Maria!?" Delmaria demanded to know.

Without looking over his shoulder, Teague spoke. "Oh, she's fine. She's staying with that noble fellow in Cadiz for now."

Delmaria sighed in relief, calming himself down so much that he could focus on what was at hand. "Why does Avaricia want the journal so bad?"

His father responded to him. "Well, to tell you to truth, the majority of the book is a snooze - most of the treasures and places mentioned have already been found an divulged. There are, however, a few pages written in cryptic text in the back of the book, which seem to hint towards something."

"Perhaps if we had stopped to speak with that translator in Madagascar like I had suggested, we would not be in this situation..." Teague mumbled under his breath. Ensuing was a long, feisty argument back and forth between the two captains, Teague throwing the book down on the table.

Delmaria, however, could not get his mind off of the journal. He knew how badly Avaricia wanted it... maybe, if he handed it over to him, he could live with Maria, and all of his problems would blow over. It was fruitless, but worth a shot.

Delmaria quickly lashed out a hand, grabbing the journal and bounding out of the room. Before the female guard could respond, he was down the stairs, with Teague and Adam in the doorway of the room, watching him run as the guards ran after him. Adam was in awe, but Edward simply chuckled to himself. "You must admit, he takes after you quite well."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A slow chapter, but at least it got us somewhere!

Please keep those comments coming! I love to hear you all talk as much as I do myself!

oOoH! Good chapter mate! I did have a sneaking suspicion at the beginning of the story...

A fantastic chapter as always Del.

Mwahahaha! I finally took the time to catch up on this story... and before you could post the next chapter. I win, Del. @O@

I forgot when I last commented, but if I said it before, I'll say it again: Seriously, you're extremely gifted when it comes to writing. So, it's needless to say that I won't like myself if I see myself falling behind on the story, again.

Can't wait for the next chapter. :]

I'm sorry that this chapter took longer than expected - but, as you'll see, I wasn't eager to write this one.

WARNING: THIS CHAPTER IS GRAPHIC. If you do not feel up to it, do NOT read it.



Delmaria stayed in the fortress for quiet away, under the watch and guidance of his father. His "staying area" was relocated from the dingy old cell in the jail area to small, old storage room, decorated only by a few empty boxes and a cot against the back wall. There was nothing special about it, but Delmaria was determined to make due.

He became a part of the society of pirates just like he always did, assimilating and knowing where his place was. There was no work to be done around here - the only real jobs were carried out by the guards and the captains, seeing as how small of a population the hideout actually held - so Delmaria mainly kept to himself the first few weeks he stayed, especially because the room often was cooler than the rest of the pirate palace. Yet it was roughly in the first few days of August when this all changed. A guard was sent to Delmaria's room, instructing that he meet his father in one of the holding rooms down past the right wing of the armory.

Delmaria went down through the hallways of the corridor, looking in to the large rooms that he passed as he made his way to the room given to him. He watched as some of the guards that patrol the jail areas where the prisoners are held jab, swing, and cut at targets furnished out of wooden posts and bags of grain, acting as rough with them as they did the actual jail dogs. They grunted, fought, and even at times pushed around the dummies like they were attacking them, aggressiveness slowly building in each of them.

He finally wrapped around in to the room he was instructed to go, where he was met by his father staring at him from the middle of a blank, tan stone room, save a small window that sat atop the far wall. His father gave him a blunt stare, showing no emotion as his son stepped forward, a look on his face mired by confusion and misunderstanding. "Father....? Are you al-"

Before he could complete the sentence, Delmaria heard a loud, raging yell come from behind him, accompanied by forceful footsteps that pounded their way towards him. He turned his head quickly, but stopped his head short just before the blade that was stuck at the side of his neck. A short, iron cutlass shaved the side of his neck, held still by Teague's firm hand, which held it out from the hilt of the sword. He exchanged a glance with the boy, before slowly pulling back the sword and sheathing it, walking past Darkskull to stand next to the captain.

Balnette gave another cold, long stare, before taking a short breath, and speaking. "Do you know why I brought you here?"

Delmaria looked around the room, still dazed and confused as to what was going on. "Apparently not." he said comically. He had become comfortable around his father once more, except not in an obedient matter - instead, in a matter of almost equality between the two. But he was beginning to feel that wouldn't hold up, by his father's face of sheer lack of amusement.

"There's a lot I've been keeping from you, my boy." Balnette said with a withdrawal, like he didn't want to say it, but had to. "I believe I'll start from the beginning. What you are standing on was once a fortress used to hold only the lowest of criminals. Treasonists, political enemies of the Crown, privateers of a rival nation, and of course, pirates. Unfortunately, it was abandoned due to constant riots and rebellion from within the cells - yet instead of all the men here being left to die, they used this place as a way to forge and build their anger.

"They used their years of experience from all known reaches of the world to create a new mecca - a Pirate Babylon, if you will. And when their opportunities came, they used their new knowledge and brought it with them to the areas they sought out to return to, whether to live in peace, or pillage the men that betrayed them. Yet they all carried the same idea, and with them the same flag - the Jolly Roger, established here as the symbol of the Brethren of the Coast, which has acted as a "free government" for the pirate nation.

"And now, that our nation is under attack, we find ourselves at war. And you are going to help, by becoming a soldier." Balnette patted Teague on the back and stepped backward a few steps. "Draw your sword."

Delmaria reached for his sword and slowly began to draw it out, yet before it was even halfway out Teague let out another blood-curling battle cry, rushing forward and raising the sword to strike. Delmaria rushed to get out the cutlass, but it was too late by the time Teague rested the tip of his blade lightly on Delmaria's shoulder. A physical, gruff sigh came from the back of the room, and you heard the father's voice call out. "Again."

Teague returned to his original spot, waiting for the boy to draw his sword again. Seeing as how speed was the name of the game, Delmaria waited a moment before lashing his hand to his side and drawing his sword with a quick speed. As Teague moved forward, Delmaria drew the sword out and prepared to fight, awaiting Teague's sword to be blocked by his. Yet instead of a clash of metal, Edward raised up his leg and kicked the cutlass out of the boy's hand, then thrusting his sword out inches before his neck.

Another sigh came from the back of the room. "You can practice as many techniques and blows as you want on your own, but nothing will come of it. In battle there is no time to think, it just has to flow easily."

For a moment, Delmaria thought of his time aboard the Commodore's ship, taking in the same advice. Had he repressed those thoughts already?

He focused back in to his father, who was still talking. "War never sleeps, my son. You're going to find yourself fighting for your life at times you would never anticipate. And that is what we plan to do - from now on, at any given moment, whether you are sleeping, training, or eating, you can count on one of us to come after you. And you better be ready."

And sure enough, the man stayed true to his word. The next couple of weeks were true torture to the boy, as every waking moment was left to be lived in anticipation and anxiety. It seemed as though the entire crew was in on the training, as around every corner he would be met with another attack or another fight. Sometimes, he was left to fight against a masked guard with a bloodied dagger in the dead of night, who had somehow broken in to his often-barricaded door room. Other times, he would be eating in the common area when a bottle was thrown from across the room towards him, often shattering small pieces of glass in to his arm or body.

It was after a while that he began to learn how to survive in this place that things started to become more and more aggressive, not as though they were trying to teach him their ways as they were trying to hurt him. On one occasion, he was passing through one of the jail corridors when one of the guards jumped out from around the corner flailing a large, swung cutlass. Delmaria quickly drew his sword and attempted to disarm the pirate, but even after he sent the cutlass across the hallway, which was often the end of such encounters, the guard ran back to his sword, picked it up and engaged in battle once again, twice as furious. Delmaria, who was caught off-guard, tried to block the blow, but instead a trail of blood down his arm, crippling him from using a sword for the next few days. It was nice to get a break from his crusade, but not necessarily how it was brought on was welcome.

He stayed up late that night, not even attempting to sleep through the dull, throbbing pain. Even after all the months he had spent living this life, it still felt like a dream to him - just a very bad nightmare that at one point would end. And even though he had finally found his father, it was still a dreadful journey, because now it was assured to him the rest of his life would be lead like this. He longed once again for the quiet nights in his home, the silent cackling of the fireplace - and most of all, the shining, beautiful smile of his mother.

But she was dead.

And he felt dead, too. He felt that in the blink of an eye, all of his innocence had been slain on the floor just like his mother, bleeding and gurgling. It sent shivers down his spine, the memories of the past, just by how distant they were from the life he lived right now. It all seemed foreign to him, but it was a love for foreign things that had captivated him so - just that idea that the one thing you still have left was so far out of reach. And that was on two respects, one for his lifestyle, and the other for Maria.

Every night could not go without a thought of that pretty girl from the north of Spain with the long, black hair, which just so perfectly complemented every feature of her fine face. Her eyes still sparkled in his whenever he laid down for rest, and it gave him a comforting feeling to just think about her. But he still missed her, longing to see her in person. He thought of where she was, how she was, what she was doing, and all of that. She had become an obsession of his.

It was one night when he was about to sleep that he remember something that had slipped his mind all of this time. He remember the small package that she had slipped to him the first time they had met. He quickly jumped to his feet, pushing the lightheaded-ness that came with getting up so quickly, and ran over to the small bundle of his stuff that sat in the corner of the room. He doubted it could have survived all that it's been through - surely he had been knocked over and around one too many times for it to still be in his pos-

He felt the tips of his fingers brush on a soft piece of fabric, nestled in between a pair of shirts and pants that had been given to him by his father as a fresh pair to slip in to after his current clothes become tethered and bloodied beyond belief. He tore the shirt off the top of it and there, wrapped around by a small piece of leather string, was the small bundle. He latched on to it and bounded gleefully back to his little bed, where he tugged off the string and began to furiously unravel the small thing. Only his imagination could give him an idea of what it was until he actually saw it, and then did puzzle it.

Sitting in his lap was a small, golden ring, the band of which was slightly orientated and twisted like the curving waves of the ocean. Atop it sat a very odd purple gem - it radiated a dark yet fiery purple with red hues around the edges, with a small star-like design sitting just in it's center. Delmaria could feel a few ridges as he tried to slip it on his finger - which fit surprisingly well - and so he took it off and looked on the inside of the band, where there was a small loop of writing running around the inside whirl. He could barely make any of it out, but just as he leaned in to give it a closer look, a banging noise echoed from the door.


The two pirates hurried down the corridor, their boots tapping loudly down on the cracked dry stone. It was dark - all of the torches were unlit down here, in the deepest recesses of the building. He was told to never go below the level to which he stayed in when he first came here, but now he had done just that - and he realizes his curiosity was ill-fated. The stone was eerie and black, hallways notably smaller, and the cells close together. But what was different here, was that the cells actually occupied by men, prisoners of war and sailors captured by the rogue band of pirates, grossly thrown together and packed in to the rooms. It was lethally unsanitary, as bodies of the sick rotted in the corner of the cells, piling up like the flies on top of the heaps of rotten flesh.

The stench filed his nose all the way to the back of his throat, shoving his face in to the elbow of his sleeve until he finally reached the end of the long hallway - the very end of the tunnels beneath the fortress. Around the corner was a group of pirates, huddled around in a group, turning to look at the boy, and staring in blank silence. They looked around at each other briefly, before looking back at the boy. One of them, who stood at the front of the group, looked at the guard who had escorted the boy, and nodded.

The next thing he knew, Delmaria felt suffocated. His vision had become blocked, his breathing feeling very narrow and short-sighted as he felt himself being spun off of the ground. The soft fabric that brushed against his face let him realize a bag had been thrown over his head, and as he tried to kick and fight the man who had picked him up, thinking this was another test, but instead was met with almost surprising brute force. The man caught his wiggling legs and threw them back down to their place violently, and a big hand slapped his back, knocking the wind right out of him and giving him a sense of lightheaded-ness.

While he tried to regain himself, he was put down in to a sitting position on a floor that felt just like one in the hallway. He tried to jump to his feet and flee, but he was knocked back by a painful whip that nailed the front of his body like a freight train - it was metal, and that same metal was now being forcefully wrapped around his wrists as he screamed and yelled in protest. It became so tight that his hand felt like it was going to fall off due to lack of circulation, and his bone would collapse under pressure alone. He was forced to stand as the chain was lifted up, but as soon as he maintained a standing position, he felt another fierce piece of metal hit the back of his knees, leading him to rely solely on the chains around his wrists as he sank.

The bag around his head was torn off as he stopped screaming in protest, his throat becoming so tired and cracked it could barely make a noise anymore. His teary eyes looked around the dark room - it was an empty storage room much like when he first fought Teague, only much darker. He watched the backs of the pirates that had subdued him in ambush walk out of the room, and before his voice could muster anything, the large door to the room slammed loudly shut, echoing the complete darkness and isolation he was now in.

He hung in that room for five days.

Not once did the door open, neither for food, nor company, nor even bathroom breaks. He never had to go to the bathroom, however - he was starved to the point just try to give feeling to his stomach hurt him. He was never able to stand up either - accompanied by that still throbbing, consistent pain, he had no strength to muster to help him up. He was left there, bound by his wrists in pain as the skin began to crack, dry, and then bleed. His exposed muscles began to sting against the dirty metal.

When you have nothing to do, your mind runs loose. Delmaria just kept wondering why he had been left here, letting his mind run wild with conspiracy, fear, and horrors. He imagined the worse possibilities, and then his mind allowed them to become worse and worse, allowing him to become more restless and scared. He felt helpless - but more than so, abandoned once again. He wondered if his father was trying to get rid of him, or he had been mutinied against, and his body had been tossed in to the ocean carelessly. Every little thought made his spine shiver.

And not only had he lost his train of thought, but his entire mind. He began humming to himself sensely, without even thinking, as his brain tried to distract him. He became paranoid, so much so that his heart raced at an abnormal rate, and he could not sleep because of his fear. He saw the shadows shift around him, figures of demons and disfigured creatures dancing and prowling around him, or just staring at him from the corner. He would often shout in to the emptiness, thinking it would be away to regain his confidence, and "scare off the monsters."

It was around the break of the fifth day he began to see his own mother before him, standing vividly right before him, fully in color as though she were standing in a brightly lit room. She looked at him with no emotion, as he pleaded to her begs for mercy, help, and belonging. He almost became a child again, begging over and over "Please help me, mommy, please help me..." And as she would once again receded in to the shadows, he mustered a thick, deep, shallow cry, that seemed to carry on in to the darkness forever.

It was the end of the fifth day when the unimaginable happened. The door opened, a line of light slivering through the door, as it was almost blinding to his crust-covered eyelids. He leaned forward in an undead moan, hoping for something to walk in. And somebody did - and they carried a leg of meat. He became excited, but he knew he could not eat it - yet the guard knew, as well. So when she approached Delmaria, she tore off pieces of chicken from the bone and shoved them down his throat, force feeding him. After he had nearly gagged, she forced him to guzzle a bottle of wine, before throwing it to the ground, shattering it to pieces, and walking out of the room, closing the door.

Five more days passed.


Delmaria's ears slowly perked up as he heard the door to his confinement open again. He barely had any strength left to lift his head, as though he was a lifeless doll trying to gain enough energy to crawl across a floor. He wondered if he really was still alive, or that the light he saw was the gates to the afterlife opening to him. But then, he realized it was real - not because of the figure that entered the room, but because he remembered if anything, he was going to Hell.

His father closed the door behind him, the darkness no longer consuming them by the lantern he placed next to where he stood. He stepped forward, his hands behind his back as he looked over his son. His face had no remorse, nor regret - only the slightest sense of satisfaction, that his son had survived.

Without saying a word, he pulled out a single item from his coat - a dagger. The man dropped his long coat on to the floor, and walked behind his son, again without saying a word. He lost his father, but he knew where he was, the footsteps stopping right behind his back.

The father took the dagger and put a slit in Delmaria's shirt, then grabbing it at both sides and tearing it apart at the seams. The boy had forgotten about all the sweat he had worked up on his back, and accompanied by the murkiness of the room, the stank that came from his back was enough to blind a man. Still, it felt good for some part of his body to be exposed - not for long, though.

He finally was able to let out a scream as his father did a quick cut with the blade on his son's back. As he felt the warm blood run down his son's back, the man spoke. "I do this not in vain, nor vengeance, but in love. In war, any man is left to fight for his own, and war is the true pain a man can deal with. By bringing you here, we have given you something to look back on - something that you will try to repress, but should embrace instead - so that you may understand that life will always have it's perils, but you will always survive."

Another cut.

"You are a soldier of a different breed. You fight for your freedoms based on the pain which you have endured, for all freedom fighters are only justified in their own right if they have already been through the opposite of what they strive for."

Another cut. "Ergg..." Delmaria tried to push through his rotted throat. "Fath.. stop..."

He was ignored. "You will look back on this one day and realize that this has made you strong."

Another cut. "Puh-le-se.."

"You will endure nothing more than this, but so only death."

"Sto..."

"It will b-"

"FATHER!" Delmaria shrieked in the deepest, darkest tone his exhausted voice could muster. The pain was simply becoming too much, his face looking like that of a fish out of water struggling to breath.

Behind him came silence. He thought it was over, until the voice spoke a final time. "In here, I am not your father."

Another cut.

By now, Delmaria could feel a design being carved on to his back, as though his father was making a work of art of him. The pain began to numb, as did his whole body - he was finally beginning to sleep, his mind giving out under the pressure. Whether it would continue or not, or whether he would wake up, he knew this nightmare was over as he faded out once again.

As his senses were just about to close, he heard a final, blurred voice. "In here, I am your retribution."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I hope you see why.

Be sure to comment and review!

Good thing I sped read that one. Good anyways, mate.

Wow, Del.The warning at the start really was necessary.

I could see why you said that this chapter was stressful for you to write, but the graphic and creepy natures made this one one of the best! Haha. :]

Thank you all for actually reading that chapter - it was a horror, I know, but we are past it!

This chapter isn't as long as some of the other's, but it's still about an average length by my standards. So, without further adieu, I present to you...


September 29th, 1702
Somewhere off the coast of Spain
3:45 PM

Delmaria's eyes went in and out of focus as he felt his body being moved around. He could make out in blurs groups of men and woman running back and forth furiously, running up to him, around him, and back. His ears barely worked, but he could still hear noises faintly, like he was underwater, and the rest of the world was muffled by being above the surface. He could hear the clanging and crashing of chains, links shattering and falling to floor, followed by his exhausted body collapsing in something that caught him beneath the armpits. Then something grabbed his legs - another supporting his body. And through it all, he could not feel anything, as his body had become numb.

It hit him as he was carried out in to the now-lit hallways, the fire of the torches on the walls hitting his eyes like stones. He closed his eyes to avoid the pain, though even open they did him nothing. He began shifting back and forth between consciousness, until finally the weight of being awake caved in on him, and he fell back to the abyss.

By the time he awoke, he saw himself passing under the frame of a small door, and then felt his body slowly being flipped over and laid down on to a surface, that gently took him in with leeway - it was hay, he could tell as his body took in a deep, exasperated breath. He could make out the stampede of footsteps walking away from him, and slamming a small wooden door shut. Had he been forsaken again?

Suddenly, he heard something clearly - even though his environment was still blurred and muffled, he heard a voice that sounded too clear to be in the same realm. "Relax yourself, child...." the voice echoed softly. As soon as it spoke, he felt a soft hand run along his back, thought it was most notable he felt something. Everything she touched not only had feeling, but it felt fine.

As his back healed, he felt the hand touch his body at the side, flipping him over on to his back. He found himself staring at a ceiling - and by that, he meant his vision had become clear. It was almost as though he could not pinpoint when all of his aches and pains subsided, because they just vanished without him noticing. His headaches were gone, his stomach pains were relieved, and most of all, the torn and mangled flesh that once hung from his bare wrists had been cleansed and healed. The only thing that was still against him was his breathing, which was still heavy due to prevalent exhaustion, and his mindset.

It could not escape him the pain to which he had undergone, and why he had been brought there. Even though he knew his father's intentions, the back of his mind still repeated to him how he had been betrayed, exiled, and nearly killed, just so he could be taught a senseless lesson. If anything, he felt this event would traumatize him, despite anything his father believed.

And just as his anger for his father built up, now that his mind was once again fully functional, a calming essence came over him. It was as though a switch had been flipped, and a chill of relaxation ran up and down his spine. It was an embrace, going from a cold shiver to a warm layer of sunlight coating over him. From the side of his eye, a woman leaned in to his vision, looking at him from where she sat on his right. She was a middle-aged woman, her jet-black hair losing itself in a few streaks of white and gray. Her eyes sparkled quietly behind the bags that sat restlessly above her cheeks, which were sandpapered by time. She seemed as though she had been very tested for a woman of her age, though smile she gave off was comparable in warmth to a grandmother's.

Delmaria pushed his elbows to his sides to give himself a little uplift to give him a better angle. "How did you..."

The woman chuckles to herself. "It would take a very long time to explain, it would. Please, rest - there is still much to b-"

At that moment, the door to the room slowly creaked open. Delmaria looked just in time to see his father slowly move around the door, closing it behind him quietly. Delmaria receded back up the pile of hay, thinking that another "session" was about to begin. "Don't you come near me, you son of a-"

"Sshhh, shhh." Adam said, reaching out a calm hand to show he wasn't going to do anything. "I know you're upset, and -"

"UPSET!?" Delmaria protested, jumping to his feet and pointing an accusing hand out at the man. "You TORTURED me, beat me with your own hands until I nearly DIED! WHY SHOULD I TRUST YOU ANYMORE?"

Adam sighed. Without saying a word, he threw off his coat, and began taking off the shirts that he hid under it, bloodied and unwashed. He tossed them to the side of the room until he stood with his bare, hairy chest, and then turned around, so that his back may face his son. On the man's back was a field of faint, yet gruesome scars, oddly enough formated in to the shape of a shark, as though it were jumping out of the water in a victorious and vicious, yet at the same time graceful manner. One may not at a quick glance see it, but looking over it, one can make it out.

"Every one of us here has gone through the same trial that you have gone through, and from it we each have taken something. We all know the pain of this test - and one day, when you take the authority, you will do the same to your son." Adam said, pulling back on his coat.

"But why, then, is there a symbol?" Delmaria asked, more calm, but still in questioning.

"We ourselves do not choose what totem is given to us, so much as we are told by something what it will be. The scars indicate something that will always be permanent, and with you always, and that is true to this, as each symbol represents that person and what they may aspire to be."

Delmaria finally began to understand, so he tried eagerly to look on his back to see his symbol, hoping for something less than humiliating. "And what am I?"

Balnette smiled, holding his son still as he walked behind him to investigate. From behind him, Delmaria could hear a lot of humming and investigating, before final speaking with a nearly awe-struck voice. "It seems as though you've been graced by a Lion, my dear son - the peak of strength, courage, and authority... Just like your grandfather...."

The gypsy nodded and smiled, climbing herself to her feet. "Yes, yes, what he speaks is true!" She nodded some more, looking the boy straight in the eyes and pointing a finger at his chest. "Yes... there is a touch of destiny in you...."

"Valentina, sit back down." Adam motioned back to the gypsy's chair, to which she did obediently. "Lay back down, son - there is one last thing that needs to be done."

Delmaria's eyes sunk to the back of his head, but Balnette chuckled to himself. "Don't worry, it's nothing like what you've already gone through, and I promise this."

Giving his father a wary eye, Delmaria laid back down on the hay facing up to the ceiling, as the woman named Valentina pulled out from behind her a small, black vial, and a needle-looking trinket. Without a word, she leaned over the boy's right arm, dipping the needle in to the vial of what seemed like ink, and began to work right at the side of his bicep, digging, pushing, and moving it around his skin.

Delmaria expected much pain from the experience, but he felt little to nothing - in fact, he had to struggle from not giggling from the tickling sensation it gave him. So he sat there, motionless, watching the woman slowly and calmly etch in to his skin a design, which seemed to be a skull over two crossed swords, a crown at it's head and two seahorses at it's side....


October 1st, 1702
Somewhere off the coast of Spain
9:30 AM

After being given a day and a half to rest in his room, Delmaria awoke that morning to find a small wooden chest sitting in the middle of his room, watching him eerily just a few feet from where he slept. Intrigued, the boy pushed himself to his feet, still in a tired haze, and walked up to the small container to investigate. A heavy, rusted lock sat at the front of the chest, with the end of a small key hanging tightly from the opening where it was meant to be, beckoning the pirate to open it. Delmaria bent down on to his knees, and gripped at they key's handle, having to give at it a very forceful tug before it gave way and turned with a click, causing the iron lock to fall to the hard stone floor with a loud crash.

Darkskull picked up the container and carried it back over to his cot of a bed, placing it down and then lifting up the wooden top to reveal a large, starch white brimmed hat pop up as though it's sides had been compressed against the chest, which it had been judging by it's large circumstance. Interested, he took the white-feathered hat and placed it upon his head, to reveal underneath it a bundle of clothing, white as a field of snow with a few outlines of black here and there. He pulled out first a long, heavy coat, white in color with black bands of fancy leather running along the front where the buttons should be all the way down to the bottom, which reached just above his ankles, and along the length of the arms. On the back, an emblem sat admits the beautiful white cloth in black stitching - of which was the same design tattooed in to his arm.

After this came a long, embroider merchant's vest with a twisting elegant design that layer over a tight shirt of the same light color, with a white V-neck collar that stuck out over the top of the vest. Underneath that sat a pair of grayed boots folded and turned so they would take up as little space as possible, yet slowing returning back to shape as they were removed from the box. Finally, at the bottom of the chest, was a pair of white pants as soft as silk, yet as thick and durable as though they were made out of leopard hide, which gave just enough room for his legs to breath a little as he tucked them in to the top of the tall shin-high boots, and two silver metal belts, which slanted in opposite directions to create a crisscross against the front of his body.

Delmaria had so much fun with the outfit that he had ignored a small crinkling noise that came from somewhere on his torso. He stopped his spinning and dancing and began patting down the outfit, trying to find the source of the noise, until he finally located it in one of the pockets that hid itself within the recesses of his jacket. He reached in and felt his hand his on to a piece of what seemed like parchment, and surely was as he pulled out the small note. He flipped it all around until he could make out a few water-stained scribbles in dark ink, which dully read "Down to the dock."

Stepping out of his stoic little room, his sword and pistol hanging at his side (and Marina's ring tucked neatly on his right ring finger) he walked quickly through the hallways of the prison, which were both bare, and yet giving off a sense of a buzz ringing just out of his reach. He could almost feel a bustling atmosphere from beyond him, just it was filled with emptiness in between him and the chaos. Not only that, but the emptiness was not that which one may feel after stepping in to an open field, but as a room that had just experienced a party with some of the energy in it being left over to muster and die. The cells that he passed by were bare, the doors flung open without a soul left for them to be opened for. His pace quickened just a little bit, the uneasy feeling of being trapped in a jail once again swimming in his gut.

As he walked in to the tower-like area with the metal grated floor, he saw the first few signs of life - a few men were walking back and forth around the room, picking up crates and barrels and hurrying them up the stone staircase that huged the tall wall, and then out of sight, obviously taking them towards the gigantic stone door that led out to the dock. From the distance whispered to him the promise of the sea, washing and waving around against the background, with a hum of the misty winds swirling around under a cloudy sky. He hurried across the room, nearly bumping in to one of the crew men (who went out of his way to make sure Delmaria passed before he, bowing his head almost in respect as the pirate went by) and flying up the stairs as his boots slammed their tips on to the stone steps.

He turned off the steps and looked out to where the tremendous thirty-foot tall wooden doors were to be on the other side of the short plateau, but instead the sides of the door were opened outward to the sea. The long stone dock seemed like it went on for miles, going off in the distance and then far out making a short angle to the right. The grey sky hung over choppy waters that rocked an armada of ships in the background, some near and some far, in sizes of small to colossal as their sails flapped in the misted wind. Armies of men ran all over the dock, nearly covering every square foot as they flurried in between every vessel and thing that floated on the seas.

He stepped out in to the misty, cool air, his two long, white feathers flying graciously in the wind atop his huge hat. Although the floods of men were running around him as he stepped out further, not one dared to come near him as they all too bowed their heads. Delmaria looked at all of them strangely, but not even then did anybody look at him - they tried to stay away from him, as though to not get in his way.

A loud whistle echoed to him from his right, and Delmaria snapped to the left to see a group of men standing around a large crate. They each were dressed eerily similar to he - the same coat, the same hat, the same vest, shirt, etc. - aside from a few personal touches to the outfit, and a color change. Each man's outfit was in a different color, one wearing red, another wearing blue, another wearing brown, and then, on the far side of the crate, a man in black. Delmaria's father had a bright smile on his face as he looked up and down his son, almost like a father watching his son graduate from elementary school. At his side, Edward (the man dressed in red, to which was the outfit he'd been wearing all along) clasped a firm hand down on the boy's back, and patted it in approval.

"Glad you could join us, son." The man in black tipped his hat. "Welcome aboard."

"What's going on? What is all of this?" Delmaria motioned a hand out to the armies and fleets that worked their way around the massive dock.

"Preparing for war, of course." Teague heaved as though he were about to explain something, tapping two fingers lazily on top of a map on the crate that brought their attention downward. It was a very large, very detailed map of a city, tightly packed together down narrow streets and a few broad intersections. A snake-like river curled up from the left side of the map and then flattened out roughly in the middle of the map, dividing the area in question to two open sides.

"You came at just the proper moment - we were afraid we were going to have to start planning without you." Balnette chuckled. "I'm sure you're familiar with this by now." Adam held up the old water-logged journal, the initials still carved in to the front.

It took Delmaria a minute to realize what it was, having not seen it in a while, before nodding yes.

"Well, as you know, this here object of affection seems to be the prize for Mr. Avaricia - what we have reason to believe, however, is that he is not working alone in this all. As far as we can tell, there seems to be somebody he's working with, if not under."

"Which is why we're going to try to deal with the problem to the best of our abilities." A deep Spanish tone gruffed from his side. Delmaria turned to once again be met by that suave, sharp Spanish face, hidden under the cloak of the elegant blue hat that sat atop his head.

Without going any further in to detail, Delmaria lunged a bit forward and grabbed the man by the collar of his shirt. "Where's Maria?!" he stomped.

As he gripped the man, Jaenada stepped back a little, to which echoed of all things a clunk of wood. Delmaria looked down and nearly gasped in horror, as he saw that the noble's left leg had been replaced with a narrow beam of wood to support him. He looked back up at the man, who had an almost stern look birthing in his eyes. As the boy left go, the man answered. "Not all of us can exit battle unscathed, my friend."

"I'm sorry." Delmaria apologized, sighing. "Where is she?"

"I hope you'll be happy to know she's alive and well - she's safe aboard my ship for the moment, though much against the protest's of my advisers."

Darkskull's eyes widened as quickly as his heart sank. He immediately spun around, preparing to run down the dock aimlessly until he found the ship where the girl stayed, but instead he was caught at the back of his arm by a thick pirate hand. "I don't think so, mate." Teague bellowed. "You can see her after we finish up our deeds in London."

"London?" Delmaria turned back to his spot, intrigued. "Why London?"

Jaenada answered again. "Avaricia has made a very intricate plan out of everything. On the night when the city will be celebrating and rioting in the streets, he'll be taking advantage by meeting in the darkest alleys to plan out his next moves in gaining the upper hand in this war. We need to make sure that whatever goes on that night, we not only intercept, but squash and destroy beneath our boots."

Balnette nodded. "Now, as I was saying. We'll all be passing up through London at separate points and areas, as a way to not draw any attention to ourselves, though still keeping a relative distance to keep sight of one another. All colors and flags are to be replaced with a Union Jack. Your crews are expected to stay low and act like nothing is commencing, and should mainly be concerned with not hitting any other ships.

"We'll be docking somewhere in the relative area of Westminster, on the opposite side of the river from the palace. You are to dock quietly, and pay all fees and taxes necessary when entering the port - if they ask you why you have so much gunpowder aboard your ship, slip them a few extra fees or take them aboard for a talk.

"We'll be meeting in the 'Sailor's Bride' to finalize any and all plans before we head out. As for fleet arrangements, Jaenada and I will head out of here a few days after you all to give you a head start - given the respectable speed of all of our ships, we should be able to meet up without any red confrontations not too far off from the city. You three will be heading out as soon as possible."

"Question: How will I be getting to London when my ship is still docked in Cadiz?" Delmaria raised a hand, insisting subtly that he planned to sail his own ship. He had tasted the helm before, and it was too much of an addiction to be denied.

"Oh, don't worry, your ship was destroyed during the battle." Jaenada chortled, flapping a hand to put the boy at ease. "Rest assure, we did salvage a few things, though we do believe that it's time for an upgrade from that dinghy of a ship." Jaenada pointed outward to the bay, and there, in the distance, stood his ship.

It towered high in to the sky with it's colossal masts, two three-sailed ships with a third sitting behind them with just two, and two triangle sails coming down from the first body mast to connect with the two-sailed bow mast. It's body was tall, wide, and thick, daunting in size as though it were a floating fortress waiting to come down on top of you and smite you, with shiny coat of wood that covered it. It glazed even with the lack of sunlight as you could make out the outlines of large groups of men running back and forth across the deck, preparing the monster of a ship - for him, of all people.

"A custom-built Defiant, made with only the most superior crafts and materials. Twenty-six sixteen pound gundeckers with sixteen nine-pounders upon on the top deck, with the addition of two eighteen-pound aft gunners. She peaks at seventeen knots on the broad reach, manned by a crew of just about four-hundred men." Teague patted the boy on the back, who was caught in a daze by his massive warship. "And she's all yours."

Delmaria felt light-headed at the sight, his knees quaking ever-slightly. He had only dreamed of ships like these, and now he his childhood dream of captaining one was a reality, though a bleak war-plagued one at that. "N-n-name?" he stammered.

"We call her the Sea Dragon - though I suggest you keep the name Delmaria. Delsea doesn't exactly have the same ring to it." Jaenada joked from behind him, but the boy completely ignored the giggles behind him as his eyes focused in on his prize.

Just as he began to step forward to head towards his ship, his attention was called back once again. "I believe you've been ignoring one of your fellow journeymen this entire time. Give him the dignities of at least acknowledging him." His father called. Delmaria turned and was met with the deviled glare of the man-in-brown.

Over him, stood a towering man, at least seven feet tall. His face was heavily tanned, drapped in a huge, frizzled mustache, which ran around the corners of his mouth, down to his chin. There, it dropped off in to a long, thick, frizzled beard, which reached down to the middle of his chest. His body was cloaked in a heavy leather coat, which was decorated in all sorts of military finery. His clothing was messy and tangled in all sorts of trinkets, shirts, and heavy metal belts, which might have weighted him down; if not for the fact he was burley. He had one heavy black boot, and where the other foot should have been, was a peg led. Atop his head, where his dread locks hung, was a large, brown admiral hat, with two playing cards hiding over the brim. He smiled, revealing a mouth full of dirty teeth, and a single shining gold one, as he said in an intimidating, scratchy voice, "'Ello, Delmaria."

"And hello to you to, Mr.....?"

"The name's Renveil. Captain Roger Renveil, thank you very much." The man gurgled when he spoke, and in one quick motion the man scooped up the boy's hand and shook it with a firm greeting. "No need to be so tense, boy! We'll be working together, aye?" The man smiled again, the same disgusting, black smile.

But Delmaria did feel offset. The man gave off a strange, eccentric presence, and the deep overtones that hung over him were too strong to ignore. He kept his distance from the Captain even as they all bid each other a safe journey and carried on towards their ships - and even as Delmaria marveled at his ship from aboard it's own dock, and meet and greeted all of his crewmen, did he feel that something brewed in the brown man's soul that was not at all pure.

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Lots of development in this chapter - and if you've read my other stories and paid attention, some of you may recognize one of the characters ;)

Keep those reviews coming, mates!

Finally caught up. Very good Del. Your writing style is very mature, with a good mixture of intense fighting and slower explanation scenes. And I can see some things starting to come out of it, especially the tattoo.

Captain Del, I have to say you are a very talented writer! Your story drew me in from the first page and I read every chapter! It was if I had a good book in me hand and couldn't put it down. I am definitely a fan and will look for your previous stories. I am eagerly awaiting the next chapter. Thanks for sharing. :mickeypiratezd4:

Thank you, mates!

Sorry this chapter took a little long, mates - it was mainly a build up chapter with not much substance, and in the end I made the decision to cut out a lot of useless filler that would have made the chapter very, very stale. So, without further adieu, I present to thee...


The weather became increasingly worse and worse as the crew finished and finalized all ties and preparations for departure, now starting to be daunted by the winds that whipped flurries of mist in to their face. The wooden floors began to become more wet as they went about, and a few dozen of the men assigned to make sure the deck stayed clean and orderly often found themselves slipping and sliding on their knees back and forth as the waves rocked the massive vessel from underneath. It came to the point that now, even in the afternoon, groups of large glass-enclosed candles had to be left hanging in order to supply some sort of light under the darkening sky.

Delmaria stood in the center of the ship, just in between the two main masts that stood in the ship's center. It was a massive ship, indeed - the hull was wide enough to accommodate a frontline of gunners marching down a battlefield, and the main deck was long enough to serve as a battlefield. The hundreds of men employed under him ran across the deck, mindful of the large open grates in the center column of the ship, where the barrels of ammunition were being passed back and forth. Back down by the helm, two curved staircases curved out and then to the second deck, which expanded for a little more before two more side staircases led up to the helm, where Delmaria's navigators stood panning over the maps given to them so they could chart course easily and efficiently.

Delmaria was still caught in a daze by the fact this monster of a ship had so quickly become his. He walked across the deck to the port where he stood forward over the banister, looking at the tower of a prison that had become the pirate's stronghold of Western Europe. It was the first time that he had seen the fortress in it's full glory, extending high in to the sky adjacent to the large cliff that extended up at it's side. The waves had become so high that they began lapping over the side of the stone dock and began washing sailors who hadn't yet boarded their ships back and forth, yet they still trudged on. The shape of the tower was odd - it was thick and strong, yet it jutted in and branched out in to space. From large, gap-like windows you could still make out the dim torch light that illuminated the dank hallways, which inside the remaining pirates twiddled their thumbs as they awaited war to spark.

Delmaria tapped his hands on the wooden railing, and then in response his shoulder was tapped from behind. He turned to see a group of roughly ten men, all dressed in tattered and torn wears of the French Navy stand there, staring at him with expectant expressions. They all seemed to be in their middle ages, yet they were roughly the same high and build as Darkskull, who kept his hand on the railing behind him so that he may not topple back from their overpowering presence. One of them, a darkly tanned man in the front, spoke to him in an accent reminiscent of a merchant from Paris he met once as a child. "You are our captain?" he raised a pointed eyebrow.

Delmaria cleared his throat, standing up straight. "Indeed I am. And I suppose you're my sailors?"

The man scoffed at the boy. "Your sailors? We only serve the ship, not some boy of a captain."

"As I recall this is my ship. If you serve the ship and the ship serves me than you either have a choice to be a servant to the master or a slave to the servant." Darkskull spat, getting tense by his denial of his own ship.

"Your ship?" one of them called from the back.

"YES, my ship. And you can either listen to your captain or I'll find a way to FORCE you to listen." Delmaria stepped forward, trying to loom over the men.

The Parisian stepped forward as well, getting uncomfortably close to the boy and staring him down in to the eyes. Delmaria knew what he was trying to do - the officers of a ship were much like a pack of lions in the animal kingdom. The alpha male was left to watch his enemy and stand his ground, to prove that he was dominant. Even a sign of weakness and he and the ship would fall prey, which would lead him to being submitted, or even mutinied against.

But not in this case. The Frenchman stepped back, squinting his eyes at the boy and nodding agreeably. "You may be young, but your heart is of fire. You will lead us to either greatness or failure by it." the man looked up and down the boy once more, before motioning the rest of his group back over towards the helm, to get to work.

It wasn't long before the yelling ceased and all men watched as the glorious, magnificent sails dropped, jolting the ship forward with an oncoming gust of wind. The crowds of men across the three departing ships cheered uproariously as they set sail under a new heading, and in their heads a new dream and idea that they need not serve kings. Delmaria, who stood at the bow of the ship, tightened his grip on the cordage next to him, feeling the wave of mist spearhead his body. He felt like he was being exposed to a new world - this time, he was the captain of his own destiny. The world was his to explore, to thrive in, and to conquer.

The bow breached over an oncoming wave, and slammed down uneasily in to the waters as it glided out of the bay. Delmaria walked over to the side of the ship, and looked back out over the side, to look at the fortress which he spent the grueling summer months in. He watched as the mist swirled up it's spiral, coaxing over it's face and sealing it away from him as it faded off in to the distance. His hand, which was still on the edge of the ship, did a little wave goodbye, to which he creditted himself with a smile.


The voyage was a very easy one for the most part. They stayed just off of the coast of the Spain, and then France, just out of reach so that they couldn't be seen by any military installments on the shore, but still close enough to not get lost. The three ships moved like a pack, not going a certain distance from one another. The only time when they separated was when they had to make port, each going to a different one along the coastline so to not draw attention to themselves as a group.

Though still caught in the sense that he was now a pirate captain, Delmaria could not stop looking over the side of the ship to watch the ship that was captained by that bone shivering Renveil. He learned to study every single feature of that ship, because he looked at it so often to make sure nothing was going on. It was a ship larger than his in both hull and mast size, except with an odd shape. The back helm was almost drastically higher than the main deck, though the hull itself was pretty high. At the bow it gave down a little bit to a point where two forward cannons sat, which was not unusual. It was how the ship was decorated that offset him - it was painted a deep, dark black with dreary red sails, blending it in almost too well with the night. Skull charms and other trinkets littered the place, and you couldn't get beside the fact that no matter where you were, you could feel some of the skull masks plastered to the stern of the ship staring back at you.

But that wasn't the worst part of it. The man himself was all to mysterious in the first place for you to spend so much time in such close proximity, like he was almost forcing you to watch what he was like. Yet he did it in such a way that would make one feel like you were only catching him by circumstance, and by that you felt more secure jumping over the side of your ship than staying onboard to watch one of his shows.

Sometimes you could see him standing on the side of the ship, watching the two other ships that sailed near him, though it looked as though he was doing it discretely. At times you would make eye contact with him, and he would just stare back without a sense of emotion. Other times, in the dead of night, when all the crews had taken to rest and you walked across the dock to make final orderly checks, you could see him walk out on to the small balcony on the back of his ship, a small object in his hand - sometimes a piece of cloth, other times a small animal. In the case of the animal, often a small chicken, he would take out his dagger and cut off it's feet, then wings, and finally head before discarding in to the ocean reminiscent of a bittersweet farewell. He dare not let the Brown Man see him on those occasions - God only knows what would happen in such an event.

So on Hallow's Eve, when both Jaenada and Darkskull were invited over to Roger's ship for a poker game, it could only be imagined how nervous Delmaria was. As his crew maneuvered the Sea Dragon to park next to Roger's ship, Delmaria could only help himself from buckling under at the knees. But he knew that Jaenada would be with him, and in that little fraction of self-reassurance did he walk easily along the plank that connected the two ships, while all of Renveil's crew piled half and half on to the other ships to throw drunken parties and tell ghost stories.

Captain Renveil wanted the ship to be emptied, save the three captains.


October 31st, 1702
Aboard The Harkaway
10:47 PM

The dark wood of the hull seemed only darker in the pitch black darkness that filled the hull of the ship, which creaked and cracked in to the void as the ship moved back and forth in the seas. Delmaria looked around in to the shadows as he and the other two captains stepped down the stairs from the main deck in to the hull, which didn't allow him to see anything aside from the outline of a few crates, banisters, and cannons. Off in the distance, however, was a small spot illuminated by a single candle, sitting atop a small wooden table.

They made their way down the center of the hull, not touching a single thing as they made their way closer. Delmaria kept himself a comfortable length behind Renveil, who walked quietly in front of him and Jaenada as they were led through the abyss of the ship. The only noise they heard was the squeak of a few rats that ran around on the far sides of the room, sputtering around lightly on their feet without being seen. The table that they looked over too became more and more detailed - elevated up to about chest level while sitting by a square support, the boards carved and dug in by cuts and daggers. The candle in the center of the table had melted to look like a small mountain of yellowish wave, and besides it a perfectly stacked deck of cards sat just out of reach of the goo that began to spread. Three chairs sat around the table at equal distance from one another, as though this all had been perfectly pre-planned.

Delmaria took the chair directly across from where Renveil sat, with Jaenada sitting at both of their sides from the back of the small table. The Brown Man ran a heavy hand over the table, scooping up the cards and shuffling them. As he toyed with the cards, he turned his head up to look at Darkskull. "Have you ever played poker, Mr. Darkskull."

The question caught him off by surprise. It sounded like a friendly question, but resounded the echoes of a despicable challenge. He played it off comfortably. "Not directly, but I've learned by watching over shoulders."

Renveil chuckled. "Well, you'll find that poker is a game that isn't just based on knowledge, from experience. I doubt very much that you'll be able to hold a candle to Mr. Jaenada or myself."

"Well, as far as I see it, that isn't the case. Acting comes by at natural talent - I'm sure that I could best the most avid of theater members at any turn of the tongue."

Another chuckle, thought this one was quieter - more off-balance. "Don't get ahead of yourself just yet, my boy." Renveil began passing the two base cards around the table. "A simple game of Pirate's Double, gentlemen."

Delmaria's cards slide across to him, and he quickly, picked them up in his right hand to see them. Though, he was more interested in keeping an eye on Captain Renveil than he was on his hand - after all, they weren't playing for anything other than bragging rights just yet.

Renveil seemed to be like a machine, winning nearly every hand that came his way. Jaenada and he passed between them an uncomfortable joke or two, but Delmaria stayed silent, watching the Brown Man as he went about playing. He had noticed that the two cards that once sat in his big tipped hat were no longer there, though they always were when he was out and about. He wondered if he had something up his sleeve - literally.

After a few more rounds of Roger continuously winning, Delmaria spoke up. "I must say, you play like a man that has lost his soul."

"Who says I haven't?" Roger smiled, then bursting out in laughter. Jaenada and Darkskull followed suit, but only as a way to keep the tensions low.

"I'm only commenting on how you work the cards so well. You seem to be a very superstitious man, what with all the decor you surround yourself with."

"Ah, I see." Renveil nodded, putting his cards down on the table. He clasped his hands together, looked around, and then threw them outward. "Everything I surround myself is simply for show, my friends. Nothing here is supernatural, nor is it superstitious - after all, every pirate has his own unique touch to things."

"I suppose you're right. My apologies." Delmaria smiled. He raised his hand in a measure of good will, but he still knew that Renveil was lying - he could see right through the deceptive smile that he had pasted on to his face.

Just then he saw Renveil's face freeze, following his hand as it went up. He looked up to his hand, and there, in the light of the candle, shimmered the crowning jewel of the ring that Marina had given to him just the day after they had met. Renveil's eyes were as wide as a bat's in the moonlight, and slowly he straightened himself as Delmaria slowly retracted his hand down to his lap. Renveil reached out a hand and motioned it, meaning for Darkskull to lift his hand back up. "W-where did you get that?"

Delmaria refused, gripping his pants leg tightly as he held his ground against the stare of the Brown Man. "I reserve my right to not tell you."

Roger stiffened his stare, then tried to play it off easily. "Easy boy, we're among friends. Just give me the ring." His hand his the table, and he held it open, waiting.

Delmaria slowly began to raise his ring hand, but as he did he shot out his arm and grabbed the pistol that sat at the side of his belt, pointing it out across the table to his opposing captain. But just as he did, he was met with the same resistance, Renveil's pistol (which was much larger) pointing back at him. Jaenada stood his feet, backing away from the table in protest. "Damn it you two, put them down!"

Rneveil licked his lips, slowly standing up from his chair, as did Delmaria. "Unfortunately Mr. Darkskull finds us at odds, my friend. If he would simply learn to let go, this would not be happening."

Now in a complete standoff, Delmaria gripped the handle of his pistol tighter. "And it seems as though Mr. Renveil thinks just because I may not have as much experience under my belt as he means I'm corruptible. I may be young but I've learned a lot on these waters, Captain. A lot."

And there they stood, both holding their guns just feet away from each other's face. It was a funny feeling, Delmaria felt, the feeling of staring in to the eyes of a man that may either kill you, or have you kill him. He had to be strong in this situation, for the first man to collapse would be the first man to die, put in the mercy of his enemy. Renveil seemed offset - as the night progressed he had become more and more offset, especially since he saw the ring. He knew that Renveil would make an attempt to take it from him at his weakest moment, but why? What would be so special to a pirate of such wealth that a simple ring would be his crowning achievement in this life?

It was not simply that he wanted to keep the ring from Renveil either, nor protect his honor - it all went back to Marina. Even after sailing for a month with his fellow captains he was never once allowed to see Marina, but he still had her ring to remind him of the warmth that filled his heart every time he saw her. It was what kept him awake and alive during the day, because without it he would be truly alone - alone in a crowd of sailors. He would not let Renveil further corrupt his security.

And finally, after a few tense moments, Renveil made his move. He turned the pistol to his side and shot in to the darkness, echoing loudly in the abyss of the hull. Following the shot, a painful squeak could be heard, before the room fell silent - including the silence of a small patter along the floor. Renveil then tossed his pistol down on to the table, and began to walk towards the staircase off in the distance. "C'mon gentlemen, we have a city to burn."

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Again, my apologies if this felt rushed. I made a lot of edits to this chapter mainly because I didn't want it to be twenty pages of endless psychology.

Not only that, but consider this your breather for what lies ahead. The next chapter is going to have lots of detail, story, and everything you've come to love in this story rolled up in to one. I'm considering it to be my Magnum Opus - but that's for you all to decide ;)

Thanks for reading, mates! Be sure to comment!

Very good, very much looking forward to the next!

Ahoy pirates.

After much contemplation, I have finally come to a very gripping decision. I feel that I do not want to continue Delmaria's past, because I do not want to risk the idea of ruining such an ideal character's past.

Delmaria to me represents something more than "just a character" - he represents something beyond what I can comprehend. He is supposed to represent not only myself, but my ideas, as well as all of yours. The good thing about Delmaria is that he is supposed to be that hero that you always wanted to have, to know about, and love; so venturing in to his past any further would just be doing an injustice against him. Delmaria's past is not for me to write so much as it is for you to invision, because I want him to be just as special to you as he is to me.

That being said, I am going to release a story in the upcoming weeks that will basically continue where "Those Condemned to Freedom" left off, and I intend it to be just as if not more epic than all of it's predecessors. It will not be of Delmaria's past, but of Delmaria's present, and I intend it to not so much be focused on developing, as it is being.

Will I go back and release a chapter from Delmaria's past now and again? Indeed, I will - but for now, I leave the ink and the quill to you, my dear reader, so that you may find something in Delmaria just like I have. Let him symbolize who you are, and how you have come to be - for that's how everybody's past should be.

~ Del