1154th Year of Ethereal Chronicles
394th Year of the Draewyn Empire
Anglia Kingdom [Lutton Marsh]
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Marcellus had not just boarded the ship; he was illicitly stowed away, buried amongst the miscellany of black market goods.
The sordid smell of secrecy and gunpowder was thick in the air, matching the grim determination in his heart.
He felt an icy shiver of relief, the cold metal of his reclaimed silver pouch heavy in his pocket. He'd retrieved it from the grasp of a disreputable 'harlot', a memory that already felt like a lifetime ago.
Well, she was the daughter of a harlot, not one herself to be fair.
Anne my foot he cursed.
He felt a surge of anger towards her, but the reason for it eluded him.
His emotions seemed to bubble up from a place deep within, murky and undefined. It was a perplexing sensation, leaving him grappling with feelings he couldn't quite comprehend or articulate.
It might have been because she reminded him of someone or something, the whole situation that night was ugly to him.
The ship's cook, a dubious man with untrustworthy eyes, had a big belly and had demanded a toll of 30 coppers for his hidden passage, almost half a silver coin.
The man had launched into an elaborate speech about the cost of sustenance and the risks involved, but Marcellus was wise enough to recognize a scam when he saw one.
Yet, desperation left him with no room for negotiation.
I bet he can not see his feet, gluttonous pig.
The Cook had devised a strategy to conceal him in the ship's hold, a temporary refuge.
However, this plan also included an alternate course of action in case of trouble or an opportunity arose for him to assimilate with the crew. Given that the captain was not intimately familiar with all his crew members, there existed a chance for him to blend in unnoticed among them. This contingency in Cook's plan offered a sliver of hope for a more permanent solution to his predicament.
The hold was damn cold.
An ominous shadow of impending doom seemed to follow him closely, a relentless reminder that the plan was fraught with uncertainties. Amidst this, an inexplicable surge of deep-seated anger welled up within him.
It was a visceral, almost primal feeling, born out of the stark realization that his only chance at survival lay in this risky escape. If he failed to seize this opportunity, to embark on whatever perilous voyage this ship promised, he knew his very existence hung in the balance.
This growing sense of desperation manifested as a raw irritation at everything around him. Every minor inconvenience, every moment of uncertainty, seemed to fuel his frustration, turning it into a raging inferno of anger.
---
As his mind ventured further into the depths, he stumbled upon a crumpled piece of paper, once used as a makeshift meal mat. It revealed itself to be a tattered poster, its fragmented headlines barely decipherable.
"1152
The pirates of the Forlorn Isles and the Shadow Isles pose a significant threat to maritime trade in the region. Consequently, the laws of civilized nations have branded them as 'hostis humani generis', enemies of all mankind.
Enemy of all mankind.
In response, pirates adhere to a doctrine of their own... war against the world..."
Though more words adorned the page, their contents remained obscured, lost to the ravages of time. Marcellus pondered their implications.
---
The next day morning.
The day was cloaked in an ominous cloud cover, concealing any trace of land on the distant horizon. The rumbling thunderclouds encircled the two ships, their dark presence reminiscent of a colossal stadium.
With anticipation gripping the air, the captain raised his spyglass, peering through its lens to catch sight of the approaching vessel.
Just as he did, a concerned individual approached him, anxiety etched upon their face. "Sir," he implored, "she draws near, we must consider surrendering while we still possess that option."
Gazing upon the individual with a mixture of disdain and unwavering resolve, the captain sharply turned his head, his voice echoing across the deck. "Guns Crew... at the ready!"
Someone echoed him "Guns Crew at the ready!"
The sailors started yelling louder than they were before although it was mostly unintelligible.
Yet, amidst the clamour, a rising chant emerged a solemn mantra that resonated through the chaos. "Heave... Heave... Heave..."
Amidst the swirling chaos, a man with a receding hairline and a protruding belly, giving him an almost pregnant appearance, stealthily manoeuvred his way toward the captain's quarters. Casting furtive glances in every direction, he exuded an air of suspicion.
This was the cook!
Swiftly, he reached the shelves and began perusing the collection of books, his eyes searching for something specific. After a moment, his gaze settled upon a nondescript black book, and a fleeting, self-satisfied smirk graced his lips as he discreetly concealed it beneath his chest.
Emerging from the cabin, he descended to the lower deck, where men rushed about, shouting and brandishing rifles they retrieved from storage and carried up to the main deck.
Paying no mind to the flurry of activity around him, he moved with a certain grace, occasionally pausing to allow the men to pass, his demeanour imitating that of a true gentleman.
Upon reaching his intended destination, the man cautiously opened the door, slipping inside. However, before he could shut it behind him, an unexpected surge of force jolted the door wide open.
Caught off guard, he stumbled backwards, his equilibrium disrupted by the sudden impact. Just as he attempted to regain his composure, the intruder swiftly pushed the door shut, securing it with a swift motion.
With a determined resolve, they promptly locked the door, deftly lifting the wooden beam and sliding it into place within the sturdy hinges, ensuring the door's fortification.
"What on earth are you doing?" the cook on the floor groaned, still recovering from the unexpected fall.
"Oops, sorry about that," the intruder replied, offering a half-hearted shrug.
The portly cook struggled to his feet, a hint of frustration evident on his face. "Why aren't you up on deck with the rest of the crew, as we had planned?"
The intruder stumbled around the swaying ship, trying to maintain their balance. "I think the real question is, why aren't they all down here with us? It's dangerous up there, you know."
"you could get yourself killed!"
"Oh, so you're a coward then?" the rotund man retorted, his voice tinged with sarcasm.
A mischievous smirk played across the intruder's face. "Yeah, perhaps I am. But what about you?"
Indignation flickered in the man's eyes. "I'm no coward. I'm a cook. I've no quarters to man. What do you think the captain would do if he found you"
"I am not part of his crew" The intruder chuckled, undeterred. "Well, if the captain's dead and I'm alive, I'd say my odds are pretty good. Don't you think?"
The portly cook crossed his arms, eyeing the intruder with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. "You always did have a knack for finding silver linings, didn't you? The captain's a tough old sea dog. I've seen him weather storms that would make even the Lord of Storms himself tremble."
The intruder's smirk faded slightly as they contemplated the cook's words. "Well, I suppose you have a point. The captain is a formidable figure. I'll be prepared to do whatever needs to be done."
A mischievous glimmer sparked in the cook's eyes. "And what exactly do you think needs to be done? Are you planning to take command of the ship, Captain Stow?"
The intruder's expression shifted from confidence to uncertainty. "Well, I hadn't really thought that far ahead. I was more focused on escaping the pirates, to be honest."
The portly cook couldn't help but chuckle at the intruder's sincerity. "Ah, so you're a pirate-escaping coward then? Quite the combination."
The intruder shot him a wry smile. "Well, I've got one and they have guns and cannons, it's better to be a coward who lives than a brave soul at the bottom of the sea"
The cook raised an eyebrow, playing along with the humour. "Ah, it is not so bad. I actually have a few friends down there."
They shared a morbid laugh, momentarily finding solace in the morbid jest.
The cook's tone turned more serious as he continued, "Captain Stow, you've purchased your death for a mere thirty coppers. That's a tale that will be whispered among sailors for years to come."
The intruder circled the room to find a seat he could barely maintain his balance.
Contemplating the cook's words. "Maybe... maybe it might indeed become a legend. But make no mistake, those pirates are as real as they come. I've seen brutality firsthand, and escaping with my life won't be an easy feat."
The cook wanted to speak up but hesitated. How could a coward who fled from pirates dare utter words like; I have seen brutality? isn't that simply embarrassing? "you are f*cking hiding!"