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Chapter 34 - Eye-Service

The sea breeze filled the Viper's sails as she left port, her sturdy hull cutting through the waves. Captain Crowe's keen eyes scanned the horizon while the crew bustled about securing ropes and stowing supplies.

Below deck, quartermaster Dobbs took stock of their weaponry and provisions, nodding with satisfaction at their haul. The Viper was amply equipped for months at sea - they had food, water, armaments, sailcloth and more.

As the shore slipped from view, Dobb's thoughts turned to the rowdy crew. He would need to curb their wilder impulses and enforce discipline once Captain Crowe was occupied with command.

Dufrene suspected Randy and his ilk would challenge his authority, but he refused to be cowed. The Viper could only survive with an orderly chain of command. Dufrene also might have slightly exaggerated events.

A shout came from the crow's nest - sails spotted! The men stirred, sniffing possibility in the sea air. This was the moment they lived for when adventure beckoned just over the waves. Captain Crowe assessed the speck on the horizon through his spyglass.

"She's our consort, boys, armed to the teeth," Captain Crowe bellowed, rallying his crew. "Aye!" The resounding roar echoed through the ship as the Viper surged forward, chasing after their quarry.

The hunt was on.

Captain Crowe had made arrangements for a consort ship, but little did his crew know the true nature of this alliance. Unbeknownst to them, the captain had secretly sent a letter to a notorious pirate, Captain Charles Vane, who had been awaiting his signal.

Rumour had it Vane had been knighted that was why he had the last name Vane, the memory of encountering Vane's brutality made many stomachs turn. 

Captain Charles Vane was a name that struck fear into the hearts of even the most hardened pirates in the Anglia kingdom. His ruthlessness and depravity were unmatched, earning him a place among the infamous five notorious pirates of the Isles of Man.

Isles of Man was south of Anglia Kindom comprising of The Forlorn Isles and The Shadow Isles and others.

The Viper crashed through the waves, gaining rapidly on her lumbering consort. The die was cast, and the promise of plunder drove the pirates onward.

The shout of the pirates and the roar of the wind jolted Marcellus from his restless slumber. As he slowly regained consciousness, fragments of the previous day trickled back into his mind.

The day before had been a blur he could barely recall what happened after taking the cannons to the ship, no that was not entirely true he could, they were blurs of events he remembered but he could not be sure he did not dream them up after some alcohol.

Back in Lutton Marcellus did not drink, or maybe the pirate's alcohol was really strong, that was his excuse anyway.

What happened?

Marcellus's mind grasped onto fleeting moments. He remembered Tommy's skilled negotiations, securing the acquisition of the cannons.

The loading of the cannons onto the Viper was also etched in his mind. After that, everything seemed to dissolve into a series of disjointed images and sensations.

There was a blur of laughter and dancing, an odd memory of him arm in arm with a bar boy. The details were fuzzy, leaving Marcellus perplexed as to how such an encounter had unfolded.

Why would I be dancing with a boy?

Then, a memory emerged of a heated altercation with the barkeep, the reasons behind their conflict eluding him. Following that, the recollection of Randy, a fellow pirate from Noah's clique, accidentally stabbing himself flashed through Marcel's mind.

The next fragment was disorienting—an image of himself stumbling away from the bar, seeking solace on a deserted boat. The sensation of isolation mixed with a blur of more drinks, left Marcellus's mind muddled in Melonchony.

The memories became even more perplexing as Marcellus recalled a sense of drowning, a suffocating feeling that lingered in his subconscious.

Then, like a ghostly apparition, the image of him wandering alone, seeking refuge on the shoreline, materialized in his mind. The exhaustion must have driven him to find temporary respite there, collapsing into an uneasy slumber.

Marcellus rubbed his temples, trying to make sense of the fragmented memories.

Did I drown and learn how to swim? How did I get on the ship? Did someone carry me?

Marcellus made a loose promise to himself never to indulge in excessive drinking again.

Then a feeling of something missing, as if a part of him had vanished, was not one he desired to experience. It reminded him of the unsettling ritual known as the "wings of Valor."

Ten days had passed since that harrowing event, and while it had granted him a life-saving boon, Marcellus couldn't shake the feeling of helplessness. He yearned for independence and freedom from being subject to another person's whims. That was precisely why he had left his home to seek his fortunes.

In the Anglia kingdom, it was common for young men of his age to venture out in pursuit of their destinies.

The Church of Combat even encouraged such quests for fortune and glory. The priests and priestesses of the temple chanted these sentiments day and night, preaching it as gospel from the God of Glory.

Speaking of the God of Glory, Marcellus held reservations about this deity. He had never laid eyes upon this supposed "God," and therefore, he held no belief in its existence.

Furthermore, Marcellus's childhood revealed the Church's hypocrisy. When he discovered that his mother had once been a prostitute, he witnessed firsthand the way the Church treated her.

While the Church did not find his mother's past sexual acts distasteful, they condemned her for having a child out of wedlock—a sin against man according to the teachings.

The Church dictated that those who committed sins against their fellow men would always receive any ministry last.

Within the Church context, the act of feeding the poor is often referred to as a form of charitable or compassionate ministry. It is seen as an expression of love and a way to serve and care for those in need.

While it may not have a specific sacramental designation in most Churches' traditions, it is considered a significant aspect of living out one's faith and following the teachings of the Church of Combat.

All that meant was Marcellus was always the last in line when the church gave out food.

From an early age, Marcellus grew to despise the Church, despite acknowledging that they had aided his mother and the other orphans. The Church's treatment of his mother and their skewed priorities left a bitter taste in Marcellus's mouth.

Marcellus rose from his makeshift 'quarters' in the hold, a cramped corner he had claimed as his own in the absence of any other pirates. A sly smile played on his lips as he made his way to Marco.

Marco, in theory, was his superior, tasked with directing Marcellus's duties aboard the ship. Yet, irony had its way – Marco, feeling threatened by Marcellus's potential to usurp his position, had kept him at arm's length, assigning him barely any tasks. This left Marcellus with a wealth of idle time, which he found quite to his liking.

He used these long stretches of unoccupied hours to immerse himself in the pages of the book he had acquired. The book was a treasure trove of knowledge and secrets, a solitary companion in the dim hold.

But Marcellus was aware of the precariousness of his situation. Being seen as idle or redundant was a dangerous game among pirates, where each crew member's worth was measured by their contribution. He didn't want to overstay his utility, to become a subject of discontent among the crew for drawing equal pay while seemingly doing nothing.

Yet, Marcellus was not one to worry. He had a cunning plan, a skill he had honed in Bastards' Haven, inspired by the wisdom of a slave. 'Eye-service,' as the slave from the Republic of Novus had termed it. It was the art of appearing diligently at work when under observation, a tactic employed by those whose primary concern was to avoid chastisement or curry favour, rather than any true devotion to their tasks.

Marcellus's smile broadened as he pondered how he could artfully employ this technique. It was a game of perception, and he was well-versed in its rules. With a careful balance of visibility and productivity, he could maintain his place on the ship without drawing undue attention or ire.

It was a dance of deception and survival, and Marcellus was ready to take the floor.