The scene shifts, leaving the frantic streets of Havenport far behind. The scent in the air was heavy of salt, tar, and rot, and the rhythmic creak of wood accompanies the rocking of a ship on the open sea.
Damurah was scrubbing the deck, his large frame hunched over a bristly brush as he worked. The sun beat down on his shoulders, but the work was a cold penance.
He had only joined the crew of the Shadow Kraken a few weeks ago. His entry fee had been a bag full of cursed blades he had made and the crew's captain had accepted them with a hungry grin.
A heavy, leather-wrapped blade was secured to his hip, its hilt radiating a low, malevolent energy that only he could feel. He had given away the rest of the cursed blades, but this one was his alone. He looked up from the deck to see the ship's captain, a burly man with a scar over his left eye, watching him.
"You're slacking, boy," the captain said, his voice a low growl. "I've heard rumors of a storm coming, and I need a strong hand at the ropes. Show me what you got."
Without a word, Damurah set the brush down, the bristles scraping against the rough wood of the deck. He followed the captain, his jaw set, his every step a deliberate effort to keep the simmering fire in his gut under control.
The sky above the Shadow Kraken was a bruised purple, and the winds were starting to kick up, whipping the heavy ropes against the masts. The captain bellowed orders, and Damurah went to work.
He moved with a quiet, efficient grace, his hands moving over the ropes with magnificent speed. His knuckles were white with the effort, not from the physical strain, but from the constant struggle to keep his anger from turning his very hands into weapons. He could feel the fire building under his skin, a hot, restless energy. But he suppressed it, turning that raw power into a quiet strength. The ropes didn't chafe his hands, and they seemed to move with a supernatural ease under his touch.
The captain watched him, his eyes narrowed. Damurah wasn't a captain, but he was a good sailor, and the captain knew it. He had proven his worth.
After the storm officially cleared from the sky, the captain approached Damurah, his footsteps silent on the wet deck. "Where'd you get your knowledge from, son?" he asked.
The captain was dressed in simple, ordinary clothes, his face rugged with stubble where a full beard should have been. His orange eyes were piercing, and he looked at Damurah as a complete equal; they were the same size and stature, their eyes meeting without one having to look up or down.
Damurah cleared his dry throat. "I didn't get much knowledge, but I used to help my father on his fishing boat."
The captain's orange eyes didn't waver. His expression was unreadable, a blank slate that gave nothing away. "Well for a little knowledge of the sea and the vessels that sail on it, you're a natural." The captain patted Damurah's shoulder, his tone a rare show of praise. "Good work, son."
A small bit of pride swelled in Damurah's chest, a welcome change from the simmering anger he was used to. He nodded and returned to washing the deck, the methodical task a distraction from his thoughts. The sea had been quiet for the few weeks he'd been on the ship, their journey a string of stops at port cities along Erenia's north coast.
He looked up at the flag of his new crew, a black banner with the outline of a grey kraken on it. It was a terrifying sight, but something about it made Damurah's blood surge with a grim pride. At the end of each of the kraken's tentacles was a different symbol, a mark of each of the six elements: fire, water, air, earth, light, and dark.
Damurah leaned against the rail, his gaze sweeping over the deck. The crew was a diverse mix of sizes, shapes, and colors, all working as a single, cohesive force. He felt a family in being part of this unit, a feeling he hadn't experienced in a long time.
Just then, the deck creaked under a heavy weight, and a man twice as wide as Damurah approached. He had a thick red beard and long red hair pulled into a high ponytail. He wore leather shoulder armor but no shirt, and puffy trousers with heavy knee and shin armor. His boots seemed to be made of iron, their steps heavy. Two battle axes were strapped to his back, their polished blades glinting in the sun. He stopped in front of Damurah, his large frame blocking the light.
"Aye boy, why ain't you working?" the man asked, his voice a low rumble.
"Just taking everything in, Chayne (SHAYN)," Damurah responded, his voice even and calm.
Chayne didn't move. He simply stared, his blue eyes fixed on Damurah's face. The tension in the air was palpable, and Damurah braced himself for an attack. But the giant man's gaze softened, a hint of a smile tugging at his red beard.
"It is a marvel of a vessel, isn't it?" Chayne said, his voice energetic.
"Everything on it is as well," Damurah responded, "You all work so well together."
Chayne nodded, his heavy armor creaking with the motion. "Aye. We're a family here. We all got a place on this ship, and we all got a part to play in the grand dance of the sea." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the crew. "We don't get many new faces, and even fewer that fit in so well. We're a strange bunch." He looked back at Damurah, his expression now serious. "What made you join, boy?"
Damurah let out a slow, deliberate breath. He looked Chayne in the eye, knowing he was taking a risk. This man was a stranger, but something about the way he'd spoken, the pride in his voice when he talked about the crew, made him feel safe enough to trust him.
"I didn't join for riches or glory," Damurah said, his voice a low rumble. "I was tired of being nothing but the older brother. I felt... lost. My anger was a result of it." He didn't say anything else, but the raw, honest confession hung in the air between them.
Chayne's eyes widened slightly, a flicker of recognition passing over them. The massive man's gaze swept over Damurah's form, and a knowing look settled on his face. The silence stretched between them, the only sound the creaking of the ship and the gentle lapping of the waves against the hull, until Chayne let out a low, rumbling sigh.
"Ah," he said, his voice soft with understanding, "a lost soul then."
Chayne reached out, his massive hand settling on Damurah's shoulder, covering it entirely. The touch wasn't threatening, but it was firm, a physical sign of his acceptance. "You're amongst your own kind," he said, his voice a low, rumbling comfort. He waved his other hand out toward the bustling deck, where the crew was working in unison. "Everyone here is a lost soul."
The words resonated with Damurah, a sense of belonging washing over him. He wasn't alone in his anger or his lostness. He had found a family of sorts, a strange, violent, but accepting one.
"Land hoy!" a man from the crow's nest yelled down, his voice carrying over the sound of the wind.
"Thank you, Westleh (WEST-leh)!" Chayne shouted back, turning to Damurah with a new seriousness in his eyes. "Get ready to anchor, boy." He moved with purpose, barking orders as he went around the ship, sending pirates to their stations to prepare for docking.
The captain came out to the deck, his piercing orange eyes fixed on the land ahead. He took a deep breath, a smile spreading across his face. He whispered to himself, a low, knowing sound. "Antempu (an-TEM-poo). The Rebel Land."
The Shadow Kraken sailed on, its black flag with the six elemental symbols flapping in the wind. The ship was approaching a rugged, untamed shore, a place with a destructive and brutal nature. The harbor was a chaotic mess of battered ships and rough-looking sailors, a world where strength was the only law that mattered.
The captain's voice boomed across the deck, his words a warning. "You can bring your weapons, men!" he yelled. "Repudi (ruh-PYOO-dee) is a harsh port town. Don't look at anyone wrong unless you want a fight."
He strode over to a weapons rack, a flicker of his orange eyes landing on the stack of blades Damurah had offered as tribute. He grabbed one of the cursed blades, its hilt humming with a malevolent energy, and strapped a gauntlet to his wrist.
With a practiced flick of his hand, a blade popped out from underneath his wrist, and with a downward motion, three sharp claws extended from the top of his wrist, and the blade underneath retracted. He smiled, a dark, dangerous expression that transformed his face.
"Have fun, men. Come back as the sun rises. We leave again in the morning."
With that, the crew disembarked, their footsteps heavy on the wooden gangplank. They were a motley crew of lost souls, all armed and ready for the destructive rules of Repudi.
Chayne let out a low laugh and slapped Damurah on the back, the force of the blow almost sending him to the ground. "Westleh, Tylus (TIE-lus), and I are going to grab some good food," he said, patting his large belly with a hungry grin.
Two men stood behind him. The first, a man with glasses and a beard, had short brown hair streaked with grey. He wore a shawl over his leather armor and held a unique piece of weaponry: a crossbow with a scope. He had a look of calm, quiet confidence, like a hunter waiting for their prey.
The second man had a darker skin tone and a wild mess of dark curly hair. He wore chain link armor on his upper body and had a heavy club on one hip and a hammer on the other.
"Boys, this here is Damurah," Chayne said, gesturing between them. "Damurah, meet Westleh, our eyes in the sky and the best shot you'll ever see." The man with glasses gave a short, respectful nod. "And this is Tylus," Chayne continued, gesturing to the man with curly hair.
Tylus grinned, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. He gave Damurah a massive wave. "It's a pleasure to meet ya, boy! I've been tellin' ol' Chayne here that we need some new blood. Someone with some fire!" He laughed, a booming, friendly sound. "We're a good crew, and we're a good family. You'll fit right in, don't you worry about that."
"You boys stick together," Chayne said, looking from one to the other. "Repudi ain't a place for men on their own."
Chayne started heading down the road, his iron-soled boots making a heavy, deliberate rhythm on the cobblestones. Westleh and Tylus fell in behind him, their steps a more practiced, silent grace. Damurah decided to join them, his own boots making a quiet sound as he fell into step.
The port town of Repudi was a chaotic mess of sounds, sights, and smells. The air was thick with the stench of fish and spilled ale, and the sounds of shouting, laughter, and breaking glass echoed from every alleyway. Rough-looking sailors with scarred faces eyed them with a hostile curiosity. The rules here were indeed destructive; the law was not a written code, but the size of your fists and the sharpness of your blade.
As they walked, Tylus's booming voice filled the silence. "So, where are we heading, boss?" he asked Chayne, a wide grin on his face. "Are we going to get some of that good ol' Repudi ale, or are we going to find some company?"
Chayne grunted, his eyes scanning the streets. "We're going to find a tavern, but we're going to be careful about it. We don't want to start a fight we can't finish."
The four of them walked toward the closest tavern, a dilapidated building with a tilted sign and a door that hung crookedly from its hinges. The sounds of raucous laughter, drunken shouts, and the clanging of tankards spilled out into the street. Chayne pushed the door open, the rusty hinges groaning in protest.
The tavern was a mess of miscreants and cutthroats. A burly man with a missing eye was arm-wrestling a woman with a tattooed face, a group of pirates were gambling with chipped coins, and a bard with a broken lute was singing a drunken ballad. The air was thick with the smell of spilled ale and unwashed bodies.
Just as the door creaked open, all the noise and commotion died. The chatter halted, the song ended mid-note, and every single eye in the room turned toward the doorway. A man with a patch over his eye peeked around a thick wooden pole, and another man with a scarred face peeked around a wall. An awkward, tense moment of silence filled the tavern.
Chayne simply stood there, his massive form filling the doorway, his eyes scanning the room. He took in every face, every tattoo, every hidden weapon. After a long, tense moment, he let out a low, rumbling chuckle. The spell was broken. The burly man slammed the woman's arm down, the gamblers went back to their game, and the tavern returned to its chaotic, drunken state.
Chayne let out a booming laugh, the sound echoing through the tavern. "The taverns ain't changed since I was last here," he said, walking over to a large wooden table near the crackling fireplace and the bard, whose tune was now a low, mournful hum.
Just then, a server with a kind smile and a quick step came up with four mugs of ale. She set them down in front of Chayne, Westleh, Tylus, and Damurah, her eyes wide. "Well I'll be damned. Chayne? It's been years since y'all on the Kraken have stopped by. What's the occasion?"
Chayne drank the entire mug in a single, long gulp, the foam leaving a white mustache on his red beard. "Not sure. Boss man wanted to make a stop here."
The server grabbed his empty mug, shaking her head with a familiar grin. "Well, you tell him to stop by. The ladies here miss him." She walked back to the bar, where four giant barrels were propped up against the wall, and brought him another.
The four of them settled at the table, the mugs of ale cold and refreshing in their hands. The sounds of the tavern washed over them, a chaotic background. After a long gulp of his ale, Damurah set his mug down with a soft thud.
"I have to ask," he said, his voice low enough to be heard only by his companions, "what are your elements?"
Chayne let out a low chuckle, a deep, rumbling sound that shook his massive shoulders. He raised a hand and a gentle current of wind swirled around his palm. The mug on the table trembled slightly. "I'm air," he said. "It's what makes me so fast on the ropes and in fights. But you haven't seen that yet." He lowered his hand, and the air around them settled.
Westleh, the quiet man with glasses, simply nodded. He held his hand out, and a small sphere of water materialized in his palm, swirling with the precision of a whirlpool. "I am water," he said, his voice calm and steady.
"And I'm earth!" Tylus boomed, his voice full of pride. He stomped his foot, and the very ground beneath them shuddered. A small cluster of rocks pushed up from the wooden floor, rattling the mugs on the table. "You know, for all the smashin' and bashin'." He laughed.
"And you, boy?" Chayne asked, looking at Damurah.
Damurah grinned and held out his hand. A small flicker of flame danced in his palm, a controlled, silent fire. "I'm fire."
"Fire eh?" Tylus asked, his voice a low rumble. He looked over at Damurah, who was seated beside him. "You must be angry all the time."
Damurah scoffed and took a long drink from his ale, a smirk on his face. "Not since I left home."
There was a small moment of silence between them as they drank. Damurah licked the ale off the stubble forming on his face, the taste of barley and hops a comforting contrast to the lingering anger he'd felt for so long.
He looked around at the three men he now considered his friends, and asked, "What made you all join the crew?"
Chayne was the first to speak, his massive shoulders slumping a bit as he leaned back. "I was a soldier once, a long time ago. Fought in a war I didn't believe in, for a king who didn't care. I lost a lot of good men and a lot of myself. When the war was over, I couldn't go back to the way things were. So I found the sea, and I found the Kraken."
Westleh took a slow, deliberate sip of his ale. "I was a scholar," he said, his voice soft. "I studied the elements, the way they moved and the way they worked. I was fascinated by them. But my city... they didn't like my curiosity. They said I was a heretic, a dangerous man. So I left, and I found the one place where I could express my curiosity freely."
Tylus let out a big sigh, his face serious for a moment. "I was a laborer, a farmer in a village. A happy man. But then a drought came. The crops died, the animals died, and my family... they went looking for food and never came back. I got angry, and I used my anger to fight. Now I fight to make sure no one else has to feel the way I did."
The four of them sat in the tavern, a silent understanding passing between them. Damurah took it all in, a cascade of new questions and possibilities arising in his mind. He looked from one to the next, a deep curiosity in his eyes. "Where are you all from?" He asked, a simple question to get to know his new friends.
"From Thruk in Erenia," Chayne responded, his voice a low rumble.
Damurah's eyes widened. He stopped the others before they could answer, his attention turning entirely to Chayne. "You were in the war with Frozetria then," he said, his voice quiet, the statement a heavy weight in the air between them. The war that had taken his father's life.
Chayne simply nodded, holding his ale to his lips and closing his eyes. The war was clearly a sore subject for him. Damurah picked up on the cue, settling back in his chair and turning his attention back to the table as a whole.
"I'm from Grosha in Dragopar," Tylus said next, his voice still boisterous and friendly.
Westleh took a slow sip of his ale, his gaze distant. "And I am from Josger in Heliop."
Tylus broke the silence, his booming voice cutting through the tavern's commotion. "Well, what about you, boy? Where are you from?"
Damurah hesitated, looking down into the dark depths of his ale. He'd just heard the men bare their souls, and a part of him felt a deep kinship with their shared histories of being lost. He took a deep breath and looked up. "I'm from the countryside near Havenport, in Erenia," he said, the words feeling strange on his tongue.
The other three men nodded, a look of understanding passing between them. They had all left something behind, and Damurah was no different.
"So you just left, eh?" Chayne asked, his voice low. "Just packed up and left without a word to anyone?"
Damurah took another long drink of his ale and set the mug down with a hard thud. He met Chayne's gaze, and the easy camaraderie they had just built up vanished, replaced by a cold, hard resentment.
"Yup," he said, his voice clipped and distant. "I was living under my little brother's shadow. He was always so much more special than me and my siblings." The words were laced with a bitter poison, a small, simmering hatred that he had carried with him for years.
The tavern's noise seemed to fade into a dull roar around them. Chayne, Westleh, and Tylus looked at him, their expressions a mix of surprise and understanding. They had all been lost souls.
The conversation snapped back to life with a jolt as Tylus slammed a massive hand on the table. The mugs rattled, but no one in the tavern batted an eye. "Well, that means you gotta prove you're better than him!" his voice boomed over the tavern's crowd.
Chayne, however, simply motioned to the server for another round of ale. "You won't do that on a pirate ship, son," he explained, his voice low and serious, cutting through Tylus's enthusiasm. "What we do is amazing and free. We are unchained from kings and governments, sailing where the wind takes us, and we have a brotherhood here you won't find anywhere else."
He paused, his eyes holding Damurah's. "But it's a life that isn't taken easy. People don't look at us fondly, we're outlaws and scum to the rest of the world. And if you're looking for recognition from your folks by pirating, you'll never get it. The freedom we find here is an isolation to everyone else. You'll be trading their scorn for your own kind of peace."
"Well," Damurah said, taking a long drink of his ale. "My father is gone. Probably died in the war with Frozetria."
Chayne's expression shifted, "What's your family name, son?" he asked, his voice low and devoid of the previous warmth.
Damurah paused, the question hitting him with the force of a physical blow. He thought about the secrecy surrounding the Powerhart and the danger the name carried. The eyes of Chayne, Tylus, and Westleh were glued to him, every sound in the raucous tavern suddenly distant. After a tense, agonizing moment of silence, he finally spoke.
"Mercer."