read more inpatreon CaveLeather
In this death-filled sea, no warnings. No negotiations.
Wood-shattering thunder and bone-breaking crisp sounds intertwined into slaughter's symphony.
Occasionally, deliberately spared wrecks drifted back to port. On their decks sprawled psychologically shattered sailors, endlessly muttering "Beast-Lord" while their pupils reflected the horrifying sight of comrades dragged into abyssal depths by tentacles.
When survivors fled back to the Serpent Isles with these accounts, all lucky fantasies completely shattered. Pirates finally understood: they faced not merely a fleet commanding seven seas, but a ruler capable of summoning deep-sea behemoths.
Their fate silenced even escape-minded pirates. Harbors fell deathly silent. Even wave-crash sounds grew unnaturally sharp.
As the Iron Islands' three-day ultimatum swept the Serpent Isles like winter's chill wind, Edwin Ramirez had completed his precise placement on a small island.
This island lay between Fly Island and Serpent's Corner, once housing a market town. During the Red Death's sweep, inhabitants either perished or fled, leaving it abandoned. When Edwin Ramirez frequented the Serpent Isles, he'd sheltered here, dodging enemies, maintaining a secret residence.
Edwin Ramirez named this island—Hurricane Island.
Years before, Edwin had sworn an oath here: one day, I shall sweep the Serpent Isles like an unstoppable hurricane!
Now, atop jagged cliffs, Hurricane Island flew a new golden kraken flag, wildly dancing in salt-laden sea wind.
Edwin stood beneath it, faded leather boots stepping across barnacle-covered reefs. Behind him, his assembled subordinates bore fierce eyes, their armor still stained with Stone Steps bloodrust. While other pirates wavered between fleeing and resisting, this former pirate lord drew his curved blade before gathered forces, its point directly toward where Iron's fleet approached—
"From this day forth!" Edwin stroked his beard, grinning. "The Iron Islands' most violent hurricane shall rise from here!"
Edwin Ramirez, once famous throughout the Serpent Isles, had returned.
In taverns and docks, stories of Edwin Ramirez surfaced like exposed reefs after low tide, revealing hidden currents beneath.
Old sailors with dimmed eyes recalled two young figures years past, side-by-side traversing the Narrow Sea's far shore—Euron and Edwin. Three years their footsteps marked the Free Cities' dark alleys and palaces.
When Euron's forces targeted Stone Steps, under his backing, Edwin Ramirez ascended to that blood-soaked sea's new pirate lord position. Sharper observers whispered: before leaving Stone Steps, Edwin had transferred the entire pirate alliance's authority, without reservation, into Iron Islands' rule.
Information flowed like currents through every corner. When the final puzzle piece fell, all whispered conversations converged into identical conclusion—the Edwin now standing on Hurricane Island was never an opportunist. He'd always been Euron's hidden piece.
Pirates gargled cheap rum while squeezing curses through clenched teeth toward Edwin Ramirez—"traitor," "lackey," "Euron's puppet-on-strings."
Yet when these tattooed brigands actually stood on Hurricane Island's beach, facing that man casually leaning against the helm, they bent their conquest-hardened waists one by one. They wrung rough palms, squeezing smiles uglier than tears, suddenly forgetting how to straighten spines.
More pathetic than dogs!
"Lord Edwin!" a one-eyed captain squeezed through the crowd, chuckling. "We've known each other years—surely you'd point old brothers toward survival?"
Edwin idly toyed with a coral-inlaid dagger, its tip carving shallow and deep grooves in sand. He raised his head, showing white teeth, answering playfully. "Didn't the Iron Islands' proclamation three days ago already say it? Submit or die. No third path!"
Edwin leaned against the faded gunwale, fingertips tapping his sword hilt with dull thuds. Tilting his head, his grin carried mockery. "I'd recommend the former. Since you've already stood before me, surely you've already decided inside, haven't you?"
A scarred pirate squeezed forward, speaking gruffly. "Submit? The Iron Islands are distant. Even if we bow today, how can they possibly police this sea?"
"They'd have us drop curved blades and work mines?" another voice rose from the crowd, harboring suppressed resentment.
Edwin chuckled softly. His quiet voice instantly silenced the clamor. He straightened slowly, his gaze sweeping uncertain faces.
"That's not your concern," his tone remained flat yet carried irrefutable weight. "Lord Euron has his arrangements. Consider Stone Steps—"
He paused deliberately, watching complex emotions flicker across their eyes. "After Iron Islands garrison, those brothers no longer live with heads on guillotine blocks, no longer face naval pursuit, no longer gamble lives against armed merchants. Nowadays simply collecting harbor taxes feeds them fat-lipped and comfortable, more dignified than posturing lords."
Edwin lowered his voice, serpent-like eyes surveying pirate peers. "The only question you need answer: can you sincerely submit to him? And—"
"What ability on your bodies merits that lord even a second glance?"
Edwin stood on reefs, watching yet another batch of pirates depart in decrepit longships from Hurricane Island.
Their silhouettes seemed impossibly tiny amid churning waves, matching their wavering resolve.
Salt-laden wind carried fine spray, crashing against silent stone. These brigands needed time digesting fear, needing to hide in shadows reconsidering—submission's cost versus resistance's possibility.
Upon distant horizons, dark currents stirred.
In filthy taverns' depths, in skull-decorated lairs, the Serpent Isles' pirate king issued assembly's call. Messengers raced between islands in speedboats, bearing tokens carved with skulls and scepters, summoning all hesitant forces.
In the Serpent Isles' largest stronghold—the natural fortress called "Blood Anchor Bay"—torches ignited one after another.
Sails converging from all directions resembled gathering crows, masts displaying ferocious flags. Crude roars and sword-clash sounds persisted through night, brewing a storm—a mad counterattack believing itself capable of challenging the golden kraken.
Edwin gazed at gradually darkening waters, his mouth curving into icy arcs. He'd always known: some fools only believed Death's existence after personally witnessing hell.
Some refusing submission, wanting to test the Iron Islands' weight—hardly novelty in this lawless sea.
In salt-laden wind, Edwin squinted toward Blood Anchor Bay's direction, his fingertips unconsciously tracing rusted blade-hilt stains.
If the moment Iron's flag rose, these brigands who'd licked blood from knife-tips half their lives instantly knelt—that would chill spines. Either they harbored more sinister calculations, or worse things than pirates had emerged in this sea.
Edwin snorted, casually flinging an emptied rum bottle into waves. Amid foam-churning, he seemed hearing distant lair roars and sword-clash's ringing.
"Someone must blood-polish this emblem," Edwin murmured to himself, his eyes flickering with bloodthirsty excitement. "So future trophies hanging on walls gleam more precious."