***Author's Note: Hello all and sundry, just a few notes of explanation,
disclaimer, and random babblings before you jump into this tale. First of
all, I do not own anything remotely related to the Dungeons and Dragons
universe. . . that's really just to cover my arse as *most* of the details
in here are not from a strictly D&D universe, but more closely tied to my
good friend Tim's campaign house rules. Weylyn belongs to me, so hands
off. LOL Secondly, I plan on the tone of this story changing somewhat
drastically over time. I intend for it to become rather silly and
lighthearted eventually, so if you're looking for blood, vinegar, and
angst, you probably won't want to read much past the first chapter. You
may not anyway, but that's not the point. ; ) Thirdly, I welcome feedback
of ALL kinds. If you love it, tell me. If you hate it, tell me. This is
not an open invitation to flame, but I do very much welcome constructive
criticism. Fourthly, in case you're wondering, yes, the title is inspired
by Lloyd Alexander's wonderful book The Marvelous Misadventures of
Sebastian. I heartily recommend it to anyone looking for a good fun read.
And now, with no further ado.I hope you enjoy my odd little tale. Peace
all.***
~EireCat
* * * * * * * * * *
It is a sad fact of this life that happiness is highly overrated. It isn't everything and no matter what some of the more starry-eyed may say, it is certainly not always a good thing. For instance, what makes a marauding Visigoth happy may not be joyous news to the villagers whose houses he has just set on fire. And what makes the fisherman happy may not be seen as especially conducive to the welfare of the trout he has just hooked. Therefore it is probably best to go through life being very careful not to do anything so silly as wishing people happiness.
Weylyn was very happy. It was one of those frighteningly perfect days. The sun was dashing itself to diamonds on the waves that rolled against the hull of his ship. There was a fine breeze running from the south that carried with it the tang of salt and the bright song of gulls. It played along the tips of the white waves and tangled itself in his long black hair, blowing it every which way in a mass of charcoal against his face. Humming tunelessly to himself, he tucked the errant strands behind the points of his ears and continued on his easy rolling walk along the deck.
The tall masts of The Black Maggie cast shadows across his path as dark as her sails. The endless cacophony of his crew at work cried shrilly in his ears, as Weylyn ran his long pale fingers lovingly over the rails as he walked, caressing each ragged scar and scratch and burn as if they were the beauty marks on the soft skin of a woman. Reaching the high hull of his ship at last, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply of the cold free air of his beloved sea, ever-present against the backdrop of smoke and tar, gunpowder, steel, and sweat. He smiled.
Weylyn the Blackwolf, terror of the Ten Seas of Aurellia, was in a very good mood. And as usual, this meant that someone was going to die.
* * * * * * *
The port city of Caladh sat like a fat guinea hen on the wide sweep of white sand that defined the bustling harbor town. Her people scurried over the lichen soaked wood of the wharfs and piers like so many ants in bright clothing. Weylyn smiled slowly as he gazed through the clear lens of his spyglass. Miles away, he could make out the bustling crowds of every race imaginable. Elves, Halflings, dwarves, half-orcs-miners and traders and sailors and mercenaries, all tumbled together in a loud jostling mass.
"Beautiful, isn't it sir?" The voice came soft behind his shoulder.
Weylyn lowered his spyglass thoughtfully to the loop hanging from his belt. For an instant, the laughing sea was reflected bright in the green of his eyes. He turned to the man standing at his shoulder and smiled crookedly. Well . . . "man" in the general sense. Rellan was a mixed blood: a half-elf like himself. Weylyn glanced at his first mate-- angular features, slightly pointed ears, and copper hair braided back with beads, shells and small bones. He laughed silently. Apparently the only thing both he and Rellan had inherited from their elven parents was looks. The refined sensibilities of elves hardly very often gave way to the life of piracy that they had chosen. Ah well . . . another blame to lay on a human lineage.
"Beautiful?" he sighed. "Yes Rellan, Caladh is beautiful. The spice markets, the jewelry merchants, the gardens, the women. . . East of the mountains you will not find a more. . . pleasurable place to while away the tedious hours spent on shore." He lifted the glass once again to his eyes, and the corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly. "Yes, she is beautiful Rellan. But more importantly. . . she is rich. Very, very rich. . . " His smile grew bigger, and his teeth flashed white in the pale morning sun-- the feral, mad grin of a wolf. "And today she is ours my boys. Full speed ahead."
* * * * * * * * * *
The harbor loomed on the horizon, drawing ever tantalizing nearer. Soon. Soon all worth having would be theirs and the rest lying in smoking ruin and broken heaps of rubble and . . . Weylyn's happy reverie was broken by Rellan's hand on his shoulder. He suppressed a sigh of irritation.
"Yes?"
Rellan did not reply immediately. His hand still on Weylyn's shoulder he was staring fixedly towards the town that still remained a medium sized speck on the horizon. Rellan's eyes were a bright silver blue most of the time, now however, the color was clouded in confusion and what Weylyn unhappily suspected looked like fear.
"Do you see them? Do you see them sir? Sails on the horizon."
Weylyn quirked a finely shaped eyebrow at his second in command. Really, this was getting to be too much. He had places to go and people to kill and the last thing he needed now was his first mate going to pieces on him. He sighed.
"Yes, Rellan. I see the sails. This is a bloody *harbor* Rellan! Of course there are going to be sails! One would think your first big clue would be the large amount of *ships* that are present."
Rellan gave no indication that he had heard, just continued staring over Weylyn's left shoulder to the sea and the bright town beyond. Finally, he shook his head softly.
"No sir. Not the merchant vessels. Not the ships in the harbor." He pressed his lips together and turned finally to face his captain. "The sails coming towards us, riding our wind. The ships that bare the scarlet sails of the Aurellian navy." At that moment, the lookout high above in the crows nest gave a shout; raising the alarm that an enemy was on the horizon.
Weylyn whirled around on his heel, searching the calm sea for a glimpse of the ships Rellan spoke of. No. Nothing. There was nothing out there except the rich and waiting shores of . . .
Wait. Wait . . . there was something. Something that glowed bright crimson against the white sand of shore. Something coming towards them very fast. Very fast indeed. He cursed and spun around again, screaming orders to his crew.
"All hands on deck my boys. Prepare to be boarded and quite possibly slaughtered. It's their death or yours at the end of a rope in the town square. And they do look so tragically heroic in their blood spattered uniforms." The red sailed ship was drawing ever closer, coming seemingly out of nowhere. A few moments more and Weylyn would be able to see how well they scrubbed their deck rails. He laughed, loud and wild, and in a single movement, drew his black steel rapier from the scabbard at his side.
"Come my beauties. Let's show them how the Blackwolf howls . . . "
There was no more time for words, as the red sailed ship bore down hard on them. Her captain standing tall in the bows, striking and heroic in his gold braided uniform, took his plumed hat off to brush the fall of fair hair away from his eyes. Lifting his voice over the crashing of waves and the shouting of men he called for Weylyn's attention.
"My name is Captain Nathaniel Zyphire. To the captain of the Black Maggie we deliver this warning. Your ship and yourself are known in these waters. You stand accused of piracy on the Emperor's seas, a crime punishable by imprisonment and death. Stand down immediately, and surrender your ship, your crew, and yourself to me immediately. By order of the high Emperor of Aurellia." The young navy captain lifted his chin proudly, but Weylyn smiled inwardly at the slight tremble in the young man's voice. The young man was obviously new to this command; an upstart that had seen a fine prize and was now probably regretting jumping into this confrontation without more ships at his back. Quite a stripling this one was, and bigger than his breeches if he thought to so callously take on a cutthroat of such high standing as himself. The clear young voice rang out again over the clash of the waves. "What say you, pirate?"
Weylyn walked slowly to the railing along the deck. The two ships rocked gently next to each other on the calm sea barely twenty feet dividing one scarred hull from the other. In the dead silence of waiting, the sound of a rapier being drawn from its scabbard rang clearly through the air.
"What say I?" Weylyn smiled as he ran his hand over the blade of his rapier, opening a thin line of blood red over his palm. He clenched his hand tightly and a dark stream of red began to drip softly down to the deck at his feet. "I say the Emperor has grown fat and insolent indeed if he thinks the Blackwolf will surrender to the squealings of a puffed up babe." He spat once contemptuously. "That's what I say boy. Go home. Go home to your mother and your wet nurse and pray that I don't find you when I'm burning the rest of your sorry city to ashes."
The young captain's jaw clenched. He had a feeling he was definitely over his head now, but he had been too hungry to prove himself to think to call for backup. And now, there was no turning back. He took a last despairing look at the loyal men grouped around him. How many of them would die if it came to battle? He sighed. Weylyn Blackwolf rarely took prisoners, and those who were taken captive reportedly screamed for death before it was given to them. Shaking his head against the creeping sensation of despair and more than a little guilt, he raised his voice once again.
"I entreat you, sir, to reconsider. Not all your followers need die on the gallows of Caladh. Law must be followed, but I beg you not waste more lives than is necessary. Please, come aboard my ship, and we will speak."
Across the distance between the ships and over the cacophony of the waves, an odd, unsettling sound reached Captain Zyphire's ears. Weylyn was chuckling low and long in the back of his throat; a cold, grating, disturbing sound that drifted in the silence and chilled the hearts of Nathaniel's crew. His clear green eyes flashed in the noon sun with laughter, anger, excitement . . . and perhaps something not altogether sane. He lifted his gaze as if to pierce Captain Zyphire straight through the heart with only the heat of his eyes. "The wolf doesn't speak boy. . . he only bites."
Giving a long, chilling howl, Weylyn brought his sword down in a sweeping arc, severing one of the thick ropes that were tied to the railing. Bracing himself for the wild swing between the ships, Weylyn turned to his crew. "Now my beauties! Now for a red sea rising!" With a flash of steel and a feral howl of laughter, the crew of the Black Maggie swarmed into battle.
~EireCat
* * * * * * * * * *
It is a sad fact of this life that happiness is highly overrated. It isn't everything and no matter what some of the more starry-eyed may say, it is certainly not always a good thing. For instance, what makes a marauding Visigoth happy may not be joyous news to the villagers whose houses he has just set on fire. And what makes the fisherman happy may not be seen as especially conducive to the welfare of the trout he has just hooked. Therefore it is probably best to go through life being very careful not to do anything so silly as wishing people happiness.
Weylyn was very happy. It was one of those frighteningly perfect days. The sun was dashing itself to diamonds on the waves that rolled against the hull of his ship. There was a fine breeze running from the south that carried with it the tang of salt and the bright song of gulls. It played along the tips of the white waves and tangled itself in his long black hair, blowing it every which way in a mass of charcoal against his face. Humming tunelessly to himself, he tucked the errant strands behind the points of his ears and continued on his easy rolling walk along the deck.
The tall masts of The Black Maggie cast shadows across his path as dark as her sails. The endless cacophony of his crew at work cried shrilly in his ears, as Weylyn ran his long pale fingers lovingly over the rails as he walked, caressing each ragged scar and scratch and burn as if they were the beauty marks on the soft skin of a woman. Reaching the high hull of his ship at last, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply of the cold free air of his beloved sea, ever-present against the backdrop of smoke and tar, gunpowder, steel, and sweat. He smiled.
Weylyn the Blackwolf, terror of the Ten Seas of Aurellia, was in a very good mood. And as usual, this meant that someone was going to die.
* * * * * * *
The port city of Caladh sat like a fat guinea hen on the wide sweep of white sand that defined the bustling harbor town. Her people scurried over the lichen soaked wood of the wharfs and piers like so many ants in bright clothing. Weylyn smiled slowly as he gazed through the clear lens of his spyglass. Miles away, he could make out the bustling crowds of every race imaginable. Elves, Halflings, dwarves, half-orcs-miners and traders and sailors and mercenaries, all tumbled together in a loud jostling mass.
"Beautiful, isn't it sir?" The voice came soft behind his shoulder.
Weylyn lowered his spyglass thoughtfully to the loop hanging from his belt. For an instant, the laughing sea was reflected bright in the green of his eyes. He turned to the man standing at his shoulder and smiled crookedly. Well . . . "man" in the general sense. Rellan was a mixed blood: a half-elf like himself. Weylyn glanced at his first mate-- angular features, slightly pointed ears, and copper hair braided back with beads, shells and small bones. He laughed silently. Apparently the only thing both he and Rellan had inherited from their elven parents was looks. The refined sensibilities of elves hardly very often gave way to the life of piracy that they had chosen. Ah well . . . another blame to lay on a human lineage.
"Beautiful?" he sighed. "Yes Rellan, Caladh is beautiful. The spice markets, the jewelry merchants, the gardens, the women. . . East of the mountains you will not find a more. . . pleasurable place to while away the tedious hours spent on shore." He lifted the glass once again to his eyes, and the corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly. "Yes, she is beautiful Rellan. But more importantly. . . she is rich. Very, very rich. . . " His smile grew bigger, and his teeth flashed white in the pale morning sun-- the feral, mad grin of a wolf. "And today she is ours my boys. Full speed ahead."
* * * * * * * * * *
The harbor loomed on the horizon, drawing ever tantalizing nearer. Soon. Soon all worth having would be theirs and the rest lying in smoking ruin and broken heaps of rubble and . . . Weylyn's happy reverie was broken by Rellan's hand on his shoulder. He suppressed a sigh of irritation.
"Yes?"
Rellan did not reply immediately. His hand still on Weylyn's shoulder he was staring fixedly towards the town that still remained a medium sized speck on the horizon. Rellan's eyes were a bright silver blue most of the time, now however, the color was clouded in confusion and what Weylyn unhappily suspected looked like fear.
"Do you see them? Do you see them sir? Sails on the horizon."
Weylyn quirked a finely shaped eyebrow at his second in command. Really, this was getting to be too much. He had places to go and people to kill and the last thing he needed now was his first mate going to pieces on him. He sighed.
"Yes, Rellan. I see the sails. This is a bloody *harbor* Rellan! Of course there are going to be sails! One would think your first big clue would be the large amount of *ships* that are present."
Rellan gave no indication that he had heard, just continued staring over Weylyn's left shoulder to the sea and the bright town beyond. Finally, he shook his head softly.
"No sir. Not the merchant vessels. Not the ships in the harbor." He pressed his lips together and turned finally to face his captain. "The sails coming towards us, riding our wind. The ships that bare the scarlet sails of the Aurellian navy." At that moment, the lookout high above in the crows nest gave a shout; raising the alarm that an enemy was on the horizon.
Weylyn whirled around on his heel, searching the calm sea for a glimpse of the ships Rellan spoke of. No. Nothing. There was nothing out there except the rich and waiting shores of . . .
Wait. Wait . . . there was something. Something that glowed bright crimson against the white sand of shore. Something coming towards them very fast. Very fast indeed. He cursed and spun around again, screaming orders to his crew.
"All hands on deck my boys. Prepare to be boarded and quite possibly slaughtered. It's their death or yours at the end of a rope in the town square. And they do look so tragically heroic in their blood spattered uniforms." The red sailed ship was drawing ever closer, coming seemingly out of nowhere. A few moments more and Weylyn would be able to see how well they scrubbed their deck rails. He laughed, loud and wild, and in a single movement, drew his black steel rapier from the scabbard at his side.
"Come my beauties. Let's show them how the Blackwolf howls . . . "
There was no more time for words, as the red sailed ship bore down hard on them. Her captain standing tall in the bows, striking and heroic in his gold braided uniform, took his plumed hat off to brush the fall of fair hair away from his eyes. Lifting his voice over the crashing of waves and the shouting of men he called for Weylyn's attention.
"My name is Captain Nathaniel Zyphire. To the captain of the Black Maggie we deliver this warning. Your ship and yourself are known in these waters. You stand accused of piracy on the Emperor's seas, a crime punishable by imprisonment and death. Stand down immediately, and surrender your ship, your crew, and yourself to me immediately. By order of the high Emperor of Aurellia." The young navy captain lifted his chin proudly, but Weylyn smiled inwardly at the slight tremble in the young man's voice. The young man was obviously new to this command; an upstart that had seen a fine prize and was now probably regretting jumping into this confrontation without more ships at his back. Quite a stripling this one was, and bigger than his breeches if he thought to so callously take on a cutthroat of such high standing as himself. The clear young voice rang out again over the clash of the waves. "What say you, pirate?"
Weylyn walked slowly to the railing along the deck. The two ships rocked gently next to each other on the calm sea barely twenty feet dividing one scarred hull from the other. In the dead silence of waiting, the sound of a rapier being drawn from its scabbard rang clearly through the air.
"What say I?" Weylyn smiled as he ran his hand over the blade of his rapier, opening a thin line of blood red over his palm. He clenched his hand tightly and a dark stream of red began to drip softly down to the deck at his feet. "I say the Emperor has grown fat and insolent indeed if he thinks the Blackwolf will surrender to the squealings of a puffed up babe." He spat once contemptuously. "That's what I say boy. Go home. Go home to your mother and your wet nurse and pray that I don't find you when I'm burning the rest of your sorry city to ashes."
The young captain's jaw clenched. He had a feeling he was definitely over his head now, but he had been too hungry to prove himself to think to call for backup. And now, there was no turning back. He took a last despairing look at the loyal men grouped around him. How many of them would die if it came to battle? He sighed. Weylyn Blackwolf rarely took prisoners, and those who were taken captive reportedly screamed for death before it was given to them. Shaking his head against the creeping sensation of despair and more than a little guilt, he raised his voice once again.
"I entreat you, sir, to reconsider. Not all your followers need die on the gallows of Caladh. Law must be followed, but I beg you not waste more lives than is necessary. Please, come aboard my ship, and we will speak."
Across the distance between the ships and over the cacophony of the waves, an odd, unsettling sound reached Captain Zyphire's ears. Weylyn was chuckling low and long in the back of his throat; a cold, grating, disturbing sound that drifted in the silence and chilled the hearts of Nathaniel's crew. His clear green eyes flashed in the noon sun with laughter, anger, excitement . . . and perhaps something not altogether sane. He lifted his gaze as if to pierce Captain Zyphire straight through the heart with only the heat of his eyes. "The wolf doesn't speak boy. . . he only bites."
Giving a long, chilling howl, Weylyn brought his sword down in a sweeping arc, severing one of the thick ropes that were tied to the railing. Bracing himself for the wild swing between the ships, Weylyn turned to his crew. "Now my beauties! Now for a red sea rising!" With a flash of steel and a feral howl of laughter, the crew of the Black Maggie swarmed into battle.