It's the coming of dawn on the open sea. The red glow slowly beats back the darkness in the sky but can scarcely penetrate the deep salty waters. Connor's face twists, his eyes squinting as the morning light casts its unwanted illumination across his bunk. "What I would give for five more minutes", the teen thinks to himself. He'd love to sleep in for once, to relax like he was a child again, but the morning bell calls to him. Sleep and rest will simply have to wait until darkness falls again.
Groaning and stretching, Connor lifts himself from his bunk, throwing on clothes over his lean frame. Pants covering up his limber legs beginning to show the muscles of a man and a shirt pulled over his torso, covering a few scars and injuries from Connor's service on the waves. His clothes haven't been washed in nearly a week, plus they reek of sweat and salt. However, they are the only clothes he owns, a gift of his "employer". Speaking of which, Connor's first chore of the day is to help the cook prepare breakfast for both the night crew and the old captain Drake.
Many think the sea offers freedom, but that is only true for pirates and adventurers. Ships like the Mercia are in the merchant business. Whether the haul is quick or agonizingly slow matters not, there is work to be done and few men work harder than Captain Drake. The men who sign on don't get out of their contracts. Connor did not sign a contract, yet he is still a prisoner of the Mercia, has been for nearly five years.
"It's about time, lad! I was about to drag out of bed again!" bellowed the cook, Miller. While Connor is sure he's not a bad man, Miller has the face, hands, and attitude of someone who has worked his trade for many years. The teen still finds it hard to believe the guy is barely over 40. "Still, now that you're here be a good lad and get the table ready. I'll have the captain's breakfast ready in two shakes!"
Connor did as he was told. First scrubbing down the long table that could seat twenty starving sailors. The old wooden table and benches were stained from the thousands of meals served on the Mercia. There's not a soap in the world that could get the wood looking new and clean again, but it was still important to at least keep the table useable. Once dry, plates, knives, and forks are laid out.
While it's certainly not a job Connor liked, he still took some small amount of pride in doing the best he can. Afterall, he is here effectively serving a prison sentence so he may as well make the best of it. No sooner had Connor finished with the table that a tray of food is shoved into his hands by Miller. With a smile and wink, the cook motions for the door, "be quick now laddie, the captain will lash us both if his food is late." As any crewman can attest, Drake is fond of the whip.
Once above decks, Connor quickly makes his way to the captain's quarters. While the door is locked, cabin boys such as him are allowed access to the ship's key ring. The worn and slightly rusty skeleton key lets the teen into the parlor beneath the bridge deck. The room wasn't terribly large, but still served as a meeting room and the captain's dining quarters. No one, save the Drake and his first mate had a key to the chambers at the very stern of the ship.
The teen places each plate on the table carefully, keeping everything well away from the edge. Even in the calmest seas, there is still enough sway in the ship to knock items off tables. Some poor fool had almost burned down the ship some years ago by leaving a lantern loose on a table. The guilty man received 100 lashes for punishment. Whether that story is true or not, Connor could never get a straight answer. One thing was for certain though, Drake wasn't the kind of man to dispel a myth if it helped keep his crew in check.
Once the last plate was positioned on the table, the captain's door swung open as if on cue. Connor quickly stepped back with the empty tray at his side and eyes cast down to the floor as the Drake closed the door to his chambers. Turning bout face, and shoulders squared, the captain looked onward for a moment, just long enough to build some tension in the room. Connor looked up to his captain, and only then did Drake lift the corner of his mouth into a slight smirk.
"Good morning mister Connor! Breakfast on time as usual, please give my compliments to Miller."
"Of course, Captain!" Connor said in a low, but obedient voice.
"I saw a red dawn today, and you know what that means? There is a storm likely brewing. This time of year it could be a bad one, so go find John once you are done with the morning tasks. He'll be giving you additional chores alongside the rest of the crew."
"Yes Captain." is all Connor was allowed to say. When around the Captain, it's always "Yes Captain", "No Captain". Drake, being a retired officer of the Templar Navy, insists on military-like conduct. Anything less and it was 10 lashes on the main mast. Ten, it seemed, was the minimum.
"Oh, and I almost forgot. Do you know what day it is Connor?"
With a sigh, the boy replied "It is day one thousand eight hundred and fifty-three…"
"…and only 147 days left of your contract!" Drake finished for Connor. "We'll be picking up a special cargo in Edinmere to take to Morlin. So you'll once again get to see your hometown. I reckon we'll pass by that quaint little town a couple more times but in another five months your service will finally be done." After a chuckle, Drake stabbed a fork deep into his breakfast and just before taking a bite, his eyes lifted to meet Connor's, and his tone then got serious, "but don't forget that until then, I own you young Connor! No matter how much you might fail, there's no way off my ship except to finish the work you owe me."
The captain loved reminding Connor of the contract he'd been forced to pay. Drake saw the teen as a soul to torture for entertainment. He'd often have Connor do the dirty jobs around the ship. Some tedious, some disgusting, but all sure to bring a laugh out of the old man. In between the chores Drake always had a remark ready to make the teen's day harder. Why even have a cabin boy? That's a military thing and a ship the size of the Mercia sure doesn't need one! It was the only position the captain had thought fitting for the boy when he was forced onto the ship years ago.
Once finished with his antagonization, Drake dismissed his cabin boy and Connor quickly left the old man to his food. On the main deck, Connor took a moment to let his anger go, tightening a fist momentarily before letting it loose as he simultaneously exhaled deeply. Looking up at the three masts and half-dozen sails full of the morning breeze the teen noticed a seagull gracefully glide through the maze of ropes and canvas.
"Seagull?" Connor thought. Looking past the starboard rail, he noticed on the horizon the faint line of land. The winds have brought the Mercia close to the mainland once again. Leighton's lighthouse was the last sign of land Connor had seen for almost a month. "Edinmere must not be too far away" Connor said to himself quietly, but it was still loud enough for John's ears to pick up.
"Connor!" The first mate barked from behind the wheel on the bridge deck. "I see you down there with your mind wandering. Get back to work kid, we've got a long day ahead of us if we're going to outrun this storm and I need you to be done with your chores as quickly as you can be! As soon as you've fed our cargo and helped Miller, come back up here for more chores. Also, if you can find Smith, have him come to me. The ship's compass is acting up again. These damn underwater rocks are always messing with the needle."
John was likely the closest thing Drake had to a friend on the Mercia. He may not be as stern as the captain, but John is a sailor through and through. If he was giving orders, it was wise to follow lest a poor cabin boy found himself feeling the wrath of both the captain and his first mate. The scars on Connor's back are testimony to his failures and in a way these kisses from the whip give him something in common with the rest of the crew. Most are poor souls who signed away their freedom for the promise of some much-needed pay for their families. They got their pay in advance, but that meant you couldn't leave halfway through. Anyone caught sneaking off at port could face arrest, or worse, being forced to finish their contract with Drake ready to give them the whip at a moment's notice.
Below deck, Connor helped Miller clean up the dining room and clean the cook's kitchen. Drake may rule the waves on his merchant ship, but cook is the master below decks and the kitchen is the heart of Miller's domain. If there's one thing a cook like Miller insists upon, it's a clean workplace. Slaving away scrubbing dishes, counters, tables, forks, knives, and the coal stove upon which the hot food is cooked, it takes Connor nearly an hour to get the kitchen ready for another round of cooking.
After a bite of the leftovers, all that the cabin boy is allowed, Connor then takes food to the front half of the ship where the "cargo" is held. This is the part of the job Connor hates more than anything else. Opening the door with another skeleton key, the oaken door reinforced by cold-rolled steel creaks open, the hinges bearing every ounce of the heavy slab of wood and metal.
Inside the hold is a sight which few free men could stomach if it were their own kin. Two large metal cages bolted to the floor and ceiling hold dozens of keidran. Most are from the Fox Territory but there are a few wolves as well. One cage holds the males, the other holding females and children. Conner hates the idea of slaves but delivering them is the only way he's going to win his own freedom.
Setting down the two buckets, Connor starts feeding the women and children. A cup of water and some dried meat for breakfast. The men are served after and given a smaller portion of meat. Partly this is to save a bit of money but also, it's to keep them weakened. A wolf keidran male is a fierce opponent, or so the guards on the border say, and it's hard to disagree. Standing nearly a head higher than most men, a male wolf is stronger than a human can hope to be. Put a weapon in their hands and Gods help the poor soul who has to face down 200 pounds of muscle and rage.
Foxes aren't quite as intimidating, being a bit shorter than most humans, but they are as fast as cats, and many have mastered the sea trades, including navy warfare. Give any keidran mana crystals and it's game over on a slave ship like this. Magic is a very dangerous thing, even the crude spells most keidran know. A Templar versed in magic has little to fear, but average people like Connor don't have much defense against the mystic arts. Therefore, extra precautions are taken, using cups with long handles to dole out the food and water through the bars of each cage.
Once the keidran have been taken care of, Connor has one last bit of "cargo" to attend to. Turning around to what would normally be the brig, Connor hands bread, meat, and water through the bars of the much smaller cage to a basitin and her child. This in particular really disgusts Connor and he absolutely hates the thought that a woman and her boy would be tore from their beds on some outer island by pirates and then sold into slavery.
While Connor barely speaks any keidran, he has learned a some basitin. Connor's father traveled the world and spent time on the isles where he picked up the language. The language was passed onto Connor when he was a boy though he's well out of practice.
"Here, food." Connor says in broken basitin.
"Thank you." is all the woman is able to say before having a fit of coughing.
"You ill?"
"No boy, it's just this air"
Conner could tell that she was lying but didn't want to get into it. A sick slave could infect the rest of the ship, and anything that could kill a basitin could certainly take out humans and keidran alike. That's why the two basitin were put in a separate cage. The boy, as usual, sat in the corner hiding behind his mother. The kid was certainly cute, especially with those ears he'd certainly grow into someday.
If he could, the teen would free the pair, but not only are these slaves worth significantly more due to their rarity in Mekkan's slave markets, but there's no place Connor could take them that would be safe. Miles from land, it's not like Connor could just row to shore. Locking the old wooden door behind him, Connor heads above decks for a long day of work. Just as John and Drake predicted, the sky became grey, then dark, and the breeze turned into a steady wind. Every growing gust rattled the bell slightly, a warning to batten down the hatches.
Two days from Edinmere, the Mercia is in a race against a tempest. The merchant ship may have been built for the sea, but the ocean is like a God all its own.