This tale takes place in the land of Thael, a rich fantasy world and mythos developed over twenty years by the staff and youth of Renaissance Adventures who explore and co-create Thael through live-action roleplaying.
Link to Chapter 1:
@spark/chapter-1-the-pirate-s-last-wish-a-fantasy-tale-set-in-thael
Link to Chapter 2:
@spark/chapter-2-the-pirate-s-last-wish-a-fantasy-tale-set-in-thael
The Pirate's Last Wish
Chapter Three
by Mark Hoge / Spark
A man was slowly awakening. He lay on his back on a beach of pebbles, with a few inches of water, ebbing and flowing around him. The soothing sound of waves rocked his senses. His heart was peaceful. His mind was slow, drifting, at ease. Then a jolt of panic shot through him, and he struggled to sit up. Salt water dripped from dreadlocks and beard. He shivered from intense cold. His wild eyes looked in all directions.
He struggled to clear the confusion within him. “What happened?” he thought, “The mermaid, she kissed me, but she was no mermaid.”
Now he was awake. Blinking in alarm, he tried to piece together the fragments of thoughts and memories: the witch had tricked him, stolen his powers. Tirin, his first mate, had betrayed him. The crew had attacked. The silence and the void had swallowed him. Then the breath of life and light had restored him. Peace and euphoria had uplifted him, as his ship sailed away.
A rush of rage rolled like thunder through the sluggish clouds of his mind. An urge for vengeance gripped his brow. His eyes grew from confused to grim.
Through gritted teeth he spat, “I will steal a fishing boat and pursue. I’ll catch them. I’ll slay them all, and take my ship. My ship! And I’ll find a way to kill that witch!”
Rushing, he struggled to stand, to orient himself. How much time had passed? Two hours or a day, judging by the sun. Shielding his eyes he saw that the town lay half a mile away. He could see that many people were gathered at the docks. Sailors still floated on wood in the harbor, and were being picked up by fishing boats. He realized that the battle had only been a few hours ago.
“I’ll steal a boat!”
He began to run towards the town. His feet were numb with cold. He stumbled and fell.
Something was wrong. Something did not feel right. A subtle war was waging within him. Vengeance was fighting with a desire to let go. Rage was wrestling with grief. Excitement dueled with panic. He screamed, punching his fingers towards the sky, intent to draw his turmoil in flames across the blue. No flames flew.
He gasped, and shuddered. Pink scars cut a labyrinth of lines across his frame, signs of the recent battle that the mermaid’s magic had healed. His naked body was bereft of runes. The runes he had spent twenty years gathering, mastering, carving with costly inks upon the flesh of his form. He wept in frustration. He could not defeat his betrayers. Without the runes, he channeled magical powers too slowly. He could not take back his ship. Not now. But maybe one day.
He climbed to his feet. He had been down and out many times in his youth. He nodded to himself: no coins, no blade, no cloak. “I’ll steal what I need. I’ll kill if I have to. I am A’ruin Runeson!” But his declaration felt stale. Some part of him was tired of the killing, tired of the stealing. And the name, A’ruin Runeson, did not fit him as snugly as it always had.
Ignoring the tug of internal tides, he strode along the coast until he came to a ramshackle fisherman’s hut. The boat was gone, and so was the fisherman. Inside the hut he found a rough tunic and pants. He used a sharp knife to cut a slit in the center of a coarse wool blanket. Pulling this over his head, he had a mantle. A length of rope made his belt.
“I’ll be a wandering begger, then.” He muttered absently. “I need more disguise though. I slew their chief, when we rammed the largest boat. Some may recognize me, even without the runes.”
He methodically sawed off the twin ropes of tangled beard. He sawed off each gnarled dreadlock as well, cutting them above the roots as if they were a thornbush. He did not know why tears seeped from his eyes as he cut his hair.
Now he had short, messy hair, but not the marsh vines he had cultivated for so long. It will suffice as a disguise.
Soon he was approaching the open wood gates of the town. A growing nervousness made him pick up a random shell on the beach to occupy his attention. An old raven woman sat next to the gates, watching with black eyes, and pecking between her feathers. She peered at him as he approached, and lifted a loaded crossbow to rest upon her knees.
Cawing, she spoke sharply, “Who ye be?”
He stopped, momentarily confused. He had not thought of a new name. Fingering the seashell, he answered her, “Shell.”
The crow-wing frowned and peered at him intently.
“Why ye be here? We’ve trouble enough!”
Shell shrugged, frowning. “I’m just traveling. Looking for … looking … for a sword, a boat.”
The crossbow shifted to aim at his feet. The old bird barked at him, “ye have coin to pay? I think not judging by the look of ye! No shoes, no warm clothes, no waterskin or pouch. Don’t need ye here, we’ve trouble enough! Off with ye!”
The old A’ruin Runeson stirred within him, wanting to test her eyesight and aim. He wanted to leap at her, take the crossbow from her feeble grip, and crush her throat with his hands. He paused, staring at her, and suddenly realized how tired he was.
A shadow flitted from one side of the gate. A small human boy darted out, dressed in a blue wool jerkin and trousers. He ran up and touched the newly-healed scars on the ragged man’s hands and arms. The boy bent, and with a finger etched the shape of a sword in the dirt. Then he pretended to pick up the sword, and he leveled the imaginary sword’s point at the bemused man.
The man stirred, and chuckled. He felt the familiar warrior spirit of A’ruin Runeson, as well as the quiet of Shell. He chose to be Shell, and bending over, he traced a sword in the dirt. He pretended to take the sword from the ground, and with a mock stern glare, he flourished the imaginary blade.
The two circled, a grin spreading on the boy’s face, until the boy lunged at Shell. Invisible swords slashed and clashed, and both leapt about, ducking, dodging, and weaving amidst the fray. Then, Shell grabbed the boy and hoisted him high, and lightly flung the boy to the ground. Light or not, perhaps the A’ruin within him had tossed too carelessly, for the boy began to cry, and red drops beaded on a scraped elbow.
The crow sentry murmured disapprovingly, and seemed about to speak.
Shell sat down next to the boy, roughly patting him, speechless. Within him he sensed the edge of A’ruin, a harshness that enjoyed the sport, and dismissed the boy’s tears. Sighing, he calmed his mind and channeled energy from the earth to heal the tiny scrape.
“Deep I root in core of earth,
I align in earthen might.
Sun, and moon, and stars above,
I align in Celestial Light.
Will, and heart, and inner sight,
Manifesting crystal bright:
Heal.”
Eyes wide, the boy’s jaw dropped as he saw the scrape seal and close. He jumped to his feet. Grabbing Shell’s hand, he pulled until Shell stood. The boy pointed down to the harbor, and pulled the man along behind him, as fast as Shell would walk.
Behind, the crow crone nodded her long beak and made a shooing motion with her wing, as if to sweep a piece of driftwood out of the street.
The dock was full of people. Women and men and children were bandaging sailors. They were brewing hot ginger tea at a fire, and bringing mugs of the warming brew to the shivering sea-drenched sailors. One pier had seven bodies laid out dead. The boy ignored everyone, even another boy who called out to him, “Beeseeker!”
The boy pulled Shell beyond the piers to a simple stone staircase that curved up to a rocky promontory over the shore. It was only fifteen feet above the pebble beach, but it hosted a round altar, and a rim of smooth rock and seashells.
At the altar stood seven women of all ages. They faced the altar and the sea, and sang a haunting melody out across the breaking waves. Shell knew who they were calling.
A tall proud woman with long flaxen hair led the singers. “Perhaps a priestess, or the wife of a chief?” Shell thought to himself. The boy ran to her, caring not that he was interrupting the singing choir. She shook her head gently at the boy, as if to say, “Run along.” He pointed to the fresh pink line of the tiny scar upon his elbow, and then to the stranger’s many pink scars. Realization dawned in the lady’s eyes, and she exclaimed in relief, “You can heal?”
Shell nodded, not knowing what to say.
“Then our prayers are answered! Lady of the Harbor be praised!” she sang out the words. A chorus of cheers erupted from the women around her, and a few folks nearby.
“Come!” she spoke the request joyfully, as if knowing he would gladly aid her.
He followed her and the eager boy down the stairs and onto the docks. She led him to the corpse of the chief. A’ruin stirred within Shell, but he was Shell now, not A’ruin. He looked with fresh eyes upon this warrior he had slain. He felt no glee, as he had when his blade claimed the life of the chief. Shell turned his curiosity to the new feelings within him, or at least, to the feelings that he had all but forgotten. Did he feel guilt, or shame, or grief? He knew not; he only knew that all was quiet and solemn within him, and his eyes were watering.
In the sea battle, A’ruin’s runeship had rammed the largest of the town’s warships, and A’ruin and others had boarded and fought with sword and shield against their foes. This chieftain had fought bravely, and had been felled by A’ruin himself. The two shamans of the town, healers and arcane protectors, had also fallen to A’ruin’s blade and spells. Now A’ruin, or Shell, stood and gazed at the dead warrior chieftain, and noted the elders preparing a small funeral boat for the chief. They filled it with his blades and treasures, and soon he would lie in it and take his final burning journey. Looking around, Shell saw that many folk shed tears as they worked, and some cast grief-stricken glances at the dead chief and the others.
Who had wept at A’ruin’s death? The thought was humbling.
The tall woman who had led him here, turned, and looked into his eyes. “Can you bring the dead to life, friend?”
He shook his head, mute.
She stifled disappointment, elegantly. “Bruga Ogosson, Jarl of Stonesweep Harbor,” She motioned to the body being decorated. “He is my brother. “Bearheart’, we called him,” She smiled sadly, though proudly. “I am Mera Ogosdottir. Thank you for being our wish come true. With our two healers slain, many more will die of wounds if not for you. Thank you for coming to help us.”
Mera’s eyes were a deep blue, like the sea. Shell’s breathe caught in his chest. He remembered … something. Someone’s eyes reminded him of the eyes of this tall, graceful lady. A gusty wind of mysterious feelings blew through his being. He bowed his head, feeling a rare embarrassment, holding the restless A’ruin deep inside. He was done with A’ruin for a time. Shell was his name now, and curiosity found him peering into the new feelings within him.
Mera took his hand, and led him to the many wounded. Elders, children, men and women, all worked to care for the wounded. For many hours Mera worked together with Shell. She, discovering who was most in need, guided him to the most urgent patients first. At each, Shell chanted the channeling prayer, and the earth force responded, granting healing lifeforce. Shell knew not why he stayed. He knew not why the distant but demanding A’ruin within him did not force him to leave this provocative scene. Perhaps it was the slow birth of humbleness that stayed his flight. Each wounded warrior before him transformed from a foe on an enemy ship, into a being of flesh and blood, a son or daughter, a father or mother. The town rallied together, praising the Lady of the Harbor for casting away the runeship, and for bringing a healer in their time of need. And Shell worked on, past exhaustion, beyond thought or reason, until the task was done.
Night fell softly upon the empty pier. Mera took Shell’s hand and he followed, too numb to ask where they went. She led him to a wide wood home. Inside, Shell saw Beeseeker, the boy Shell had met and wrestled with at the town gates. The boy was eating fragrant fish soup. Mera hugged her child tightly. Her husband, the boy’s father, had died a few years ago. Several others sat resting, and they offered soup and mead to Mera and Shell. All ate in silence. Then, Mera, finally teary-eyed and sighing, left to go to the shore and grieve for her brother, the slain chief. Shell was led by an old woman to the only empty bed, the chieftain’s. His sleep was deep and peaceful. He never again called himself “A’ruin”.
TO BE CONTINUED
Link to Chapter 4
@spark/final-chapter-4-of-4-the-pirate-s-last-wish-a-fantasy-tale-set-in-thael
Introducing Mark Hoge
I LARP for a Living - I'm passionate about ethical leadership, experiential education, conflict resolution, conscious parenting, storytelling, fantasy writing, RPGs, and personal growth.
My Introduction Post:
An Invitation
Thanks for reading! I invite you to read, explore, engage, and dialogue with the coming posts I will slowly but surely be sharing.
@Spark
Mark Hoge, Director of Renaissance Adventures, LLC.