Emma
Herin Farensun
LIbertalia Fortress, Uncharted Waters


All wars are wars of faith, in some respect. Ideas and ideals made flesh in the form of armies, spilling blood in support of beliefs they do not understand. To wage war, you must believe in something to wage war in the name of, it can be something as lofty as a better world for all, or as shallow as simple profit, but you must have faith in something. 
Herin Farensun had professed many faiths over his life, but he had never truly believed in any of them, up until now. 
His mask lay on the desk at the center of the room, alongside his captain's hat and sword. Herein felt naked, staring at his face in the mirror for the first time in what felt like years. His hair was shaggy and unkempt, and his stubble had grown to a patchy semblance of a beard. Looking at his cracked reflection, he didn't recognize the thing that stared back at him. 
Herein Farensun had faith in no gods, he never had. Tides Barers and Pantheons of nameless gods never held any sway over him, though he made no mention of that fact. But Heirn had finally found a God that was right for him.
The razor was light in his hand, a small little blade that fit neatly in his palm. He held the shimmering steel to his throat, and then began to shave.

When Herin was young, no more than seven or eight, he believed in hope. He and his brother hadn't had much in life, their mother forgot about them most days, leaving the two to explore on their own. They spent whole days watching the ships in the harbor, telling each other stories they overheard from sailors about adventurous pirates and hidden treasures, pretending that they would one day be just like the pirates of legend. Every evening from the roof of their hovel, they'd watch the sun go down, and Herin would hope that one day he could be just like that shimmering ball of light, and disappear over the horizon, and never return to that place. But most of all, in his naivete and child-like ignorance, he hoped his father would return someday. The tales about his father were always his favorite, the ones about Valkrin Farensun, the greatest pirate who ever lived. He remembered asking his mother once if his father loved them, but she didn't answer. Nevertheless, he held out hope, that little child, living in squalor in the slums of a seaside village. But Herin Farensun did not believe in hope anymore.

Herin ran a hand over his newly shaved chin. He splashed water on his face from the bowl on the small desk beneath the mirror, then turned his attention towards his hair. Taking a pair of scissors from the desk drawer, he grabbed a tuft of his brown hair and began to cut. 
When Herin was barely a man, he believed in freedom. He was seventeen years old and thought he had life figured all out. He and his brother were pirates, just like they always said. Their clan was strong, they did as they pleased and raided with impunity. Looking back, Herin thought that was the only time in his life when he was truly at peace. He had everything planned out then, how he'd make a name for himself as a pirate, then retire when he got old, maybe with a family of his own, one he wouldn't abandon like his father did. His brother was still at his side then, they did everything together, back then he couldn't imagine a life without him. 
As another clump of hair fell from his head onto the stone floor, Herin remembered the day it all fell apart. 
He remembered the fire, the smoke from the manor house and the village below, and the screams of his comrades as his future burned to ash before his eyes. He remembered the water going red with blood, the ships sinking beneath the waves, taking whole crews with them. He remembered his brother, and abandoning him to his fate while Herin made his escape. But most of all, he remembered the hate, the pure, unfettered rage burning deep within his soul at the man responsible for all of it. He remembered kneeling on the beach, the heat of his burning home on his face, and screaming to the heavens. He remembered swearing vengeance on Maith, curing his name and devoting himself to destroying everything he built. That day, he realized that freedom was a lie, an illusion only the foolish and the deluded believed in. The only reality he had left was hate.

But when Herin Farensun looked in the mirror all these years later, he could not find that hate. 
He had read somewhere that time heals all wounds, but if that was true, what happens to those who have nothing else? Everything he had done since that day had been done for revenge, he had turned a group of starving scags into an organized fighting force, he had done things his past self would be appalled at, and soon he would change the very face of warfare itself, all for just a chance at revenge on Bradai Maith. But no matter how hard he tried, he could not be that boy screaming on a beach anymore. 
And so, Herin Farensun had to finally ask himself the question, what was he fighting for? He had told so many lies, touted ideals not his own, all to put himself in a position of power. He had positioned himself to steal the mantle of a god, to rule over the minds and hearts of men with an iron fist, but why? He could not do it for hatred, not simply because his hate had faded, but because he found that pathetic. To destroy for hate was the vocation of lesser men, pathetic children lashing out in rage because they couldn't stomach an unjust world. Herin would not be another lost child striking out in rage, lost to history. As the razor left his hand, Herin thought once more on the totality of his work, and knew what he had to do.

Looking in the mirror one last time, Herin admired his work. All the hair on his face and head had been shaved off, it made wearing his mask far more bearable. As he affixed the golden faceplate on his head, he heard a knock at the door. 

"Sir, they're ready for you."

"And so it begins." Herin muttered to himself, stepping out the door and into the hall. The guard who had called to him stood at attention, giving a crisp salute as the Hanged Captain entered his presence. Herin, for his part, gave the man a curt nod and began the walk to the council room. 
The Hanged Council, or as the men called them, "The Gallows ', were the five Admirals of the Hanged Raiders, and Herin's closest allies. At least, in theory they were. In truth, they were more like cancerous growths Herin had to keep from overwhelming the whole. Each one was a scag, born and bred, and controlled a swath of ships and territory at Herin's behest. But they were still scags, and as such, were constantly hungry for more, and so running the raiders was a delicate balancing act, keeping one head of the hydra from eating another. 
Entering the council chambers, Herin saw the others had already taken their seats at the table. A collection of ruffians dressed in stolen jewels and looted finery, an amusing looking bunch to be sure, but these were the best the scags had to offer. He had almost considered inviting Dagstygg to this meeting, but decided against it. This was Hanged Raiders business, and Herin could handle that on his own.

The Five members of the Hanged Council looked upon their captain with varying degrees of annoyance and respect. Herin despised each and every one of them, but had never been able to do anything about it. After all, he couldn't run an empire on his own.
Silver-Tongue Horath, a slaver by trade, noted for his skill both with a blade and with his wit. Herin valued his skill at the art of the deal almost as much as he despised the man personally. 
Francois Kipp, who claimed to be the true heir to House Kripp. He was a bit mad, and almost certainly not related to house Kipp, but even madmen had their uses. 
Lelli Harkness, a woman who was known throughout the Isles for her cruelty, and a more recent addition to the Hanged Raiders. Herin needed her territory more than he resented her lack of tact or stratagem, and so she had a seat on the council.
The scag known only as Harkon, a mysterious figure who took his place on the council at nearly the same time Herin ascended to the Captain's seat. Herin saw him as a threat to his power, but never could do anything about it without causing more strife within the ranks than he could afford. 
And finally, Mack Callabran, the one Herin hated more than any other. He was young, charismatic, and more like Herin than either one was comfortable with. The only difference was that Callabran was a true believer. Deep within his soul, Callabran truly believed that their mission was a righteous one, that by overthrowing Maith they would restore the natural, pure state of the Isles. Herin almost pitied him, he was so much like himself, but he lacked the clarity of vision to see the truth. But today, he would open all of their eyes.

Walking down the length of the table, Herin could feel all their eyes boring into him. They didn't like being summoned like this, brought together so to listen to him give orders. That was the true problem with scags, Herin realized, each one was a fortress unto themselves, unable to truly ally with one another. He had done all he could to make the Hanged Raiders something more than a loose confederation of scag crews, but the Hanged Council had always stood in the way of true unity. 
Taking his seat at the head of the table, Herin looked over the faces of his assembled council. Harkness and Kipp scowled, while Callabran and Horath seemed more curious, and Harkon, as always, was expressionless. 
"My esteemed comrades" Herin began, using his most authoritative tone, yet when he spoke it felt rushed, even disinterested. "I have assembled you here today to make an announcement. Long have we labored in the shadows of the Isles, growing in power and size. Now the time has come to take the final step, I hereby officially declare war on Bradai Maith!" 

The assembled council's mood turned into one of outrage, even Harkon dropped his stone-faced facade to express his distaste for this idea. 
"What?! Are you mad?!" Kipp yelled
"Clearly! The bastard wants to declare war on Bradai *Bloody* Maith!" Resounded Harkness.
"First the blasted savages from up North, and now this?" Horath spat
Herin simply sat in silence, staring into the distance as the growing cries faded in his mind. He found it hard to waste breath on these fools anymore. His thoughts took him back to that mirror, the razor in his hand and the thoughts drifting in his head. As he began to drift away into his own thoughts, his concentration was brought once more back to reality by a commanding voice from the table.

"SHUT UP! ALL OF YOU!"
It was Callabran, he had stood from his seat and drove his knife into the wooden table. All eyes were now on him, even Herin's. 
"Look at yourselves, what's wrong with you? Why do you think we gathered together in the first place?! The Hanged Raiders formed with one goal in mind, to restore the glory of the Isles!" Callabran spoke with authority, with conviction, everything Herin had lacked when he made his declaration. The council looked to Callabran with awe and respect, his voice soothing their anger and encouraging their passion. "How else would we do that besides toppling the tyrant Maith? That is what we have all longed for these past 15 years, a fall to his empire, and a return of our way of life! I know that it might seem foolish to go against Maith and his fleets, but if we want to be something more than a group of cowards sitting in a fortress spouting Ideals we refuse to stand for, then we have to take the risk!"

When Callabran finished, the whole council stood in respect, all of them except for Herin. Kipp clapped Callabran on the shoulder, Horath commented on how regal he looked, but none of them paid Herin any mind until the sound of a slow, sarcastic clap cut through the air. Herin still lounged in his chair, glaring at Callabran from behind his mask, his mocking applause the only sound in the room, until he finally spoke.
"A truly powerful speech, Callabran. I appreciate your support, but you labor under a misconception that our goal is to restore the Isles to what they were before Maith." 
Shock ran across the faces of every scag in the room, Callabran was especially taken aback, but none dared make a move yet. Each one had the same thought in their head, 'what was the captain thinking?'

"You all seek the same thing, each and every one of you." Herin had stood, and the council had taken their seats once more, listening in cautious rapture to the voice of their captain. It was no longer the disinterested, soft voice from before, Herin now spoke with the voice of a true commander. Not like Callabran, who sought to inspire and rally the hearts of his audience, but like a cruel deity, who knows all will listen to his words because they have no other choice. "You all wish for a return to the old ways, these supposed 'glory days' of the isles." He made no effort to disguise his contempt for them anymore. Even behind his mask, they could tell what expression lay behind that golden face.
"You are all fools." Herin spat
"You truly think the isles were better off before Maith? Back when it was nothing more than a collection of warring idiots building ships for no other purpose than to kill each other over scraps? Is that your idea of paradise?! You hate Maith because you are too blind to see the future, and so you cling to the past like drowning rats cling to splinters."
If anyone else had spoken these words, they would be torn to pieces before they had a chance to react, but not a one moved a finger when Herin spoke. 
"Maith needs to be deposed for one reason, and one reason alone, not because he destroyed the old ways, but because he didn't fully kill them."
Herin began to walk down the length of the table, as if daring anyone to raise a hand against him. He stopped with his back to the door, leaning forwards with both hands on the table like a bird of prey inspecting it's kill. 
"Look around, our existence is proof of his failure. Maith almost seized the mantle of the Tides Barer, he almost united all of the Isles under one banner, but in the end he was too cowardly to do what was needed. Only one thing can unite the Isles, and it's not him."

He looked up at the council, his eyes boring into each and every one of them, but he stopped to stare at Callabran, the one he hated most of all. "And It's not you all either. A pathetic collection of scags who think they're legends. That's what none of you understood, there is only one legend that matters in the Isles, and it's not any of you." 

Herin opened the door to the hall, and revealed his weapon.


Standing in the hall was a strange device. It was nearly the size of a ballista, and had been placed on a pair of wheels for easier transportation. It was made of three parts, a large tank in the back, a pump akin to a siphon in the middle, and a tube at the front, with a lit brazier sitting right at the mouth of the tube. A man stood to the side, one hand on the pump, and fear in his eyes.
"Only the Tide Barer can *Truly* Unite the Isles, but only one man can claim that mantle, and it won't be Maith, and it surely won't be any of you."
Herin stepped behind the strange device and snapped his fingers. Ivar pumped once, and the Council died in flames. 

It was everything Herin hoped it would be. The device had launched the flaming liquid nearly thirty feet, coating the entire council in fire. Slamming the iron door, he listened to the screams of his former colleagues as they burned alive. 
He had dreamed of this day for a long time, and finally it had become a reality. He had planned this long in advance, moving the pieces together, placing men more conducive to his vision in places of power under his admirals. When news of their death, at the hands of Bradai Maith of course, reached the rest of the Raiders, his men would step into their new positions without missing a beat, men who were not legends or true-blooded scags, but who knew their place and served without question. At long last, the Hanged Raiders were truly united under his rule.

He turned to Ivar, the man was shaking. He trusted Ivar more than most others, and that trust had paid off. The plan, and Ivar's weapon, had worked flawlessly. 
"Well, that certainly went well, don't you think?" Herin said jovially, patting Ivar on the shoulder. Ivar still seemed shaken up, though Herin couldn't fault him. Killing the Hanged Council wasn't something you did every day. 
"Both the mixture and your device worked perfectly. I have to say Ivar, I'm impressed."

"Thank you, sir." Ivar said, clearly shaken. He didn't even look at Herin, just stared at the iron door and the smoke coming from behind it. 

"I'll need the recipe from you, of course, so I can begin to work on production."

"Sir? I... I thought I was going to be in charge of that?" 

"Yes, of course Ivar. You'll oversee production, but this is not something we can rush into. The recipe must be closely guarded, and so we must organize the creation process in such a way that the recipe is still kept secret." Herin held up a finger to emphasize his point, walking away from the council room and towards the stairs that led deeper into the fortress. He gestured for Ivar to follow, and the man complied. He had men coming, loyal ones, to dispose of the bodies and hide the weapon.

"How will you manage that?" Ivar asked, though from his voice it was clear he was still more focused on the magnitude of what he had just done, rather one what Herin was saying. That was one of the qualities Heirn liked least about people like Ivar, the fact they got so hung up on the past. What's done is done, you have to move on quick or end up dead. 

"Make the different parts of the mixture separately, each done by different groups, with a third group mixing the two together and finalizing the batch." 
It was possible, certainly, but it would take time to set up, and might make production slower than it could be otherwise. But Herin was adamant about keeping the recipe a secret, if it ever got out, his advantage would be lost. 

"Well, I already have a few batches ready. It's not a lot, but we could outfit a few ships with my dragons within the week." 'Dragons' were what Ivar had named his weapon. He thought it was accurate, they were both fire-breathing monsters after all. 

"NO!" Herin wheeled around, looking Ivar dead in the eye. 
"Not yet! We are not going to even let word of this weapon get out until we are ready to deploy them in force. Do you comprehend the magnitude of what we have created? This weapon will change warfare in the Isles, perhaps beyond, forever. Right now, only we possess it, and that means we possess it when it is at its most dangerous. The first time we use this, we will win, no matter the odds, no matter the enemy. The second time, however, they will be ready, it will no longer be an assured victory. Now do you understand?"
Ivar nodded silently, and Herin seemed to relax, turning back to walk down the stairs. 

"Now, I believe we have one last piece of business to attend to."

Ivar was dreading this, but he knew it was coming. As they made their way down into the dungeons, neither one of them spoke. Only dead silence hung in the air between them. Finally, they arrived at a familiar wrought iron door. Herin unlocked the latch, and swung it open to reveal who sat inside. 

"Hello Ambrose." The Hanged Captain spoke, holding out a hand to the emancipated figure sitting in the corner of the room. "Let's go see your daughter."

Ambrose followed the two men out into the hall, his eyes almost obscured by his long, unkempt mop of hair hanging from his head. His scraggly beard was encrusted with remains of the slop they had been feeding him, and the rags he wore were stained with filth and sweat. Ivar pitied the man, they had worked together to create this weapon for Herin, and now he was being marched to his death, and no one would even acknowledge it. 

Finally, the stairs ended. They stepped onto the sandy floor of a large cavern, the air was cool and damp, the only light coming from a few torches hung on the jagged stone walls. At the other end of the cavern was a large iron door, one that looked like it was meant to stand up to an all-out siege. 
"That door leads to a small, hidden inlet. There's a ship waiting for you there, along with your daughter. It'll take you up to Azarya, and I've included some coin for you to start anew with as well."

Ambrose looked shocked, looking up at the masked man with wide eyes. Was he telling the truth? This monster, who had abused him so much over the past months, was letting him go? He had consigned himself to death long ago, never expecting to see his daughter again, tears welled up in the corner of his eyes at the thought. 

"Oh don't look so surprised." Herin snapped. "I'm a man of my word, I said I'd reunite you and your daughter, didn't I?" He clasped Ambrose by the shoulder, and leaned in. "But before you go thinking you're truly free from me, If you speak even a word of what you've made for me to *Anyone*, then I will find you and make what I did before look like the greatest of kindnesses. Are we clear?"

Ambrose only nodded quickly, and Herin released his shoulder, then opened the door. 
"May you find shelter in the gods embrace." Herin said as Ambrose stepped through the door. 

As Ambrose stepped through the threshold, he stepped on something wet and squishy. Looking down, he saw what it was in the faint light of the torches behind him. A human intestine, laying in the sand beneath his feet. He screamed, turning to run, but it was too late, Herin had closed the door. He could see his golden mask peering at him through a small slot, and somehow he could tell the man was smiling underneath.

"Oh Amrbose, so smart, yet still so stupid."
Ambrose fell against the door, looking towards the darkness that covered the room he was in. Something was moving back there, something large. 
"I told you I'd reunite you with your daughter, didn't I? I am a man of my word after all." 

Then he saw it, the arm, the severed, bloody arm of a child laying on the ground beside him. The arm only had four fingers. 

"Nostrom! Stop playing with your food!" Herin chided, in a tone more like a scolding father than a pirate lord. 
"You'll have to forgive Nostrom, he's a shy one." 

Ambrose couldn't speak, only gurgle and whimper as he saw the beast crawling towards him from the shadows. It's massive, clawed forelimbs inching their way towards his face, it's powerful hind legs crushing the bones scattered on the floor of the room. He could see it's sickly, pale skin shimmering in the darkness, but it's face was what made him scream. The beast had no eyes, only four sets of nostrils, sniffing the air as it slowly made its way towards him. Ambrose flattened himself against the iron door, closing his eyes. He could feel it's breath on his face as it sat mere inches from him.

"You insulted me Ambrose, you called me a madman, a liar, a *Monster*. I am not a monster, Ambrose, so I thought it best to show you what a real monster is." 
At that moment, Nostrom pounced, leaping atop Ambrose and carving into his flesh. The man screamed as blood sprayed from his wounds, going through the slot of the door and dashing Herin's golden mask in crimson flecks. 
"You denounced me as a god Amrbose, so now only the devils will have you." Herin spoke only to himself. Ambrose was not in a condition to hear anything anymore, and Ivar was busy puking on the floor. 

Herin Farensun had turned a group of starving scags into an organized fighting force, he had done things his past self would be appalled at, and soon he would change the very face of warfare itself, and soon he would wage war on Bradai Maith. All wars were wars of faith, in some respect, and Herin Farensun had finally found his. 
Herin Farensun had never believed in a god, until now.
Ashley
Lord Eric Stafford
The Mizzen

King Bradai didn't say anything and it seemed everyone was waiting on them. _Here we go._ Eric thought before raising his lance to his opponent as a sort of salute, bidding him good luck as well as a signal that he was ready. He steadied his horse and adjusted his grip on the reins. His nerves bubbled up slightly, but they were suppressed with a deep breath. 

For a moment, Lord Randall's voice was in his head. "Dip the lance just before you hit, too early and the imbalance will make you hit low. Too late and you'll hit too high." 

It felt like an eternity before the horn sounding their start sounded, but when he heard the long awaited sound, there wasn't a moment wasted. Eric kicked his spurs into the horse and the horse set off with a gallop toward his opponent. Eric didn't dip his lance immediately, instead waiting for the gap to close between the two.
Terri
Jesper Kyr
The Mizzen

Jesper idly raised his lance after his opponent, before taking a deep breath as the long forgotten training he had been given quickly moved through his head. With a calm confidence he adjusted his posture in the saddle, shifting a bit so that he could better keep his balance. His horse moved nervously below him, and he tugged a bit on the reins, reeling it in a bit as he let out a sigh. 

The horn blared loudly, and Jesper dug his spurred heels into the horse's side, keeping a close eye on his opponent as he pulled his horse as close to the tilt rail as he could. His grip on the lance loosened a small bit, but he was prepared to tighten it when his lance made contact.