Thread: A Sea of Secrets [Alexander x Sera]

It was never wise for any sailor to boast about a ship's plans, for a loose word could see to it that their ship was headed towards the floor of the sea. And yet, any captain worth their salt knew that a reputation was worth far more than a little extra danger and trouble. If you didn't say you were going to capture part of that caravan, or go toe to toe with a troublesome frigate, it might as well never have been you to do those deeds at all. A whirlpool could swallow a ship whole with nary a trace at any time, and a storm could wallop an unfortunate hull until it looked worse than it ever had in any dry dock, so sometimes it was that the sooner that these lords of dread placed a stake upon their claim, the better. How else could one say that it really was their hand that struck the sinking blow to a vessel, and all the fame and glory that accompanied such conquest? By now there were murmurs throughout the whole building about it being best to stay far from The Burning Seas, and any merchant ships set to point eastward might do well to delay their trip by a day or two. Of course, for men such as Darvan, one of the Devil's dogs, such chatter mostly devolved into a round of boasting at the local bar. No, not the Devil of Devil's Refuge, that man was of an age past, savage enough to seafarer and landlubber alike to earn his title. Darvan had his own monikers, of course, though they weren't so common to hear here, having been earned in other oceans. He himself preferred Arctic Fang, earned in duality for seemingly freezing ships in place in cold waters, a trick that he would refuse to reveal even to his first mate, and in his firefight with Majesty's Blossom, where instead the ice gathered upon the Mad Dog's hull and held his ship afloat when by all rights in should have fallen into the frigid waters. There was also Chattan's White Wolf, earned from sinking his fangs into a rival when his wayward vessel, destitute of supplies for days, had been boarded. Darvan himself was so sun-struck and dehydrated that his hair had become nearly as pale as his skin, and seemed to have developed the rage of a starving animal. He was lucky to escape the curse of being called vampire, from that one. Perhaps to be more accurate, he was lucky that Chattan didn't slay him right then and there, for Darvan's own men were in no shape to put up a fight, but it wasn't a gesture of generosity. Chattan was the Devil of Kippory, the sea far to the northeast, and now Darvan served him. He was still a captain, however, part of a larger fleet than his own ship now, but master of his domain. He proudly declared as much with the two-pronged hat he wore, covering up the short curls that would inevitably grow out once he struck at the seas for too long, though whether it remained balanced upon his head was determined quite heavily by how much he had to drink, or perhaps more accurately, the variety. At sea, one tends to acquire a taste for rum, and gradually also a resistance to its effects. There weren't many things that could delight the man more than a land-side fine wine and whiskey side-by-side, much as there weren't many things that could give him more pain in the morning. Darvan wasn't so far gone that he would need to worry about that, yet, but such a person also loved to be the center of attention. With a bang of the fist against the table, a number of gazes fell upon the man, returning the glances with his hazel eyes. I've been further east than any man here! Past Pike's Pit. He spoke of the foul whirlpools, of course. Beyond the Raging Isles. I'll tell you, you won't find the like of half my cannons anywhere but Kippory. Do you know why a man would come this far west? Besides having little choice in his servitude, but fewer men on his ship knew about that than old Jackson had fingers left. There's nothing but trouble out there at those two. Traders stay away now, and even scavengers don't trouble the beaches to pilfer what washes up from wrecks. In fact, the only good thing in that damned archipelago is the Card King's fortune. The man clammed up when he realized how much he was letting slip, and poorly tried to cover his tracks. Jackbar never even left a map to its location. Nobody knows which of the blasted islands the thing is buried on! Darvan slunk back into his chair, grumbling to himself about his short temper, and lifted a mug to his lips. He sounded more and more like a drunken fool. His eyes began to light up, however, when he pondered his statement. You don't need a map to find a treasure. You've just got to, well... happen to be wherever it is. And there were only so many small parcels of land... if he couldn't X the spot, he could at least start X'ing them off of a list.