Pirates Of The Decian Sea

Part 1

Corwyn Fyke, first mate of the Waverunner, sat alone at the Officer's Mess table waiting for the rest of the crew. Every night, the officers ate together. It reminded him of his childhood, how his mother would insist that the entire family eat together all those years ago before he went to sea. It was a consistency, which was something he needed in life.

It was a clear night outside, but extremely windy, which made the Decian Sea choppy. The ship was rocking back and forth in an almost hypnotic rhythm. He would definitely sleep well tonight, he though as he sipped his grog.

As he placed his tankard on the table, the ship lurched to starboard, causing the cup to fall. With cat-like reflexes, Fyke bent down and caught it right before it hit the wooden floor. He gave a sigh of relief, as spilling any alcohol was simply unacceptable.

Captain Jaxom Karinga opened the door and walked in. He sat at the head of the table to Corwyn's right.

"Hell of a lot of wind out there," the captain said.

"Aye, sir. When things started picking up, I ordered the sails reefed."

Karinga was in his mid-thirties. He had long black hair, which he usually kept tied in a ponytail, and wore his facial hair in a neatly trimmed goatee. He wore his usual maroon jacket and a new black silk shirt. Corwyn had served with Jax since he first went to sea so long ago he couldn't even count the years. Jax was the finest captain he could ever hope to sail under, and through their time together, they had become the best of friends.

William Dunkirk, the ship's boatswain, was the next to enter. He nodded to Fyke and Karinga, taking his usual seat at Corwyn's left. Sunken eyes, short trimmed brown hair, a hooked nose and a gaunt face echoed his no-nonsense approach to work and life in general. They picked him up six years ago after he had spent some time in prison for pulling a few heists. Fortunately, these days, he used his organizational and leadership skills for the good of the crew. He was a nice enough chap, but wasn't much of a talker.

The next one in was their large, muscular Master-At-Arms, Stockmoor, or Edge, as he was called. He took his seat at the foot of the table.

"Evening, sirs," he said.

"Evening. How did the crew's training go today?" Karinga asked.

Edge shrugged. "I think they are getting a little over confident these days."

Edge had been a Sergeant in the Elgannan army under General Branvold. He boasted a large number of kills on the battlefield, but what was even more impressive was his skill as a trainer. Over the last three years, he had whipped the crew into shape and turned them into an efficient fighting force. He had spotted a special potential in Corwyn and had molded him into a fine knife thrower. Edge went with Captain Karinga anytime he went ashore, as he had since he joined the crew, five years ago.

Next in was Quenton, the ship's surgeon, taking his usual spot to Edge's left. He was bald and wore a fancy blue silk shirt. Nice fellow. Always willing to help with any task, and always ready with a hangover cure if one of the crew imbibed too much ale or whiskey. Quenton had been with the crew for over ten years, and he seemed perfectly content to stay.

They waited for a few minutes. Corwyn noticed that the captain was starting to get impatient. "Hey Doc," Fyke called out.

The short and stocky ship's cook stuck his head into the room. "What is it, Mr. Fyke?"

"Will you please fetch our forgetful Yeoman from the jib?"

"Will do, sir!" Doc closed the door behind him.