Rishmond had been running from an unusually tenacious press-gang that had been pursuing him for the better part of the day and into the evening.  Usually they gave up after a few hours and a few good slips, but this group seemed to be particularly interested in him. He’d doubled back, hidden in alleys, climbed rooftops, even waded through sewers—yet each time, they reappeared..

He made for the cargo docks hoping to lose them in the tide tunnels carved beneath the quay—a good place to hide at low tide. Just his luck to run headlong into a short, stocky sailor puffing on a pipe at the edge of the pier, waiting to cast off.

"Sorry, sir," Rishmond muttered, head down as he backed away. He glanced over his shoulder—no sign of the press-gang. “Really sorry.”

"Damn it, boy! You'se oughta watch where yer goin' kid, not ery'one 'round here would be so nice as to let that go without a good beatin' ya know."  The short, older man picked himself up off the ground, brushing his short coat off. A single, piercing eye studied Rishmond beneath the light of the flickering dock torches.

.  Rishmond kept his head down and tried to look smaller and filthier—a proven method for keeping most people from looking closer or caring to take more than a swift kick at him as he scurried away. He turned to slip away, but the sailor's voice stopped him.

“Hey, wait! Where ya off to in such a hurry? You’se OK, kid?”

The sailor reached out with the hand still holding his pipe. “You in some kinda trouble?”

"No sir, just fine, just in a bit of a hurry, so..." 

The sailor cut him off. "Come on son.  I seen hurry and I seen gettin' away from somethin’.  You, boy, is doin' the gettin' away part." 

His tone had shifted—from annoyed  to concerned. 

Why would a stranger care about some street rat—running or not? Maybe he thought there was a reward for turning him in.

Rishmond considered bolting. Then, just as quickly, changed his mind.

“A gang’s after me,” he said. “You know how it is on the street. They think I owe ’em something I don’t. I just don’t wanna take a beating if I don’t have to, mister.”

The sailor glanced up the wharf—toward the warehouses and the alley Rishmond had come tearing out of.

Rishmond frowned.

Didn’t think he saw me until I ran into him. But… did he? If he did, why didn’t he move? Or yell?

Was he waiting for me?

Rishmond kept his head down but studied the man through lowered lashes. Stocky, not tall—but heavy enough that even at a full sprint, Rishmond shouldn’t have knocked him over.

Unless he’d let it happen.

The feeling in his gut twisted. This was starting to stink like a setup.

A faint sound—boot leather scraping wood.

Two men emerged from the shadows up the berth, big and broad, much larger than the one-eyed sailor. They moved into position, casually blocking Rishmond’s escape route.

The torches guttered in the sea breeze, casting long, shifting shadows across the dock.

This wasn’t luck.

They’d herded him here. This was the play.

Were they working with this sailor? If he even was a sailor?

“Look, kid—this can be hard, or it can be easy. Life 'board a ship’d be good for ya. Damn sight better 'n' scratchin’ around the streets in this piss-hole town.”

The man stepped closer, pipe tucked away now, hands raised in what might’ve been a friendly gesture.

“Ain’t sayin’ it’s all sunshine and sugar, but you get fed. That’s somethin’, ain’t it? For a kid with no family. No ties. Just come with us. No one gets hurt.”

This man knew more about Rishmond than he should.

This was definitely a setup. Giving up might be easier, but Rishmond's experience so far in life made it clear that those like him were used and thrown away by those in power. Street life was hard but it was mostly on his terms and that meant something to him. He didn't fear death, he feared giving up.

Rishmond bolted—straight for the edge of the quay, if he could make it into the tide tunnels and the sewers beyond, he could easily lose these men there and make his way to the edge of town and out to the caves near the old church.  Unlikely they would follow him that far. 

Shouts rang out behind him.

Then—a whir, a metallic snap.

Something struck his calves. Hard.

Heavy ropes whipped around his legs, weighted ends slamming into his legs. He hit the ground face-first, skull cracking against the dock.

For a heartbeat, he saw stars. Heard the blood thrum in his ears.

He tried to roll, to sit up, to free his legs—

Too slow.

A second impact knocked the breath from his lungs. Hands grabbed at him pinning his arms. A knee drove down on his chest. His head bounced again—back this time. Harder.

All the air driven from his lungs. His imbs useless.

The last thing Rishmond saw before everything went black was the old sailor lighting his pipe, calm as still water.

Service aboard a cargo ship wasn't nearly as bad as many things he'd endured before.  The captain was definitely hard, and not at all fair, but Rishmond learned quickly to accomplish tasks before he was told and then get out of sight if he could.  He expected neither praise or reward and received neither even though he put in twice the work of most of the young deckhands, conscripts and volunteers alike.  His diligence wasn't all in vain as it did save him half the lashings others got.

All in all, much better than the starvation and abuse he'd taken as an orphan on the streets of Mott. On board the Dutchess' Teat he was fed and had a place to lay his head that wasn't under the open sky or in a rotten sewer. The work was hard and hours long, but no one had tried to kill him since he came on board.

The only person on board who showed him any kindness or interest that wasn't undesired was a younger kid called Toby. He was only 12 turns old.  Young for conscripted ship work, but here he was.  He taken to Rishmond right from the start. Toby'd been on board a few weeks already by the time Rishmond awoke in the fo'c'sle below the main deck.  Toby had taken it upon himself to wipe the blood from Rishmond's head and ensure he was as comfortable as he could be while chained to a fitting in the floor and dumped on a low slung hammock. 

Toby had greeted Rishmond as he came to and fetched him water from the small bucket by one of the posts from which the hammocks were hung.

"Hi." Toby's voice was soft and concerned.  "Ya'ight? Looks like they hit yur head pretty hard."  Rishmond couldn't place his accent, not one he'd heard around Mott, not even among the sailors and riff raff of the street.

Rishmond had taken to the kid despite his misgivings about people in general. The kid had a surprisingly upbeat personality for a down trodden wretch. It went well with Rishmond's pragmatic outlook.

Rishmond endeavored to teach Toby what he could and keep him out of trouble as much as possible. It worked for the most part. The kid was a willing student and a hard worker, but more than once Rishmond took a lashing for something Toby did, or forgot to do.  Not that Rishmond really minded, beatings were just a part of life really. Even many of the officers on the ship took at least one beating during the voyage. The first mate had taken a lashing after two recruits had gone overboard during a storm, apparently the Captain didn't appreciate being short handed at all.

Worse punishment was to be had in the form of missed meals as far as Rishmond was concerned, even if the meals were as bad tasting as any he'd ever had. The only flavor to any of the meals was the sharp, sour dill pickles that accompanied every meal—a preventative measure against scurvy, or so they claimed.

The only sailor besides Toby that showed any interest was one he he went out of his way to avoid, the ship's cook, Plug. A bent and scarred cripple that made Rishmond's skin crawl for some reason. He gave Rishmond an uneasy feeling, not because of his deformities but something colder and darker. Malice clung to the man like sweat. Rishmond wasn't the only one to feel it, most of the crew kept their distance.

Rishmond had woken more than once in the night to catch the man staring across the berths at him. He seemed to be the type of man who would torture small animals just to see them suffer. Why he'd want to befriend Rishmond was a mystery—and not one he wanted solved.

Being conscripted on to the crew of a cargo ship got him out of the country of The Arrangement of Peace and it's capital city of Mott.  He'd most likely be dead by now if he hadn't stumbled in to the recruiter from the Dutchess' Teat. Of course, death was still a very real possibility shipboard. Two other street urchins from Mott, 'recruits' the crew called them, that had come aboard at the same time as Rishmond had been swept overboard in a storm on the twentieth night of the voyage. They'd not been recovered.

The Dutchess' Teat had been making good time before a following west wind. That morning, the captain had ordered her tack adjusted to run due east, directly ahead of the driving gusts. Many among the crew grumbled—quietly, of course, and well out of earshot of any officers or priests. Their current heading would take them dangerously close to the cursed Shattered Islands.

Storms and sea monsters were said to dwell there, among the isles torn from the mainland during the years of upheaval after the Blessing. Every sailor knew better than to sail too near; the storms there could swallow a ship whole, or worse—Demon-spawned horrors could rise from the depths and drag her under. Only those who lived among the Shattered Islands—Demons themselves, if the stories were true—dared to sail those waters.

All the seasoned hands aboard would have preferred a more southerly route, far from even the sight of the islands, adding days to their journey but avoiding the dangers that lurked there. But the captain scoffed at superstition, and the Priests were unwavering: the Gods protected all ships consecrated by the Church.

In the late afternoon hours the call came from high in the crow's nest, "Land ho!" as the first of the Shattered Islands came into view. As if in response to the call, the west wind died and a sudden chill filled the air. The Dutchess' Teat foundered and slowed, her sails suddenly slack, her flag limp against its mast.

The sound of the ship cutting through the water—the wind in her sails, the shouted commands of the crew—vanished in an instant. A hush fell over the Dutchess' Teat. Tough, seasoned sailors exchanged uneasy glances, their superstitions rising up to smother reason.

Rishmond stood at the port railing, eyes fixed on a barely visible speck of land far across the sea.

The moment stretched unnaturally long. Then came a murmur—soft whispers among the crew, hushed talk of the Curse of the Shattered Islands. The spell broke as experienced sailors began barking quiet orders, nudging the rest of the crew into action. The mainsail was struck, the ship prepared for the wind's return.

Rishmond stepped away from the rail, dread heavy in the still air. He found Toby and leaned in close.

“Stay near,” he said, quietly. The two returned to their work, staying within sight of each other.

A nervous charge seemed to hang in the air, invisible but palpable. Even as the crew resumed their duties, men kept casting wary glances northward—toward the cursed isles.

Hours passed without the wind's return. Each time Rishmond looked up, the island seemed closer. It had grown from a distant speck into a distinct rise of browns and greens above the horizon. The Dutchess' Teat was drifting slowly, almost imperceptibly, northward—toward the Shattered Islands.

To make matters worse, dark clouds had begun to gather above the isles, like a shadow stretching out from the island itself. As the sun dipped low in the west, its light flared blood-red across the waves. The air turned colder.

The storm descended on the ship with sudden, brutal force as night fell around them. The magical lights—normally a comfort, casting a gentle glow across the deck—now flickered uselessly against the howling wind, crashing waves, and the oppressive dark.

Lightning split the sky, illuminating the sails still aloft just before they caught the wind. Moments later, the gusts rose to gale force, and the crew scrambled to strike the canvas before it could tear free.

A great boom of thunder cracked across the sky, as if the heavens themselves were splitting apart. Cold, hard rain followed, driven sideways by the whipping winds—each drop a stinging punishment from above.

Waves tossed the ship like a toy, swamping the deck and threatening to sweep men overboard. The first mate ordered safety ropes strung along the railings and lines for the deckhands to keep themselves tethered as they fought to keep the ship afloat. All hands were called to the deck—except for Plug, who remained below to secure the galley. Toby and a handful of crew sent to stabilize the cargo and man the bilge pumps.

Rishmond found himself on the main deck, a rope tied around his waist and fastened to a trunnion near the stairs to the poop deck, working to lash down anything that wasn’t already secured.

Wave after wave broke over the rails, water surging across the deck. Twice in just minutes, he’d lunged to catch men nearly swept away. More than once, he himself had been knocked off his feet, caught only by the rope tethering him to the ship. Rain and darkness turned everything more than a few feet away into a blur of shifting shadow. Lightning flashed frequently, offering brief glimpses that seemed to hinder more than help.

A barrel broke loose, crashing past him and slamming into the base of the stairs before rolling toward the port rail. Rishmond released his coil of rope and let himself slide across the slick deck. He collided with the barrel and wrapped himself around it, clutching the rope in one fist. In moments, he looped the line around the barrel and the nearest baluster, anchoring himself with his legs as he worked. He made several passes with the rope, looping it over the top rail for good measure, and tied it off.

Pressing his face close, squinting against the rain, he inspected the knot.

It would hold.

The barrel still rocked with the ship’s motion, bumping wetly against the railing. Rishmond decided to secure it further. He shifted to reach the next baluster forward, fighting the movement of the ship and the slick wood beneath him.

A flickering burst of lightning lit the sea below. Rishmond froze.

Something massive moved beneath the surface—a purplish-grey shape gliding just under the waves, followed by several long, sucker-covered tentacles. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be natural.

For a moment, he couldn’t move. Then a wave smashed into him, slamming him against the rail and snapping him out of his incoherent fear. Whatever it was, as long as it stayed in the ocean and he stayed on the ship, it didn’t matter.

His heart pounded and his stomach knotted. He ripped his eyes away from the water, shoving the vision from his mind and turned back to the task at hand.

He reached for the safety rope strung along the rail, trying to steady himself—but the line went slack in his hand.

His gaze snapped to where the rope should’ve been anchored, just yards away. He could see next to nothing through the sheets of rain—only shifting shapes in the dark. A flash of lightning silhouetted the scene for a single, harrowing moment.

Figures. At least three, struggling on the deck. Was one of them missing an arm?

A wave crashed over Rishmond, blinding him. He shook his head furiously, blinking through the rain and sea.

A bright blue flash of light from the struggling shapes.

Another lightning flash—and two figures tumbled over the side, vanishing into the sea.

Rishmond scanned the darkness for the third.

Nothing.

The ship heaved hard to starboard, and the deck tilted beneath his feet.

Rishmond was thrown sideways. His line snapped taut—then snapped.

He slammed into the railing and went over.

The sea swallowed him whole.

Cold black water enveloped him. He spun in the dark, lungs tight, limbs flailing.

Up. Which way was up?

He kicked, thrashed—reached for anything—but the pressure closed in. Panic clamped around his chest like iron.

He shut his eyes.

A flash—lightning? No… something else.

He screamed inside his own head, a cry no one would hear.

I don’t want to die.

Then—something surged against him.

A shove.

Water rushed past his skin. His body lurched upward like a shot from a sling.

His lungs were on fire.

Then, all at once—air.

He exploded out of the sea and slammed back onto the deck with a splatter and a gasp, coughing seawater and rain.

Like the ocean itself had rejected him.

Gasping, trembling, he crawled toward the stairwell alcove, toward what little shelter it could provide. He collapsed against the wall, bracing his back to the cold, soaked wood.

Breathing. Just breathing.

Alive.

What had he just seen?

Nothing was clear in the inky storm—but it looked like Plug had been fighting with two other men. Had he actually seen them go overboard? Had Plug gone too?

Rishmond felt numb, his thoughts reeling.

He pulled himself to his feet, clinging to the stair rail. Someone had to know. The captain or the first mate—they’d be at the helm.

He started up the stairs.

The storm shifted without warning. The rain still fell—hard and cold—but now it fell straight down in dense, heavy sheets instead of lashing sideways. The near-constant thunder faded to sporadic rumbles echoing from far away.

The violent bucking of the deck eased to a steady, heaving roll. Waves still broke over the sides, but no longer threatened to swamp the ship and drag it to the ocean floor.

Rishmond burst up the stairs, slipping on the wet boards, and screamed at the figures barely visible through the rain—“Man overboard! Man overboard!”

His tether kept him from rushing to the helm.

"“Bosun! Man overboard!” the captain’s voice rang out, sharp and immediate. The bosun’s whistle shrieked from the main deck, quickly echoed by another from the bow. The call rippled through the crew: Man overboard!

"Where?!" the captain barked.

"There!" Rishmond turned and pointed to the port railing just beyond where he'd tied the barrel. "Two men, Captain! Maybe three!"

Men rushed to the rail, peering into the sea, straining their eyes against the rain and dark.

Buoys and ropes were tossed out into the black water.

No one was found. 

The storm abated to a light drizzle. The magical lights once again cast their glow upon the decks. The Charge Priest conducted a count of the crew.

"Two of the new recruits missing, Captain."

The wind returned, steady and strong. The captain gave the order to raise the sails. The Dutchess' Teat lurched into motion, cutting through the heavy swells—leaving the lost behind.

Rishmond made no mention of Plug—except to Toby. Together, they agreed it was best that way. 

Plug's quiet observation continued but from a distance now.

The Charge Priest of the Church of Peace held a funerary service for the two men the day after the storm.  Typical to the Church, the funeral was as much an admonishment to all on board to cease their sinning as it was any sort of acknowledgement of the dead or comfort to the living. 

The priest instructed all to follow the rules and ways of the Church, and to spread the Word of the Church as far and as wide as possible, bringing all into its fold so that the Gods would return and expel the demons from the mortal world.  He also spoke about how the deaths of the two men were likely punishment from the Gods for lives lived in sin. 

The Church's stance on hardship was they were brought on by a life not lived in accordance with the Law of the Gods.  In Rishmond's experience, the law had a funny way of rewarding the rich and punishing the poor.

Rishmond spent the next two weeks scrubbing empty pickle and water barrels, swabbing decks, and learning everything he could about sailing. He kept his head down but never missed an opportunity to listen, observe and learn. No one was keen to teach anything, but it was of no surprise that a number of sailors were willing to show Rishmond how to do a task if it meant Rishmond would do the task for them. 

Arrival at port meant that all of the new and untrusted crew were confined below decks.  The Church and the country of The Arrangement of Peace did not want its citizens exposed to the sinful, ungodly ways of foreigners, unless the exposure was to attempt to get those same foreigners to convert to the Way of Peace and join the Church. Rishmond wouldn't have been able to recognize a place not under control of The Church, he'd been born and lived all of his young life under its influence.

He glanced about the darkened fo'c's'le where many of the crew were chained to beams or irons in the floor. Those not needed to actively dock the ship or unload its cargo were not permitted to disembark at foreign ports. Those that were allowed were closely watched by crew loyal to the Church and the Church sub-priests while in any foreign port. The Church and The Arrangement of Peace did not want its congregation and citizens escaping their control.

Cargo was being unloaded.  The sounds of crates, boxes, and barrels being moved about and the muted sounds of men and women shouting reached the quiet fo'c'sle.  The crew had been told to be quiet while the ship was in port on fear of lashings at the Captain's mast.  A few priests and several guards watched over the untrusted crew.

The grimy, skinny kid next to Rishmond leaned close and whispered, "Where does ya s'pose we are?". Rishmond shook his head and shrugged slightly giving Toby a significant look.  They'd been told to be quiet and Rishmond meant to be.  No reason to earn a lashing if it wasn't warranted.  Toby glanced away from Rishmond toward the guards at the door.  Were they likely to lash or beat someone here in the port where they wanted everyone to be quiet? Maybe. Probably. Toby seemed to come to the conclusion that perhaps it wasn't worth finding out.

They'd been confined below deck even before entering the harbor.  As soon as land had been sighted they had been ordered below, chained to the decks and supports, and been told repeatedly to keep quiet.  The priests instructed them in no uncertain terms that attempting to escape off the ship, or sneak up to the deck to take a peek at the godless, heathen place they were about to dock would result in severe punishments to include plenty of time in the Cage.

The new recruits had been shown the Cage on the first day at sea. At the lowest point you could get on the ship and still be in the ship, against the keel in the bilge was an iron cage.  More like a series of 5 small cages, each with a locking door on one side.  Each cage was small, barely big enough for a full grown man if he hunched over and squeezed in.  Which was kind of the point, Rishmond guessed.  An uncomfortable place for anyone to spend any amount of time.  Two to three feet of ocean water constantly covered the bottom of the bilge.  Standing in one of those cages meant your feet and lower legs would be submerged in cold sea water constantly.  The cages were all set about 4 feet apart, likely so the occupants couldn't grab at each other if there were more than one down here.  The only light source was the lamp held aloft by the crewman tasked to show the new crew what they might find themselves in if they disobeyed orders or stepped out of line of Church or ship law. The cages were enchanted they were told, so that a person in one could not hear or speak to anyone outside of that cage. That sounded to Rishmond to be an unnecessary addition to an already terrible state, but, there must be a reason for it.  Rishmond had never been sent to the cage, but one of the new recruits had been, a thin, angry-faced man who professed a great love of the Church and claimed to know a Priest in some town called Stormend.  The professed celebrity did him no good when he demanded more food on the second day of the voyage and pushed one of the deckhands out of the way to serve himself a second helping of stew.  He'd been beaten and dragged off to the cage, returning several days later, sick, weak and much quieter than before he left.  He'd been given a night to recover and then put back to work.  He'd caused no trouble since and even now sat quietly on the deck, head down, arms wrapped tightly around himself.

They'd all been told that even if they did escape the ship and run away into this new land, the Church would be able to locate them by the magic in the marking they'd all been given, at tattoo on their neck in the shape of the symbol of the Church of Peace.  They'd been told that no country would ever accept them or shelter them out of fear of the Church and The Arrangement of Peace.  They would become hunted and shunned. Rishmond had no intention of testing the truth of any of that.  He had his doubts about the fear other countries might have of The Arrangement of Peace and the Church, military might or not, else why would the Church not be the established religion of all other countries?  But, the risk seemed real, and no doubt there were plenty of people in other countries willing to turn over a runaway sailor for the right amount of coin.

Coin.  You either had it, or you didn't.  Those with it did what they wanted, those without were at the mercy of those with.  Not really the best arrangement as far as Rishmond was concerned, especially since getting coin if you didn't have it was damn near impossible.  The goal for most people seemed to be to get coin, by hook or by crook.  The means didn't matter to most. Rishmond couldn't recall anyone in his life getting enough coin to raise themselves from the ranks of the poor to that of the rich.  He was pretty sure it had never happened and never would.  Not for him or any of those he knew.

Rishmond strained to hear the sounds from outside.  He wondered what this port was like.  What the people who lived here were like.  He listened as voices were raised outside on what he thought might be the end of the gang plank.  The voices became louder, an argument had started.  He listened, the voice of the first mate he recognized.  The words clarified as the voices got louder.

"You've no right or authority to board this vessel!  She is the property and under the sov'rent o' the Church and The 'Rangement o' Peace!!"  The First Mate's voice was loud and firm with certainty.  

A second voice, much quieter than that of the First Mate, deep and sonorous answered, "We have reason to believe you have received illegal cargo here at this port.  We only request a look at your hold to ensure you have taken on no illegal cargo."

"We haen't taken on any cargo that ain't been loaded by your dock crew and stamp'd and 'proved by the 'arbor master."  The first mate seemed a bit calmer and the two speakers sounded as if they had mounted the gangway and were near the top deck of the ship now. The two sub-priests and two of the 6 guards here in the fo'c's'le moved to the steps up to the deck, one of the priests telling the others to keep an eye on the chained sailors here.  "Keep 'em quiet," he whispered loudly and harshly as one of the guards opened the door at the top of the steps.  Sunshine spilled into the fo'c's'le, causing Rishmond to turn his head and blink hard for a moment.  The sun was cut off as the door closed behind the exiting guards.

"What seems to be the problem here?" came the Captain's voice from above. His voice always carried, a raspy baritone made to project across the ship above the sounds of the sea and a storm. "First Mate Thompsiat, what's going on?"  The captain had an educated way of speaking and when he used a formal title, it was a good indicator the person he was speaking to was about to catch his ire.

"These soldiers wanna come a'board an' check our cargo, Cap'in." The first mate sounded sure about his refusal, expecting the Captain to agree with him and turn these intruders away.

"By all means then, let them.  We haven't anything to hide now, do we?"  Captain Talisan's voice was pleasant but carried with it a promise that if there was something hidden that he didn't know about, there would be definite hell to pay.  "Good sirs, welcome aboard!  What would you be looking for and how can I help?"

A new voice answered. A quiet tenor that Rishmond had to strain to hear. "My apologies, Captain...?", the voice paused... "Talisan," answered the Captain, voice quieter now causing Rishmond to lean toward the door of the fo'c's'le. He caught sight of Toby's face looking up at him curiously. 

"Talisan.  Yes.  My apologies for the slight deception.  We are representatives from the Malminar Wizard's Society and we are here looking for a Warlock brought to our shores on your ship."

Rishmond glanced hurriedly around the poorly lit room to see how the others were taking this news.  A Warlock?!  On board this ship?! The Church would never allow such a thing!

No one else in the crowded room appeared to be shocked at all. In fact, they were all looking at him in a curious manner. Like he'd just grown horns or two heads. Rishmond glanced down at Toby.  He didn't remember when he'd stood up.  Toby's eyes were wide and scared.  He was looking at Rishmond as if he didn't know who he was.  An odd light seemed to highlight the younger boy.

Rishmond looked up and around, the four guards remaining in the room had freed their cudgels from their hips and were holding them as if preparing for a scuffle.  The one remaining priest had backed toward the steps to the door, his hands up making holy symbols in the air. All of them looking directly at Rishmond. He noticed the light in the room seemed much brighter now than just a bit before.  He looked down at his hands and realized that the new glow of light in the room seemed to be coming from him.  He looked down at his body, fear and disbelief flooding his mind.  The glow suddenly disappeared just as a rattle of chains caused Rishmond's head to snap around toward the far end of the fo'c'sle.  

A skinny. dirty looking man stood in the corner, his wild hair matching the now wild look in his eyes as he stared at Rishmond.  He stood straight and tall now, not like Rishmond remembered him throughout the voyage.  No longer hunched over, the man was over six and a half feet tall, his left arm was missing about halfway down the upper arm, and the left side of his face was a mass of old burn scars from neck to the top of his head.  He was grinning now.  An evil, crazy grin, his eyes alight with an inner fire, his missing teeth creating a demon-like grin. A sound—half growl, half laughter—emanated from the shadowy figure.

The man's name was Plug, or at least that's what he'd been called by everyone on the ship since Rishmond had  found himself on board.  Rishmond had avoided him during the voyage, rebuffing Plugs repeated efforts to befriend him. Rishmond knew the man was not a pleasant sort, it seemed to Rishmond he was the kind of person who tortured defenseless animals for fun. 

The man raised his right arm and pointed at Rishmond while making a series of animalistic sounds that sounded almost like words. His hand flashed and began to glow, a thread of blood red light snaking quickly out from his hand to wrap around Rishmond. The shackles around the man's wrist fell away with a flash of sparks, clattering loudly to the deck.  Red light seemed to emanate from the man, casting flickering red and black shadows against the walls.  

Rishmond fell to the deck, his arms bound to his side, wrapped in red tendrils of light, his legs bound together by the same. Pressure caused his breath to come in shallow gasps as he watched the others in the room scramble to get from between Rishmond and Plug.  The sounds of chains rattling, men screaming and yelling seemed to seep through air thick as pudding to Rishmond's ears.  His own heartbeat was as loud as the sounds of the terrified men and boys around him. He tasted vomit and pickles. He tried to turn his head to find Toby, to make sure he was ok.  His head remained immobile, his face toward Plug across the room.  One of the guards crossed into Rishmond's vision, his cudgel raised to strike at Plug.  A slight gesture from Plug's right hand sent a small crimson beam of light at the guard and the guard exploded into pieces, blood spraying outward from the place the guard had been, parts of him flying in all directions except Plug's. Rishmond could smell blood and vomit now.

Plug opened his mouth and seemed to silently scream for a long second before the sound lowered to the point where Rishmond could hear it, a scream that became a shriek and then a howl, like the call of a wild animal. A sound like splintering wood caught his attention nearby.  A crevice opened in the wood of the deck near him, the crevice widened quickly into a gaping hole in the deck, like a crooked evil mouth.  The smell of sulfur and ash filled the room quickly, two of the crew fell into the hole as it grew, their screaming being audible for a few seconds after they fell, the chains still holding them to the deck going tight with their weight before going slack when their weight was suddenly released.  Black and red, slimy-looking tentacles suddenly appeared from the hole, wriggling their way out.  Suckers along their underside pulsing, striving for anything to grab on to.

The tentacles reached out and found first one, then two, then four of the still chained crew members, wrapping them up quickly and dragging them back toward the hole. The chains resisted for mere moments before either ripping away from their moorings on the deck, or ripping off legs or arms of those being dragged away. Terrified screams came from all around.  The smell of blood, shit and piss permeated the air.

Rishmond spotted Toby, held by a tentacle just a few feet away while another thick slimy tentacle began wrapping around himself, lifting him from the deck and dragging him towards the open hole. Rishmond could see the inside of that gaping wound in the deck, fire seemed to writhe in its depths and the walls appeared made of molten stone.  Black waves pulsed across the walls leading down to a black and smoking depth from whence the tentacles emerged.

Rishmond tried to scream. Tried to move. He had to help Toby! The kid must be scared out of his mind!

A sudden flash of light blinded him and he dropped to the ground. Sunshine poured across the fo'c'sle from the missing door to the deck. The cacophony around him suddenly grew as the room spun back into focus.  The tendril of red light had transformed at some point to a thick, slimy tentacle similar to those he could see coming out of the fissure in the deck. The tentacle was still wrapped around him, but its color was rapidly fading and the squeezing power he'd felt before was gone, as was the hole others had squirmed from.  The deck where the hole had been appeared as if nothing had ever happened to it except for the few chains now embedded in the wood.

Rishmond turned over to look up and found himself at the feet of the man called Plug.  Beams of light danced around Plug, sparks and crashes formed a sort of shield in front of the tall man.  Plug gestured and a large section of the roof above ripped away and planted itself between the rest of the room and the two of them leaving the exposed beams and the underside of the deck above exposed.  Sounds like an army trying to break through a city wall came from the other side. Plug continued to growl and half scream in an unintelligible salvo of sound.  

Plug reached down and grabbed Rishmond by the arm, yanking him painfully to his feet. He jutted his chin toward the hull of the ship and a swirl began in the wood, growing rapidly into a smokey, dark hole to somewhere else.

A great cracking sound came from the makeshift wall Plug had created to isolate them and suddenly the wall was gone.  Plug turned in a half crouch toward where the wall had been, the constant noise ceased as he grunted toward what was now standing there.

"Fuck you!".  Plug yelled turning, pulling Rishmond with him as he started for the swirling, smokey hole in the hull of the ship, yanking Rishmond's arm hard enough to dislocate his shoulder with a distinct pop and pulling him from his feet.  A bright beam of light crossed Rishmond's vision, seeming to erupt from the center of Plugs chest.

Blood sprayed across Rishmond's face as he was flung toward the hole in the hull.  He realized it was from Plug, but he had no idea how or why.  Suddenly he found himself in sunshine, several feet above a shining blue sea the dark and chaos of the ship gone.  He spun in the air as he began to fall, his vision not yet adjusted to the brightness of daylight.  A small part of his mind took note  that Plug's hand still gripped him tight on his left forearm.  Plugs head and chest were there as well, but the rest of his body was nowhere Rishmond could see.  Then he hit the water flat against his back.  The force knocked the wind from him.  Rishmond's vision began to go black as the water wrapped around him, cold, but comforting in some small way.  Only a pinpoint of vision was left as he sank deeper, unable to move to save himself, his final vision fading from bright blue to black.