Private Tales The Ballad of Broken Dreams

The deck of the Wolf's Wrath rolled beneath the waves, but the crew seemed utterly at ease. Unaffected by the pitching of the ship this way and that. A figure pushed through the crew gathered on the deck. Tall he was and broad, with a chest built more like an ox than a man. He wore a coat fashioned from the fur of a tiger and his clothes beneath were the loose ones of a sailor, a wide v at the neck exposing the powerful lines of his chest that seemed thick as a barrel. He wore his hair long and it was an iron gray, with his beard twisted into two forking braids. His eyebrows were two thick slashes, sharply angled over gold, wolfish eyes. Scars lay thick across his body and face, carved into skin tanned deeply by years at sea beneath the sun.

"Captain Varnak," said a slightly shorter man, with dark hair and an array of knives.

"Kol," replied Varnak, gripping the shoulder of his first mate, "She here?"

"She's waiting on the forecastle."

"Finally."

Cloak rustling, Varnak pushed through his crew and vaulted the steps up to the forecastle, where the hapless delegation awaited. They had a large cage with a drape over it. Varnak wasted no time.

"Let's see the goods then. Cinder, the cage."

A horned, shirtless cambion with skin of a purple-red and a wicked scimitar at his hip strode forward, tail swishing behind him. The cambion, Cinder, seized the drapery and yanked it away, revealing the form within.

"Well, well, well. The fabled Nightfairen. Finally mine," a vile, toothless grin curved up Varnak's lips. "Bring her out. I want to inspect my new pet."

Over the protests of the delegation, Varnak's crew sought to open the cage and haul the winged woman within onto the ship's deck with rough hands that wandered far too greedily, and rougher words.

Ophiryn

Cinder held her, one arm wrapped around the waist, holding her close to his lean, bare chest that gleamed magenta in the sunlight. His tail moved slowly, slithering along a wing until he wound it tight around her throat.

The devilborn hissed in her ear, horn grazing the side of her face.

“They can’t take your soul, remember that.”

“Cinder? Stop throttling her,” barked Kol.

“Remember it.”

“Cinder!”

The tail slunk away.

Varnak’s voice cut through the squabbling, a raw and gravelly bass as wea ship’s hull grinding across pebbles as it beached itself. “Enough chatter, what have we here.”

The throng about her parted to reveal the captain as he strode forward, scratching idly at his beard as those wolfish eyes roamed over her.

“She’s got skin pale as moonlight, Cap.” Said a human, who pinched at the bare flesh of her arm.

“Hmm.”

“Them eyes is green, green as jade.”

“I see.”

“Hair and feathers all the same, black as night.”

“No, they’re purple,” snorted Kol.

“Oh.”

Varnak’s lips twitched with annoyance and he saw her legs quiver, barely able to stand. The effects of the iron cage. He took a step forward, running a finger along the crown of feathers sprouting from her head, along her hair and down across a cheek until he suddenly hooked forefinger and thumb inside her mouth and sought to spread open her lips.

“Good teeth,” he remarked casually, “you didn’t cut out her tongue did you?”

Grunting, the captain waved his other hand. “Kill the rest and dump ‘em.”

A surge of commotion and desperate cries engulfed the forecastle deck as pirates drew weapons and made to fall on the hapless delegation.

“You promised!” Shrieked a delegate.

Varnak half-turned from the inspection of his prize toward the scream. “I promised not to destroy your city. And I won’t. Yet. Your bodies on the tide will carry that message back.”

The wet thwacking sounds of cold steel ripping through hot flesh and bone rose, followed by fever pitched screams of pain and terror, until silence remained but for the cackling of the corsairs.

Varnak’s gaze returned to Ophiryn, “Now then, will you be a good pet for me?” He stroked her hair, hand coarse and calloused, skin like leather.

Splash.

A body hit the waves, hurled overboard.

More followed.

“What should I call you?”

"Careful, you winged wench," said a new voice, high and cold and silvery with a sing-song pitch. The speaker came into view, a tall and wiry elf with a shock of blonde hair and a broad sword slick with fresh blood, the scarlet droplets pattering from its vile edge as he spun it lazily in one hand.

"You're speaking to the Fathomless, Varnak Irontide." A grin plastered his face. Ah yes. This one. Quite mad. Quite mad indeed.

Varnak watched the insane elf, amber gaze calculating.

"Not had your fill, Finrath?" he asked.

The elf quirked his head, "Afraid not. Famished."

"And? You intend to kill my new pet?" Something dangerous lurked in Varnak's question and in the way he stared, becoming very still.

Finrath looked away, unable to hold the gaze and muttered, "Not worth the swing of my sword."

A thin-lipped smile touched the corners of Varnak's mouth and he turned his attention back to Ophiryn. The sea breeze carried the smell of brine and tangled his iron-gray hair.

"Finrath. Our newest addition to the crew. Insane, isn't he? The finest swordsman in the Falwood they say. Or he was, once," he rested a finger beneath her chin, tilting her head up so he could stare down into her features. "Hm. They weren't lying when they said you were a gorgeous thing, were they?"

Noting her chapped and cracked lips, he waved with his other hand.

"Sponge."

A few moments later a baleful looking cabin boy approached, his skin mottled with patches of peculiar scales. He set a bucket down beside Varnak's leg and dunked a sea sponge into it, then handed it to Varnak.

The captain took it, raised the sponge over her face, "Open."

The first test. He wondered if she would behave, or if she'd have to be broken in first. Then again, he wouldn't be the first to own her. They'd said she was well trained too. That remained to be seen.

Varnak squeezed and water streamed from the sponge toward her mouth.

Ophiryn

"A thirsty songbird, aren't you," he grunted as the sponge wrung out its last drops into her open mouth.

He dropped it into the bucket.

"I'll imagine they starved you as well," his chin tilted down and he stared into soft green eyes, "Why?"

The crew not busy dumping bodies overboard leaned in, trying to hear the exchange. Their eyes roved across her body and what material covered her form. She might obscure herself with her wings, even if she could no longer take to the skies. Varnak wondered if she would.

"Are you disobedient... is that why they pass you from hand to hand? Or are you just worth less than they claimed after all?"

His thumb drifted down, brushing at her shoulder where the strap of her dress hung, nudging at it idly. Toying with her to see how she might react.

Ophiryn

"Of course. The oracle's song," he grinned broadly and his teeth seemed far too white, canines pointed. "Mortals. Can we blame them? A bird chooses when to sing," he stroked her hair, calloused fingers rustling past her feathery horns, "But I write my own destiny, Ophiryn."

His hand slipped from her hair and he patted her cheek, leaning close so that his hot breath fell against his ear, "Now I must make a show for my crew. Try not to scream. They'll enjoy it less."

Then Varnak Irontide stepped back and spread both his hands wide.

"The fabled Nightfairen, ours at last."

The crew roared, shaking swords and stomping their feet so that the deck shook.

"See that she's welcome to the Wolf's crew properly."

They surged forward at those words, as unleashed hounds slavering for a vixen. Rough hands sought to seize her and force her to kneel while others seized buckets of salt water to dump them on her. It also washed away the grime of her travel. Small comfort.

Varnak stood back from the rest, watching with arms folded over his chest.

"Now, hoist her high. Let's see the nightfairen fly."

Cinder approached her through the jeering crowd and with subdued apology in his solemn eyes he tried to grab her hands and bind them with rigging, then the crew started hauling to leave her hanging by the wrists from the ship's spar. Every sway a mockery of her flightless wings.

Ophiryn

They set fire to the ship the fool delegation arrived from and took a handful of the crew as prisoner. The ship drifted away from the Wolf's Wrath, bleeding debris as charred rigging fell from topsails until flames engulfing the whole vessel like a candle.

Kol led the boarding party and when he arrived back on a longship, a captive in tow, gore and soot covered his body. He barely spared a glance for the nightfairen who still hung from the spar, suspended by her wrists, wings drooping.

"That's all of them accounted for, Captain."

Varnak stood at the forecastle, having watched the engagement from afar. He just gave a slow nod.

"Get us underway," Irontide's gaze flicked up to Ophiryn, "And cut her down. Bring her to my quarters."

A dark chuckle echoed from the crew members in ear shot. Varnak let them laugh. The more they thought him a monster, the less likely they would work against him.

With that, the captain strode to his quarters in the aft cabin, opening the door and shutting it behind him. He took a seat at his desk, which had a view through the stern windows of the sea. A fresh breeze, a sunny day... they should make good headway to Malakath today.

Moments later, there came a rapping and a sailor opened the door and shoved the nightfairen through, then shut it behind her.

Varnak did not smile at her appearance, only gesturing to a chair in front of his desk.

"Come over here and have a seat. Have you eaten?"

He pushed a plate with a biscuit and a cut of meat across his desk toward her, his yellow eyes watching intently to see if she chafed at his treatment of her.

Ophiryn

Varnak frowned. Hmph. No meat? She could not... or she did not want to?

There was a difference. Not that it mattered. If she wanted only hardtack and weevils, this would be easily arranged. It meant more salted meat for the crew. Varnak wondered if she thought the same way of fish. Nightfairen, what bizarre, beautiful creatures.

"No matter. Eat what you want."

Irontide simply sat there and watched her eat for a minute until at last he spoke again.

"You've had many masters. They all wanted something from you."

His fingers drummed the arm of his chair.

"I want nothing. Just to have you. Call it what you want. Prize. Trophy. You belong to me now."

Owning a Nightfairen was a boast few could make. And if he grew bored of her he could simply turn her plumage into a cloak of feathers. Varnak smiled.

A knock came at the cabin door again.

"Come in."

A sailor entered, carrying a bundle of clothing in his arms.

"Give it to her."

The sailor did as instructed, then hurried out - his face pale as death and his eyes wide and frightened. Varnak had that effect on people who'd seen what he'd done.

The bundle of clothes consisted of a silk chemise, dyed in Tyrian purple and fastened at the shoulders by silver brooches inlaid with amethyst. Varnak could have sold it for a high price, but why? People were not the only things he collected

"A dress from a Tyrian merchantman. Get rid of those rags and put it on."

Varnak made no move to turn around or close his eyes, simply leaning an elbow against the arm of his chair and reclining, amber eyes watching her like an Aberresai lion watched a gazelle.

Ophiryn