"A king is he that can hold his own or else his title is vain." -Maedhros
Under cover of darkness, he arrived on the front door of the Golden Anchor. One of countless taverns dotting the docks of the city of Umbar, it was the destination of choice for the equally countless vagabonds and corsairs that plagued the seas. Goods from all across the south, and beyond, could be found here, regardless of how exotic or rare. Money, influence, and violence were the only sorts of currency accepted within those walls, and its patrons had an insurmountable amount of it all.
Time, fame, and a number of mutual agreements had brought respect to this establishment, to the point that it now stood as a bastion of neutrality amidst the otherwise warring crews that called Umbar home. Under its roof, its patrons were sanctioned. No blood has been spilled on its fine floor for years, though the same could hardly be said for the streets and alleys that surrounded it; blood has never been in shortage in Umbar, nor was the eagerness of its citizens to have it drawn.
The door opened; there, at the entrance, he stood; a boy, barely a young man, clad in damp, ragged clothes. His long black hair was unkempt, and a sparse stubble had just about started to appear on his chin. He was no older than sixteen, and in stark contrast with the environment he had just stepped in. Giggling, scantily-clad wenches were busy entertaining the rugged, sunburnt, hardened men that made up the entirety of the population within this wretched den of cutthroats. The scent of rum and sweat hanged in the air, thick and heavy as the dense smoke that accompanied it. Dice were being rolled, cards were tossed on tables, knives were flung at boards, -all with an excessive amount of shouting and a general cacophony.
The boy stood silently for a long moment, glancing around, taking in the scenery that unfolded before his eyes. His arrival had gone unnoticed. From the dimly lit hall, under the shadow of the doorframe, he observed the ongoing festivities with great interest. Finally, he banged the door shut. The sudden noise made a few heads turn towards the entrance; within moments, progressively, like a well practiced choreographed scene, all the noise died out, until silence reigned over the tavern. Murderous eyes were pointed at him, watching this stranger not unlike the way that a predator watches its prey.
"I seek the one whose enemies have named Black Tide."
The young man spoke loud enough for his words to echo across the hall, uttering a fearsome name fearlessly. No reply was heard. No movement was made. He walked down the staircase, gazing around calmly. He waited.
Finally, a gruff, raspy voice rose from the other end of the bar. "You found him." Like one, all the heads turned towards its origin. There, in the corner, sat he; a dark-skinned man of Harad, tall, muscular, scarred. A deep frown was etched onto his face, a memento of a long, arduous life. From underneath his furrowed eyebrows, a pair of unnerving, piercing dark eyes stared at the boy. No man dared stand between him and his focus. The way was unobstructed. Slowly, the boy walked towards him. One by one, the other patrons returned to their drinks and entertainment, yet they all kept their focus upon the pair.
"I come to join your crew," the boy spoke steadily, gesturing at the bartender for a drink, without taking his eyes off the captain. He kept approaching, until a bear of a man -part of the captain's crew- that was sitting next to him held up his hand. The young man stopped, sitting on the recently freed stool next to the large crew member. The bartender placed a bottle of rum and a glass in front of him.
"My ship is full," the captain snarled, flashing a hostile smile as he returned his gaze to his drink. "I have no need for a cabin boy." His crew member chuckled at those words, tossing a belittling glance at the unkempt boy.
"No," the boy agreed in the same calm, steady tone, as he grabbed his bottle by its neck. In the blink of an eye, he smashed it against the bar, and drove the sharp glass into the crew member's exposed throat. The man fell backwards over the chair, landing on the fine wooden floor with a heavy thud, slithering in the growing pool of his own blood, as he hopelessly grabbed at the large gashing wound at the side of his throat. The boy met the captain's eyes. "But you do need a new quartermaster."
Blades were swiftly drawn, but the captain's reaction was nothing short of instant. He jumped up, grabbed the boy by his collar, and swiftly stuck a knife against his throat. His movements, though sharp and decisive, were also calculated and methodical; he realised, quite clearly, that the boy made no attempt to resist or wriggle out of his grasp.
"I could kill you right now, kid," he growled, fixing an intimidating glare on the boy's eyes. He stared into them, searchingly. The captain had looked into many a dying man's eyes in his lifetime, and the one thing they all had in common, was fear. Fear of death. Yet here, he failed to find it. There was no fear in those emerald green eyes that met him; there was no hubris. No hint of emotion. Nothing. Merely a cold stillness, a passive abandon, unlike anything he had ever seen in a man that still drew breath. That calm, unflinching gaze unnerved him.
"You could," the boy replied, barely above a whisper. "But you won't." This almost suicidal confidence gave pause to the captain's wrath. The boy glanced down at the blade pressed against his throat. The hand holding it was hesitant. Looking at the captain again, he slowly grabbed his hand and pushed it away. Without another word, betwixt confused patrons, he made for the exit.
"I will await you on your ship, captain."
"Who are you, kid?"
He paused at the top of the stairs, casting a final look over his shoulder.
"An exile."
[Originally written by the player of Crow (Derakoth)]
