Help yourself to a seat. There is much to discuss.
I was a young man of fifteen winters old, that fateful night when I stepped foot in the Golden Anchor, that most infamous of dockyard taverns in Umbar. It was there the Black Tide spent his miserable days and pilfered coin when ashore, surrounded by his bloodthirsty crew and his paid for companionship.
The journey from Pelargir was long and arduous, yet the risk was a small price to pay. After spending dangerous weeks in unwelcome seas, the smuggling ship whose crew I was part of, finally docked. That same night, I visited the Golden Anchor for the first time. That same night, I became one of his men, murdering my way into their ranks.
Three years later, I killed him.
Thus, I murdered my father. Thus, my downward spiral began.
At least, that is what I would tell you under different circumstances; if, of course, I would tell you any of this at all. In truth, patricide was little more than just another stair in my descent. One that started long before I even knew I was his unwanted offspring.
His real name I shall not mention here, for he is unworthy of remembrance. The shores of Gondor knew him only by his reputation, and the featureless flag upon his ship; it was that reputation that was erased that day.
It was that ship, that bringer of ruin and terror, that was set ablaze, its crew having already been generously -painlessly- murdered in their sleep.
The captain, naturally, deserved no such mercy. His judgement was lengthy and torturous; a punishment worthy of the misery and woe he had sowed for years. I took his eyes, first. I will leave the rest of the details to your imagination.
Were this not a confession, I would not admit to drawing pleasure from it. But I did; greatly so.
Such, I returned once more to Pelargir. The city of my birth; the city of my damnation. I left it a boy, my mind set on revenge. I now returned a hardened man. Nameless, unknown, another shadow among its dimly lit alleys. Another knife in the dark.
I embraced the slur I was so hatefully bestowed upon during my childhood. It was none other than my mother that first called me a crow. The carrion bird, the ill omen, the living reminder of my invading corsair father forcing himself onto her. I embraced the slur. The scorn. The unwantedness. Crow was as fitting a name as any other.
My thirst for revenge was sated; yet still, I felt parched for more.
Hatred is a hell of a drug, I would much later realise.
[Originally written by the player of Crow (Derakoth)]
