Creative Corner

Vesper

There wasn't a lot that Vesper could remember from his younger days. After all, a hatchling that was moved from clan to clan because he didn't fit their "scheme" didn't have much of a chance to remember his surroundings let alone the dragons that he lived with. The only thing he did remember was the mockery and pity that the adult dragons had for him as well as the humiliation he suffered from older hatchlings and juveniles. Vesper didn't even have a proper name though one clan went so far as to call him Sobrite. It was a mockery of his color and despite being so young, he hated it.
When he was young and didn't feel the eyes of ridicule on him, Vesper was bright and cheerful. He enjoyed pretending he was elsewhere and spent much of his alone time on adventures across open seas or fighting off the Shade. Around other dragons Vesper was quiet and reserved and never made eye contact. Often times he felt only sadness and humiliation especially when he was the focus of another dragon's attention.
He had managed to stay in the Clan of the Lost Eclipse long enough to see more than one clutch of hatchlings be sold or given away. It was here that he met his first friend as well. While he was a juvenile he befriended a recently hatched tundra named Gruffles. The tundra was loud and almost always happy, no matter the situation. He followed Vesper around nearly from the start and when the clan had decided to sell Gruffles, Vesper begged them otherwise. Despite still being a juvenile the clan leader, Huejval humored him and let Gruffles stay so long as Vesper took care of him.
Vesper and Gruffles stayed close nearly all the time and the wildclaw would take him on his imaginary journeys which delighted the tundra. Gruffles managed to bring out the happiness in Vesper that he didn't realize existed and the pair were nearly inseparable.
Yet, his happiness proved to be a nuisance to some of the less accepting dragons. Vesper was meant to stay in the clan temporarily. He had been a temporary desire by the clan leader's mate and wasn't meant to stay. The longer he stayed, the more irritable some of the clan members became.
One evening when Vesper was playing along one of the fiery rivers of the Molten Scar he was drawn out of his imaginary world by three of the young adults in the clan. They teased and degraded him bringing up every flaw in his coloration as well as his imaginary games. Every oddity about Vesper was brought up from the way he slept to his anti-social behavior. Despite the rush of unpleasant feelings that wounded the wildclaw he merely accepted the miserable accusations and assumptions until they brought up Gruffles. The moment they brought the tundra up and started to mock him Vesper's misery turned first into irritation, then anger, and finally hatred. It took moments for these emotions go through them and less than a heartbeat for him to lunge at one of the dragons, a small mirror. The two rolled across the ground with the mirror pinning him down but that didn't stop Vesper from dragging one his powerful hindclaws down the mirror's underbelly and creating a deep gash.
That was all he managed though before the mirror rolled off and he was attacked by the other two dragons, a ridgeback and spiral. They didn't slash him or inflict bloody wounds but instead bashed him and beat him until his body was in serious pain yet there was no blood. The only time they inflicted a worse injury than bruising was when his foot had slipped into the lava as he tried to deflect the spiral.
After they left, Vesper didn't move too far. His foot hurt too badly as did the rest of his body but the only thing he could thing about was their insults and mockery as well as Gruffles. His heart hurt and his mind replayed everything they said. He repeated it to himself as it finally started to get to him and he tried to cover his face with soot and ash to hide his bright colors. When he could still see his bright colors in the obsidian Vesper resorted to dragging his claws down the sides of his face and using the blood to hide it. When he finally couldn't see the bright colors the dragon simply wept.
Gruffles managed to find him along with the clan leader's mate, Skeveeri. Despite the pity in her violet eyes she made it clear that he was no longer welcome in the clan. She had brought wraps and a healing ointment for his foot but nothing else. When she bid him goodbye she was less than shocked when Gruffles chose to stay with Vesper.
While the tundra stayed close to him, it was apparent that Vesper had changed. His happiness around Gruffles was considerably toned down and he remained quiet oftentimes. When they did imagine adventures, Vesper made them take dark turns. No longer were they hunting the shade or sailing the seas to explore and fight pirates. Instead, they fought other dragons and sailed with the pirates and his tales often had gruesome endings that delighted him. While Gruffles still enjoyed the tales, his concern for Vesper remained.
They traveled to many places. At first, the only way they managed to get food was from being pitied by local clans until Vesper's foot healed enough for him to hunt though it never fully healed. He still limped until he had to use his foot and when Gruffles was old enough, he started to take over hunting.
Every once and a while when Gruffles let the wildclaw out of his sight, the wildclaw would end up with fresh claw marks inflicted to his body or face and his mood would darken considerably. This ended up causing a Wind clan to stop their travels long enough for Vesper to accept healing. It meant staying for more than a day. In that time, Gruffles learned that Vesper still felt as though the dragons were mocking him. It fueled his anger and one of the evenings that Vesper disappeared to go for a walk, one of the dragons, a mirror, of the clan disappeared. When he came back there wasn't a sign that Vesper had been in a scuffle except for blood on his teeth.
This went on until the clan realized that he was to blame and they chased them out of the territory. It turned out the wildclaw was good at killing despite having very little fighting experience. What he was good at was verbal play. His quietness led to his soft alluring voice that invited most dragons over to him. Observation of clans and how dragons went about their daily business allowed him the silver tongue he needed to get them close enough to kill them.
Despite the knowledge of what Vesper was doing, Gruffles stayed by his side. He never tried to stop the wildclaw. Whenever the wildclaw was accused of murder and mutilation, the tundra would defend him fervently.
The pair never strayed far from each other's side which is why, when Vesper discovered the opportunity to pursue one of their later youthful adventures, Gruffles joined him in sailing aboard a pirate ship. With no knowledge of ships let alone how to sail on them both dragons were forced to learn by trial and error and their pay was meager even in comparison to the other pirates.
Even before they set sail it was clear that neither of them would be welcome openly. Each pirate had their own way of making it apparent, most through fighting and isolating both dragons from each other.
Gruffles proved just how dangerous he was when, even against three pirates, the tundra held his own and even managed to deliver nearly as many wounds as he received, but Vesper wasn't so lucky. Despite only being cornered by two dragons, the wildclaw proved less than quick and managed to lose the tips of what was left of his burnt foot. His shining moment came when the pirates turned their backs to depart with the impression that he wasn't able to get up but Vesper did and when one of the dragons turned around he skewered it with a nearby metal rod. It wasn't enough to kill the dragon which is why Vesper finished her off with her own sword before her ally had a chance to react.
Her ally fled without another word but when the captain of the ship, Razik, questioned the female's disappearance, her ally said nothing in regards to Vesper.
The wildclaw realized after he was attacked on the ship when the captain wasn't on deck that it took little than physically injury to establish his dominance on the ship. With Gruffles always close by, he emerged victorious nearly each time one of the pirates attempted to cross him. Despite this though, he continued to suffer each time he saw a reflection of himself or let his thoughts get the best of him and he would inflict new wounds upon himself when those voices became louder in his head about his "ugliness".
When they stopped at a port one evening, he was forced to remain on board with a small handful of other pirates, including the first mate, to watch the ship. He was specifically forced to guard their ever-present prisoner, Firefeather. It was a boring job, one that his ally, Gruffles, did not have to suffer.
During this time though, Vesper found it hard to ignore the mirror. Her constant jabs at him and attempts at conversation finally irritated the wildclaw enough to speak up. Their conversations were more like arguments and insults and Vesper even jabbed the sword he had "earned" from an earlier opponent through the bars in an attempt to stab Firefeather. It impressed and amused the mirror more than anything else.
Having the entire evening with nothing better to do than talk and harass the mirror, Vesper found entertainment in both. With the fiery dragon behind bars and him unable to make short work of her, it amused him to agitate her.
When Vesper found out that they were forced to stay at the port for a few more fays, he requested that he be allowed to do something else aboard the ship if he were to stay. The question was enough for the first mate to keep him belowdeck with the mirror for the rest of the time at port.
Over the rest of the time, Vesper's attitude started to change towards the mirror. She didn't mock his appearance save for his lack of armor and clothing.
Despite her unsavory attitude towards him Vesper had developed a soft spot for the mirror over the course of the next few days and when they set sail once more he continued to visit her and tell of his days on deck. Initially her response was the same, bitter and unhappy insults towards him but the more he visited her, the less bitter she became.
Above all else, Vesper was slowly starting to make a name for himself. His irritable behavior had resulted in the skewering of more than one pirate and he was nearly keelhauled for it. The dragon wasn't liked nor disliked but he was respected and feared. When the cold and calculating captain Razik made a mistake that nearly cost the lives of the crew and ship, Vesper started to conspire with Firefeather. He felt he would make a better captain than the imperial dragon and wasn't interested in risking his life because of a careless mistake by another.
With the former captain providing him knowledge, Vesper was able to plot a very successful mutiny against Razik and took his place as the new captain of the ship. His fellow conspirator was relocated to his cabin and confined there as his mate. The distaste and self-hatred that Vesper felt for himself continued. The scars that marred his face disgusted him even though his "solution" by clawing them off only worsened his appearance. Despite this, they proved to be an effective tool of putting fear into the dragons that sailed beneath him and more-so of those who didn't.

Warfarin [center][color=#AA0025][font=Copperplate Gothic Light][size=5][b]Salt in Wounds[/b][/size][/font][/color] [color=black][size=2](written and coded by [url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?p=lair&tab=userpage&id=254672]Disillusionist[/url])[/size][/color] [/center] [color=#57372D] Some dragons don’t go willingly to their deities. Others do. In his youth, Warfarin was enthralled by tales of great warriors who sacrificed everything for their Flight and their deity. He envisioned himself standing shoulder-to-shoulder with other fighters, beating back the Beastclans and the Shade. When he was old enough, he went to one of the great combat schools that trained the Stormcatcher’s warriors, and he submitted himself to their tests and exercises. Some dragons don't go willingly to their deities. Others do – but fall short. “Too clumsy,” the trainers muttered. “His eyes are too weak.” Warfarin lowered his head, humiliated, as other trainees snickered at him. He trudged away in disgrace. Where would he go? He couldn’t go home; he was an embarrassment to his clan! But he did have other options. His father, a field medic, was renowned for his work, and Warfarin did not doubt that he could follow in his father’s footsteps. Didn’t others say he looked just like his father? [i]Surely[/i] he had inherited the old drake’s skills! So Warfarin proceeded to medical school. He got in easily enough; his father's good reputation helped him a lot. The medical professors looked forward to working with the great Otolaryn’s son. Warfarin’s three elder siblings had also become distinguished doctors; two of them had even proven themselves by dying on the field of battle. And so Warfarin, inevitably, was compared to his more successful family members. “He seems to be struggling,” his instructors whispered. “I heard he tried to get into combat school but was turned down.” – “By a combat school? But they accept [i]anybody[/i]. He must have performed terribly!” He clenched his jaws and plowed on. So what if he was a bit nearsighted and his forepaws were somewhat unsteady? With practice, he could make it. With practice... Warfarin performed well in the written exams. He could discuss procedures and theories confidently enough. But he failed his practical examinations, on account of those shortcomings his instructors had spoken of. “Perhaps this road is not for you,” one of his more sympathetic teachers said. She tried to comfort him, saying, “There have been others in the past who found that the medical field did not suit them. There are other careers, other paths to success. Take some time off to think about what you’re going to do next.” But to Warfarin, all the paths to success had been closed off. He trudged away, his head drooping, not really looking where he was going. When he looked up again, he was at the harbor. A number of ships were readying to make sail, their holds filled with copper wire and machinery from the Shifting Expanse. Like all Ridgebacks, Warfarin hated water. But he hated the thought of going back even more. He didn’t want to go home and revisit the places where he’d spent his medical school years. Besides, ships traveled quickly – two, three days of sailing, and he could be somewhere else. He could start over somewhere new. He signed on as a passenger aboard a merchantman. He watched the pale coast of the Shifting Expanse recede behind them, and he let out a sigh of relief. They headed west. The waters grew as cold and gray as lead, and that was when the pirates attacked. A fleet of three ships, closing in on the merchantman like wolves surrounding prey. The crew of the merchantman fought back, and eventually the passengers did, too, when the pirates finally launched themselves aboard. Amidst the bloody skirmish, the captain and most of his officers were killed. Warfarin himself fought viciously, stopping only when the pirates managed to chain him down. The pirate captain came aboard: a middle-aged Skydancer, her feathered wings stained with old blood, her orb bright against her scarred skin. She walked among the captives, inspecting them carefully. She had the brown eyes of an Earth dragon, but they held none of the Earth Flight’s characteristic warmth and good humor. She was as hard and merciless as the mountains of the land. “You all put up a good fight,” she said dryly. Her voice was raspy from years of hard living at sea. “One of my ships has been damaged by your cannon-fire, and a number of my crew are dead. Normally I’d be right displeased about that,” and she bared her teeth briefly, “but seeing as you all are such spirited fighters, I’m willing to be lenient with ye. Let’s inject some of that fighting spirit into my poor, diminished crew.” It took the captives a moment to realize: she was offering them a chance to join her crew. A number of the merchantman’s sailors objected, but some of them signed on immediately. They shuffled away, avoiding their former comrades’ eyes, and were welcomed among the pirates’ ranks with jeers and claps on the shoulders. And then it was Warfarin’s turn. “A right troublemaker, weren’t ya?” hissed the Mirror who guarded him. She poked her lance against his lower eyelid. “We should probably just stick you right here and now and save ourselves a lot of trouble.” “I can be useful to you,” Warfarin protested. He spoke loudly, making sure the captain could hear. The Mirror eased off as he continued, “I’ve been trained as a surgeon. I can mend your wounds.” The Skydancer thought it over. Her orb glowed as her dull brown eyes bored into him. Warfarin cringed inwardly, knowing she was examining his mind, his heart. She shoved over one of her own sailors – a young drake, barely grown, who’d been injured in the battle. “Let’s see what good you are. Patch him up.” The pirates quickly closed ranks. Warfarin was grateful for that, for they shielded his view from what happened next. He commenced sewing up the wound in the little Wildclaw’s leg, and they both shivered and choked back sickened cries as the pirates disposed of the defiant captives. They slashed the tendons of the dragons’ limbs and flung them into the sea for the serpents to feast on. Thus Warfarin began his life as a seafaring surgeon. It was a hard and terrible life; the pirates treated him with disdain and fully expected him to make good on his promise to treat their injuries. Amidst the hostility and squalor, Warfarin could barely keep his wits – just enough to remind the pirates that, as their only physician, he held their lives in his claws. Even when he knew he lacked true skill, when he knew an operation was likely to go wrong. [i]“I’m a surgeon, and they aren’t,”[/i] he kept on telling himself. [i]“I know more than they do; they’ll never know the difference. I’m a surgeon. I’m a surgeon....”[/i] But the pirates had not survived this long for nothing. They soon determined that their wounds were still getting infected, that their bones weren’t being set right. Things soon came to a head: one of the crewmen Warfarin had treated was not getting well. In fact, he’d degenerated rapidly, and it was clear he wouldn’t survive the night. “Fraud!” one of the pirates howled. He advanced on Warfarin as the other dragons closed in on him. “I knew ye for a troublemaker from the very beginning!” the Mirror lady spat. Her four eyes gleamed with rage. “He’s right; you’re naught but a faker! A quack!” The pirates’ mood quickly grew ugly. Their captain would soon step out to investigate the noise, but Warfarin didn’t doubt that he had outlived his usefulness to them. It would be over for him soon. There was no land in sight, but he didn’t let that stop him. He carried nothing with him but his bag of medical supplies as he flung himself into the air. The pirates let out a roar of rage. Warfarin tried to block out the noise as he flapped his wings madly, taking himself higher and higher. He looked back, expecting to be met by a barrage of cannon-fire – but there was none, and no pursuit. The pirates’ ship continued on its course, and he thought he could hear them laughing derisively at him. He could understand why. With no land in sight and clouds covering the sky, he was hopelessly lost. He didn’t know where to go: all he could do was pick a random direction and hope he found land before he ran out of energy. He did his best. He pushed himself on, flying for hours and hours until his wings were burning. He nearly wept from the pain. He looked down and saw the leaden sea, and a cold chill ripped through him as he recalled the serpents lurking in its depths. The sky above remained mercilessly cloud-covered, featureless and unhelpful. The exhaustion was so great that he briefly fell asleep at one point. He was jolted awake by the sensation of falling. He quickly tried to get his wings working again, but it was too late, and he crashed into the cold, black sea. Warfarin came fully awake with a scream of terror. He was a Ridgeback, and Ridgebacks hated water for a very specific reason: being born of the Stormcatcher, they were infused with Lightning energy. It reacted badly to water, and Warfarin now felt as if his skin were being grated from inside. Every motion sent pins and needles digging into his bones. He had lost momentum and was too heavy to launch himself upwards. It was only blind, animal instinct that compelled him to swim. Forward, thrashing blindly, his bag bouncing against his side. He plowed through the waves, shivering with cold, fear, and pain, frightened that any minute he would feel something slimy brush against his toes, or that a pair of jaws would rip his belly open from beneath. Another exhausting series of hours of terror and pain. So when his feet finally struck something solid, he screamed and thrashed around for a little while. Sand. By some miracle, he had finally reached land. Yet he wasn’t intact. As he scuttled out of the water, he made a keening noise in his throat over and over again. The long months at sea, immersed in hostility, and then the fatigue of struggling through the sky, the waves...Something inside him began to crumble. He couldn’t stop trembling, for even when he was dry, the scratching against his bones continued. He blundered inland, finding himself surrounded by dry grown grass and twisted trees. Without anyone to talk to and reassure him, his mind slipped further and further away.[/color] [center][img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/z3zq3co4u4ma6s4/1-blood.png[/img][/center] [color=#57372D]A small clan lived in the hot veldt between the Wind and Fire regions. They were wanderers, but had had to stop recently: their shaman had broken his leg in a fall, and he was in a bad way. That didn’t stop them from consulting him when they started seeing a “ghost”, however: a pale Ridgeback, marked as if by old blood, stalking through the dusty plain. The clan had strict rules: able intruders could be challenged and fought, but they were forbidden from harming hatchlings, dragonesses carrying eggs, or the feeble, disabled, and insane. Warfarin, as he stumbled closer to the camp, was clearly not in his right mind already. The clan adhered to their rules. They reluctantly prepared a place for him and gave him something to eat. The meal rejuvenated Warfarin, and as he looked around, his eyes glowing dully, the old shaman hobbled in. He questioned Warfarin slowly, carefully. He noted that the other Ridgeback bore the markings of a surgeon and that his waterlogged bag still hung at this side. At the word “surgeon”, Warfarin’s eyes gleamed. They focused on the shaman’s heavily bandaged leg. “I can fix that,” he said in a clipped, tinny voice. His fingers twitched, the overlong claws snick-snicking together like a pair of scissors. It must be said that the shaman gave this due consideration. He thought it over for three days and three nights. He was old, his magic was beginning to fail him, and no one else in his clan was skilled enough to heal his wound. Left as it was, it would soon fester, and it would bring him a slow and agonizing death. [i]“There’s nothing to lose,”[/i] he decided grimly. [i]“If my fellows watch carefully as he works on me, it should be fine.”[/i] And so he submitted himself to the surgeon’s ministrations. Warfarin shut out the other dragons and bent over his reluctant patient’s leg. He sliced open the swollen flesh and scooped out the infection, ignoring as his patient cringed and keened and the other dragons looked on in horror. All in all, the procedure took three hours. The patient at last went to sleep, exhausted, and Warfarin slumped down, too. He didn’t sleep. His glassy blue eyes stared at nothing, and his talons continued to twitch. A fever set into the shaman when he awoke, but his apprentices knew enough about it to treat him. Within a few days, he had not yet completely recovered but was well enough to talk. He thanked Warfarin for his service. “We are a poor clan, but we shall give you something for your service,” he said. In addition to the usual provisions, there was something else he thought might help Warfarin. A special sort of bird... Warfarin accepted the gifts, sort of. He stood there muttering to himself as the nomads tied a backpack on. To let other clans know that this wanderer was under their protection, they drew marks upon his wings, tracing his portrait above that of the shaman he had saved. The shaman himself watched, leaning heavily on his stick. He seemed to have aged a decade in the past few days. He looked at the bird, and then at Warfarin’s glassy eyes. “May you treat your future patients with more care,” he proclaimed. Warfarin’s new companion, the screaming tickbird, was aptly named. It punctuated the shaman’s words with an earsplitting screech. The surgeon turned and headed back into the veldt, his new pet clinging to his spines.[/color] [center][img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/z3zq3co4u4ma6s4/1-blood.png[/img][/center] [color=#57372D]It’s said that the gods watch over fools and madmen. Perhaps the Stormcatcher continued to watch over his erratic child, for a few days after he left the shaman, Warfarin entered a coastal town in the domain of Wind. The dragons here were somewhat less welcoming. They shied away from him, repulsed by his haggard appearance and vacant, glittering eyes. His surgeon’s markings were still clearly visible, though, and soon, desperate dragons began to approach him for aid. They were ill...or injured...or someone they knew was....They had been turned away by other physicians. Would this one help them? Warfarin’s eyes always came alight at the word “surgeon”. “I’m a surgeon, yes, I am,” he rasped even as the tickbird screeched warnings in his ear. Warfarin never seemed to notice the tickbird. It was doubtful he even knew the significance of its screams. Remarkably, Warfarin seemed to have retained most of his meager skills. Some of his patients got well. Their recoveries were slow and painful, however, and it wasn’t long before the ghostly Ridgeback was driven away again. He wandered down the coast with only the soughing of the wind and the waves for company, for when he was silent, so too was the tickbird. His bones continued scritch-scratching against the insides of his skin and mind. Perhaps they always would.... He gained a bad reputation. He was an enormous dragon and was often clearly visible from a distance, outlined against the murky twilit sky. The customs of the region forbade dragons from laying a hand against this broken-minded wanderer, but it was hard for them to damp down their disgust as he shambled, creaking and muttering, through their streets. Only the most desperate or the craziest dragons approached him for “treatment”. Then the saner ones would hear the scream of the tickbird, and they would shiver, imagining the “surgeon” digging into septic flesh with his claws, slicing it open with unwashed and rusting “instruments”. He was a very blight against the name of a physician, and more competent doctors began issuing warnings against him, urging their fellows not to go to him for aid. And so Warfarin became an outcast. He had found no glory out here in this strange and turbulent world. Perhaps it was a good thing his mind had already broken. The desolation and disappointment would probably have driven him to do something rash. For example, he could have walked into the sea.... He nearly did that again one day. On a cold dawn, as fog blanketed the coast, Warfarin was caught by a high and piercing melody. Long notes, impossibly sustained, as ethereal as evaporating dew. The tickbird huddled on his neck, silent and melancholy, as he stalked towards the source of the song. Cold water lapped his toes, and it was like electricity jolting into him again. He stayed rooted where he was, craning his neck to peer through the vapors. With the swish of water against its hull, a ship came towards the shore. It rode unusually high on the waves, as if lifted by an unseen force. The Imperial figurehead mounted on its bow looked ahead with crystalline eyes. The singing stopped. Still Warfarin waited. Toes-deep in the icy sea, his face as blank as the figurehead’s. A shape detached itself from the ship. It moved across the water with easy grace and then splashed down into the surf. A dark Imperial, taller even than Warfarin. He looked into Warfarin’s eyes and then rumbled, “Lightning dragon...You are far from home.” “Home is where the heart is,” Warfarin said. The words held no meaning to him. Nothing did, except one little word.... “That may be,” said Captain Jack. He looked Warfarin over, noting the painted wings, the red patches beneath his tattered clothes. The tickbird warbled, uncertain of how to react. “You are a surgeon, are you not?” “Yes. Yes, I am,” Warfarin said. There it was, the word that unlocked a small part of his mind, the word that still held some meaning. Even as the tickbird screamed, his mind was taking in fragments of the world around him. The dark, foreboding ship. The crew dressed in motley clothing. The Captain himself, a wide-brimmed hat shading his remaining eye, and a cutlass strapped at his side. A pirate. “I can be useful to you,” Warfarin wheedled. The pirates and their ship – they dredged up old memories. They popped on the surface of his mind as he repeated, “I’ve been trained as a surgeon. I can mend your wounds.” Jack laughed darkly. “Our wounds aren’t always physical ones,” he admitted. “Still, we get into scrimmages from time to time....You may yet be useful. Climb aboard,” he said. At these words, the ship drew impossibly close to the shore, creaking and groaning. The crew shouted down to Jack and threw nets for Warfarin to climb onto. The pale, gleaming figurehead had disappeared. There was something familiar about the creaking roll of the ship, the sound of seawater rushing past. Warfarin calmed down for the first time in many months. He sat in his berth, almost as still as the figurehead herself, not caring as the tickbird pecked dirt from his scales. He mechanically ate and drank what was placed before him and would not utter a word. Some time later, the pirate ship clashed with another crew. Dragons were thrown into the dark water or shot out of the sky. Jack’s crew was victorious, and more than a little surprised when they went to check on Warfarin. He was not hiding timorously, as they’d first thought. He stood out in the open, the moon shining upon him. He’d picked up a fallen pirate’s cleaver, and it gleamed ominously in one paw. “Glorious battle,” he breathed. “So exciting. Such glory.” His head rolled to one side, and he looked at a cowering crewman whose arm had been sliced open. “I can fix that,” he declared, pointing with the cleaver. The operation was long and agonizing, but in the end, the crewman lived. Warfarin cleaned the gore from his newfound cleaver. No one felt like taking it away from him. In his fragmented mind, he understood that there would be new battles. New struggles for life, the race to inflict death before you were dealt it yourself. And he at the sidelines, teetering delicately between life...and death. Warfarin’s jagged teeth gleamed in a brittle grin. There were other paths to success, after all. [/color]