Chapter Name: The Forging of Death's Grip
The last golden rays of the sun set and the raft was nearly built. It wouldn't last long, but they didn't intend it to; they would be island-hopping to Tortuga, across countless islets and reefs. But even though it was as sturdy as any dinghy, carefully layered with pitch, which they melted onto the bottom, and tested for several days, the two boys worried it wouldn't be enough. The third, the one who had brought the news of the attack, had joined them a few days before, and work had begun in earnest. Now all they had left was to cut the mast, and they could be on their way.
The forest would forever haunt the boys' nightmares, especially that of the third boy, James, now nick-named 'Bloodless'. This was due in part to his dead-white complexion, and also to his lack of either muscle or fat anywhere on his body- Very unusual in a village where men were judged by their labor. Narrowly dodging his would-be captors, his slight form had slipped unnoticed into the shadows. Sweat had streamed down his face as he recalled the flight. "Nobody should have to go through that. Knowing you're about to die, wishing you could do it all over. Wishing you were somewhere other than where you are."
The tree they chose was a palm, not too large, just big enough to work as their mast, and not to hard, for they had few tools. Even so, they had difficulty finding the right tools with which to cut it down. Hex had found three axes, sharp and of a shiny black material neither Roger nor Bloodless could place. "Obsidian. From the Spanish Main." was Hex's simple answer. "Razor sharp, but we won't get much use out of them, they break easily." It was a strange sensation, for these particular axes didn't seem to cut so much as slide through it, so that soon they were finished.
For Roger, each moment whittling away at soft wood was like a release from his thoughts of late, and the decisions ahead, looming just over the horizon like a storm.
That's what this all feels like. His thoughts in that moment were bitter.
The calm before the storm. But when will the storm hit? But he threw the thoughts aside, and returned to the calming rhythmicity of his work. And again his father's words helped him.
"Don't dwell on what hasn't happened yet. Deal with what's happening now."
"Alright, that ought to be good for tonight. You should both get some shut-eye." Only when the two younger boys had fallen into sleep's embracing arms did Roger finally begin his true work. Like a rat, or other loathsome scavenger, he searched the village, looking through every room, every nook and cranny. A pistol, a dagger, and the old core of a Voodoo doll, left behind by the death of the town's healer. The first two's uses were straight forward of course, and though he didn't know just what to do with it yet, he felt that the core might yet be useful...
The dawn came all too early for Hex and James, but, reluctantly, they got out of the nests of leaves they had built, and slid down towards the beach, expecting Roger to be waiting, or perhaps working on any finishing touches to the vessel. He wasn't there.
Clang! Metal on metal, like bells, or like the fall of a hammer... The two rushed through the town towards the old blacksmith's shop.
Clang! Another peal like thunder, and this time accompanied by a small grunt of exhaustion.
Reluctantly, they entered the foyer. The blacksmith had never had children, and perhaps it was for the better. The old, grizzled man who forged the town's tools thought very lowly of the little ones, and he never passed up a chance to cause them trouble. Suddenly, a blur of ebony swooped past them. A large black bird perched on an old stand; it must have been the old man's pet. Relieved, James gasped "Just a raven." They slowly, even more cautiously, crept down the hallway into the workshop.
There, the large form of Roger loomed. He was removing something hot from the anvil, where he had just finished beating it into shape, and dunked it into a pale of water. Steam hissed like a great serpent, coiling and writhing through the air. For some reason, the two had not yet seen fit announcing themselves, feeling perhaps that they were witnessing something dark, even... profane. Roger removed the object, and placed it on the table. It was a weapon, that much was clear. Its main body appeared to be made of wood, though it had apparently not been burnt in the fire for some reason, and a huge barrel- a pistol's by the look of it - emerged from its front end. On either side of the barrel, gleaming blades emerged. It had the look of a claw from some monstrosity, survived from ancient times. In its back there was an open space, where one could place their hand, and it likely had a handle of some sort within.
As Hex peered further into the room, he tripped over James, who cried out. Roger turned to face them. "Hello. Oh this? I call it Death's Grip. Do you like it?"
This one was a little weirder, but hope you enjoy!