[Captain Del]

I want to thank everybody who follows this story for being so patient this time around. Usually I'm pretty good with typing out chapters - this time, however, not only did I have to type through end-of-the-year chaos, guild events, and a vacation, but I also had to deal with the fact this chapter was a MONSTER.

This is not for the faint of heat - tackle this beast at your own risk! So, my mates, I present to you....

The Battle of Cadiz

May 16th, 1702
Cadiz, Spain
7:30 PM

The seas churned in a violent surge as the British ship pushed through the waters, encroaching on the city of Cadiz. Their starch white sails flapped in the gales as the downpours of rain slapped themselves in to hats of the red-coated soldiers, who worked tirelessly to feed the heavy iron balls in to the cannons. They yelled at each other, and in between boats, trying to coordinate the attack well enough so that they didn't end up ramming in to each other. A group of thirty ships began to break off to take land at a small fishing village north from the port, while the remaining fleet broke to bombard the city from both sides of the peninsula.

Immersed in the middle of the armada was a large British Indiaman, thick yet slender in design. An army of British crewmen ran back and forth across the deck, scurrying as barrels and crates were lifted up through the openings to the deckhands. At the helm of the ship, underneath a makeshift tent, stood a very plump, proud man, his face more focused on watching and overseeing than participating. Atop his head was an extravagant, pompous powdered wig that curved its way down to his shoulders, where covering his entire body was a long red robe, with golden trimmings. He stroked a white handkerchief that was wrapped around his neck, as he leaned his massive body weight against a cane.

One of his Officers ran up next to him, sending a salute to the careless man before proceeding to speak. "Admiral Sir Rooke, His Grace the Duke says his men are preparing to make their land on Fort St. Catherine and Rota. He insists on you providing naval support so that his men aren't decimated by enemy artillery." The Officer yelled over the rain.

"He comes to me so that I can sacrifice more men on my advance? The Dutch are here for a reason, and if he needs any subordinates than he can find friends in them." The Admiral instructed, keeping his eyes panned on the horizon, where Cadiz stood.

"Admiral Sir, the Duke was very urgent about this. He said they won't make it as far as Port R-"

The Admiral began to protest. "You tell him and the Prince that if they need help, they can go to those damn Dutchmen! I don't need them in my navy in the first place." The Admiral began to walk away from the soldier, in to the rain. "I'm going to my quarters! Tell me when Cadiz is ours!"

Within the Jaenada residence, the noble hurried across an open garden courtyard in the center of his palace, walking straight across the grass, underneath a few trees planted inside it as the rain began to trickle down from the roof of the home, and the leaves. He busted through a dark wooden door on the other side, leading in to a large, stone, circular room.

John and Maria entered in behind him, daunted by the sight as Hernan began to storm up the wooden staircase that followed the side of the room. They stood within a magnificently tall lighthouse, about a few feet less than a hundred high. It was wide, and slowly became narrower as it rose. They looked around before speeding after the nobleman, who had already taken off up the steps.

John ran up behind him on the narrow path, followed by Maria. "Please tell me all of those ships aren't after us and this book." John said, waving it in front of himself as to gesture to it.

"No no no," Jaenada said as he pounded his feet up the staircase. "This is our own war that you two have stumbled in to. A war of politics, greed, and self-gain, that shouldn't be happening right now if man cared for his fellow man. It's a war for power and power alone, and every master to his dirtiest servant has to fight so somebody else can take it." Hernan rioted as he walked faster and faster towards the top of the staircase. "If the Bourbons wouldn't have brought our country to this, then I wouldn't be standing here, fighting for somebody I don't support. This is Spain, DAMMIT!" He slammed his fist against the wood railing. "Maldición de los Borbones, todos y cada uno."

They finally reached a door on the roof, which led them out to the top of the lighthouse. It was a circular space with no walls, stone beams supporting a cone-like roof to the structure. Running around it was a large group of Spanish Officers, yelling back and forth as they looked over the situation. Being so high up provided a much more dramatic touch to the scene - an armada of British and Dutch ships shooting off their cannons towards all three sides of the city that were exposed by the water, erupting chaos down below in the city. Buildings began to collapse and fires ripped through the town as men, women, and children ran through the streets, trying to find a refuge from the attacks. Some of them banged on the doors of the church, though it itself was under attack. Some tried to break in to the homes of the other high-class merchants and officials, but they were either beaten back or shot at by their personal guards. The fire of the lighthouse, which shined bright in the center of the room, seemed like the only beacon of hope in this darkness.

Jaenada ran to the far side of the lighthouse and caught himself on the edge, looking out over the ship-infested Atlantic. Schooners, Corvettes, Cutters, Frigates, Galleons, and even a few Indiamen and Rates swarmed towards the city, making Hernan nearly buckle at the knees. "Alguien encontrar Marqués y dile que conseguir su acto juntos. Si tanto como ver una casaca roja en mi ciudad...." Hernan slammed his fist on the ledge of the lighthouse. He pointed down at the end of the long stone dock, where the Maria Darkskull wavered next to a few ships. "Obtener algunos hombres hacia abajo en los barcos!"

Maria gasped in anger as the men near Jaenada ran past her. "Usted no puede hacer eso, ese es nuestro barco!" she roared at him.

Hernan turned right around to her, grabbing her by the arms. "En estos momentos nuestras vidas son más importantes que su vuelo!" Maria flinched at his voicing yelling in his face, so he backed up a little bit. He looked at John, so he could talk to both of them. "Listen, both of you need to get out of her. Right now, we need to focus on organizing our defenses. Do not leave the city - you don't know what those dogs will do to you if they catch you. Find an abandoned home, tavern, building, and barricade yourselves in there until the first siege ends. Understood?"

Maria and John looked at each other. They were afraid as to what their fates would be, waiting here to be eaten alive by the British, but they had no other option. They nodded in agreement, and Jaenada nodded back. "Good."

Just as the two of them turned their backs to hurry back down the lighthouse, they were called on one more time. "Wait!" he called to them. They turned to see Hernan pull from his side a small dagger, gold and slim at the hilt, twisting like the trunk of an ancient tree, and a curved blade, like that of a snake. He flipped it in his hand, so that the blade sat in his palm and the handle faced John. "Take this for now. I'd give you a sword, but I don't want to leave myself unarmed."

John took the dagger in his hand, feeling it cruise through the air with almost no effort. "Gracias." he bowed his head to Hernan, thanking him with the only Spanish word he knew.

Jaenada patted John on the shoulder and sent them off. "Godspeed, chicos."

1

The cannon fire from the seas, the rapid explosions and shockwaves, could only be seen at this point as they flew over the city and crashed in to one of the nearby buildings. But it did not take sight to understand the sense of the moment - the very vibrations that rocked as the iron balls shot through the air chilled you to the bone, at the same moment it sent a pulse through your body with each rumble. Even after about an hour of the initial fire, with the shots becoming less and less frequent, the state of the port remained the same - lost, chaotic, and dark.

John held on to Maria's hand as he led her through the cobblestone streets of Cadiz, staying away from the main avenues, as they were quick to become overflowing with people and sites of a riot. They stayed to the smaller roads that avoided cutting through the squares, hidden under the shadows of the churches and estates that loomed dominantly over the city. Even they, however, were easily filled with a few people; the two of them were walking in the heart of Cadiz, away from the Isla de Leon, where only the most elite officials and merchants lived. Therefore, the main part of the city itself was quite small, but bustling none the less, as though it were in a paradox of sorts.

They finally reached a small tavern on the outskirts of a small square, with a babbling fountain in the middle. Without taking a moment of delay, they bursted through the doors - to an odd sight. The bar was set across from them, along the wall, with a little seating area to its right before the back entrance, and an area before them filled with tables and chairs. A staircase to the right of the door led up to a small seating area with two tables on the second floor, which then exited off to a hallway. The walls were lined with maps, displays of national affection, and so forth, which would be expected. However, it wasn't this that they were interested in - it was the people in the tavern.

Sitting on the tables, on the bar, and across the floor, huddled and in the fetal position, were a few dozen people. Most of them seemed as though they were meant for dresses and frills, with their lean, beautiful faces and their high-class fragrances and makeup. Instead, however, they were dressed in leisure clothes and nightgowns, curled in fear with their families as they uncertainly looked up at the two who had entered. Whether the sight was dreadful, or pathetic, was debatable.

One man, a burly, unshaven man stood up from the back of the tavern came strutting towards them. His powerful appearance almost made John back off a little, but he knew how to handle himself now. The man approached in a violent manner, but when he took notice of John - his skin color, his facial features, and how he poised himself - he became even more angry. "Englishman!" he yelled, reaching out to grab him.

As the man yelled it, the entire tavern began to rile themselves. Some, especially the women and children, began to flinch and cower in fear, while some of the men nearly jumped to their feet in action, pulled back by their wives. And as this happened, the Spaniard latched out a large hand, grabbing John forcefully and preparing to pull him in for a lesson. But as this happened, John's actions fell to instinct, with no use of thought. He plunged his hand to his side, grabbing the dagger and pointing it straight in the man's throat.

At that point, the entire tavern broke out in hysteria. Women began praying, children started to cry, and men tried frantically to reassure their families it would be alright, fighting back their own fear. The burly man let go of John, and backed away slowly, raising his hands in the air in an innocent surrender. John looked around the bar at the disarray in the room, and threw his hands in the air. "QUIET!" he shouted gruffly at the top of his lungs.

The entire room hushed themselves at the resounding of his voice. Although they did not understand him, they knew what he had meant for. John turned to Maria, and nodding to her, meaning she would translate for him. He mustered up a good orating voice, cleared his throat, and prepared to speak - instead, however, he was interrupted.

From the second floor of the tavern, on the balcony above, came the slow walk of two powerful, heavy boots. The crowd that sat there, before the railing, turned to see who was passing by. Over the tops of their heads, John could faintly make out the silhouette of a large, flimsy Admiral’s hat, a wide array of feathers peaking up from the top. As the shadowy figure approached the top of the staircase, John could see the man clear, as the rest of the room’s eyes followed to him.
A tall, lanky man stood there, the heavy, gigantic hat tipping just over his brow. Dreadlocks from underneath the hat reached down just at his shoulders, following alongside a very young, yet rusted face. He looked very stern for this age – roughly in his mid-twenties – but that was more than likely due to what he had seen in his life, judged by how he was dressed. A long redcoat hung down his body, layered beneath it with shirts, medals, beads, and other various trinkets. For a moment, John was reminded of the pirate who had abducted him from his home, but by now that memory had become ineffective to him. The man was very gruff in what he said, gargling through a rough voice, “Who the ‘ell are you?”

“John Ba-“ John caught himself. He had given his name away to too many sources by now – for all he knew, the man before him could shoot him pleasantly in the face. “Captain Delmaria Darkskull. And you?”

The man stepped down the steps of the staircase. He tilted his head just a bit to the side, to slide the hat off of his gaze. “Del-mar-ee-uh Dark-skull, hm? Peculiar name…. sounds like a pirate name, if you ask me.”

“Pirate? No, no sir, not I.” John shook his head, starting to fear the man before him was a soldier in disguise.

“Don’t act like such a tomfool around me, boy, it’s not something to be ashamed of.” He said, by now standing right before John and Maria. “I’m a friend to you here, and let that be assured.” He outreached his hand, as to shake John’s. “Lord Edward Teague, of Madagascar.”

John was weary to shake the man's hand. The heavy aurora of booze that wavered off of his coat was almost overpowering if not for it being damped by some sort of high priced, presumably stolen perfume. He looked too young to be entirely villainous, yet he still gave off that sort of vibe he meant trouble. Yet John knew that he had no other option to go towards - though the noose was always the safe way out, he didn't want to be safe in this situation. He returned the motion, his hand crushed by a powerful handshake from the end of the hand.

2

Days turned in to weeks within the tavern, as the siege of Cadiz began to become less explosive with th settings of the sun. Still, every few hours or so, a few shots would be fired over in to the middle of the city, often just landing blankly in one of the side streets, or a pile of rubble from an already destroyed area of town. Yet there were times where it came down upon a new target, or even came dangerously close to striking the tavern - just a few days after they had settled here had a cannonball struck down a blacksmith across from them. Regardless, they stayed intact, as though a malevolent shield was over them to protect them.

Some of the residents felt they were capable of going away from the tavern and returning to the households they abandoned, assuming that the worst of the attacks was over. Yet many of those who left - about half of those previously dwelling within - were met with unmistakably bad fortune. Take, for example, Richardo Albertino, a very high-priced merchant who lived in a nice, cozy estate on the southern end of the city. When the attacks began, he took him and his family, one wife, two mistresses and five children, to take hold within the tavern, leaving behind all of his loyal servants and accountants to fend for themselves. When he chose to return, his men locked the gates and doors and attacked his entire family in the courtyard before their home, beating all nine of them to death with brooms, buckets, books, and rocks.

Regardless, the tavern had become much more spacious, peaceful, and orderly, allowing for a small pecking order of organization to develop. John was chosen to oversee functions in the tavern, from the hand of Teague, who saw that things would "be better managed under a boy than under a group of greedy trade mongers." John was there to make sure rations collected from deserted stores from across the port (a few pieces of bread, a glass of water, and a glass of wine a day per person) was handed out equally, that quarrels remained at a minimum, and under no circumstances was anybody allowed into the tavern.

In the down time within the tavern, which came frequently, John and Maria developed a mutual relationship, in which they would both gain from one another - John would use all his knowledge of swordplay to teach Maria how to defend himself, and in return, she would teach him how to speak Spanish. And as John passed on his limited footwork to Maria, Teague himself had picked up off where John's self-tutoring aboard Commodore Rutherford's ship had left off.

And, least to say, the Captain was brutal on him. From morning until night, in between his session's with Maria and keeping order, Teague would mercilessly push John to the limit. He would often find something double the amount John could properly lift, then tie it to his back with a rope and force him to stand on top of a barstool, on his toes. "The key to defending yourself is finding a balance to work off of under extreme conditions. You'll be hard-pressed to not find a fight where you have to keep going when your body tells you not too." Other times, he would duel with Teague himself, who was a much better fighter than he looked like behind that ridiculous clothing of his. In their first fight, it only took him about fifteen seconds to disarm John - by the end of the first week, he had worked himself up to forty.

At the end of one of his first practices, Teague lead John in to the back room behind the main area of the tavern, just next to the bar. It was empty in this small room, aside from a few crates and large barrels where the supplies were stored. Teague reached behind a small stack of crates, and pulled out a thin, shining cutlass. The blade was much thinner than his previous sword, with a slightly smaller curve. It moved lighter in the air than his previous sword, and instead of being a rusted mess, it had a clear glimmer off of its spotless steel face - maybe this one wouldn't get lost if dropped in to the water. "That was my sword at one point." Teague said, watching the boy play with it in his grasp. "Simple, I know - but sometimes simplicity is all you need."

And while John couldn't get over the fact the man probably got rid of this sword because it didn't cut bone fast enough, he knew behind his rugged appearance, one could find a peaceful, tender soul. One night in to their third week, when John believed everybody had gone to sleep, he heard a fiery, yet passionate noise coming from the little sitting area above the tavern. There, with his feet propped up on the table, sat the Captain with a small flamenco guitar cradled in his lap. He ran his fingers up and down the instrument furiously, yet in such a light way that it all felt connected, smooth, and without effort. The song he played was that of a dance of love, swirling through the air carefree and magically, like the gypsies from whom it originated.

John felt himself draw to the second floor, stepping slowly up the steps. He stood behind Teague, who was just about reaching an explosive end to the song. When he finished, the strings ringing through the room, he spoke over his shoulder. "I'm not sure what I should call it. It’s part of this new type of music that originated here in Spain.... perhaps.... the Malagueña will do."

“That was quite beautiful.” John said, awe-struck.

“Gypsy music, it is. When language barriers are too much of a border between two groups, they demonstrate where they are from by their music. I picked this little beauty up from a travelling caravan of gypsies from Malaga.”

John nodded for no reason, walking around Teague to sit at the chair adjacent from him, on the other side of the table. It sat right before the railing, giving him a good view of the camp of people who slept silently on the floor, wrapped in thin wool blankets. As he looked out over the dark room, John asked “How much longer do you think this will last?”

Teague took his guitar and sat it down on the floor next to his chair, shrugging. “Could be days, weeks, months before we even see the light of day. It all depends on how badly the British want to get a good start on this war."

“Food supplies are getting low. I don’t know if we’ll last by next week.” John shook his head, looking down over the tavern. His eye was caught on Maria, who even slept gracefully on the floor, her breathing easy and steady. He sighed.

“The girl, Maria, you care for her, don’t you?”Teague nodded.

John looked at him, mystified. “I ca- well, I- How did you know?”

Teague chuckled. “Have you not learned by now? I can tell these things.” He took a sip from a mug that sat on the table. His voice became very hushed. “The sparkle that she ignites in your eyes is one I’ve never seen out of something outside of love.”

John stayed silent. Perhaps it had become very apparent of his feelings for Maria – he had fallen for her as the sun falls for the stars, except she shined brighter. He was unsure of how to go forward, though, as he was reluctant to draw towards her, should something happen to him.

Teague continued once more. “Delmaria is based off of her name, isn’t it?” he said.

“It may not be my own name, but it might as well from henceforth. I’ve destroyed my old one to the point that even shuttering it in an open port would get me shot.” John ranted, trying to keep his voice low.

Teague chuckled again. “That’s the magic of recreating yourself, as a pirate.” Teague reached in his to pocket, and pulled out an old circle of metal, roughly coin sized, covered in dirt. He held it up in between his thumb and his middle finger before John. “Men like you and I are like this coin. Damned and condemned by the qualities that society has casted us aside for. We have been beaten, cursed and tainted to the point we can’t even see ourselves anymore. But, when one man devotes his life to the sea…” Teague began to rub the coin in between his fingers, scrapping off a layer of dirt to reveal a small glimpse of gold underneath. “…He is reborn, in such a free and magnificent form that no man can put in to words."

Without another word, Teague stood up, flipping the coin is to John’s lap. As John picked it up, rubbing off more and more dirt, Teague walked down the hallway leading over to the few bedrooms housed in the tavern, saluting a good night.

The night after Teague and Delmaria spoke, Delmaria woke up to a loud commotion coming from beneath him. He woke abruptly in his chair, where he had fell asleep, to see that a group of men had forced themselves in to the tavern. Delmaria grabbed his dagger and ran down the staircase, stopping at the bottom step just as the rest of the bar awoke in shock. “Speak now! Who are you?” he yelled pointing the dagger at the five men. They were dressed much like a British soldier, except their red shirt was accompanied by gold instead of white, and were covered by a blue long coat.

Before they answered, Teague’s voice, which hushed the room, came clambering down, behind, and past him. “Easy, boy. They’re friends.” The pirate stuck his hand out to calm Delmaria. He then turned his attention to the head of the group, a tall, very angry-looking man with a short yet thick head of hair hanging down from his head. “It’s about time, Fajardo.”

The man scoffed. “I should have known you’d be here! What are you here for, holding all of this innocent people hostage?”

“More like defending them in their time of need, when you weren’t. I suppose the Spanish are more than happy about cowering under their beds while innocents die, yes?”

“We have been doing the fighting, rat! Unlike you, who has been hiding here in this tavern, it took my men two weeks just to get here!”

“Cartwheeling, I assume?” Teague laughed. In response, Francisco spat on the ground. Teague, whose boot was hit by the demonstration, tensed his face and jumped forward to try and attack the Spaniard, but was held back by a quick-reflexed Delmaria.

“Now, are you going to help us, or not?” The Spaniard said, stepping back comfortably amongst his men.

“I suppose we don’t have much of choice. May we at least know how we are going to die?” Edward smiled sarcastically.

Fajardo pulled out a rolled up, crinkled map from his inside coat pocket, which he revealed to be a miniature version of Cadiz, and lands surrounding it. “The British have made their foot advance along the coast parallel to the Cadiz peninsula to Fort St. Matagorda, which will give them an even distance of attacking the adjacent Fort, St. Lawrence, and marching straight to Cadiz. I managed to get a few open ships to slip down to one of the remaining docks just east of this tavern, which we can fill up with your men and send them off to fight back the British. If all goes as planned, we can reverse the tide.”

Teague nodded. “Prepare the ships. We’ll be right there.” Teague turned to the bar, and began barking orders in Spanish, causing all the men to jump to their feet to answer the call of battle. They began to run about, collecting their things, while women and young children clung and shrieked so that they may not go.

Amidst the confusion and chaos, Delmaria was interrupted as he gathered his stuff by Maria, who grabbed his arm. “Please don’t tell me you’re throwing yourself in to the fray.”

Delmaria shook her off and continue to organize his things, throwing small pieces of ammunition foraged from the back of the tavern in to the pocket in his sailor pants. “I’m not letting all of this go to waste. If the British want to hang me, then I need to fight back.” A little magic and tingling sensation accompanied that phrase, realizing that he really was about to go to war, as a man.

Caught in the moment, he turned to Maria, grabbing her arms. “I’m not so much doing this for myself, as I am for the both of us.”

Maria was flustered, but she still objected. "Well... you simply can't expect me to fend for myself here! What if you don't come back!?"

Delmaria hushed her, putting a finger over her lips. "Promise me you'll stay safe." He whispered, still carrying his voice over the screaming and yelling in the room.

"Bu-bu-" Maria stammered, but Delmaria hushed her again. She saw something in his eyes. No more was he that quiet foregrounder that she had met not too long ago. He reflected confidence in his eyes.

Maria nodded quietly, and held herself close to Delmaria. For a moment, he could feel her heart beat against his, strong and pulsating. “Be careful.” She whispered.
Delmaria held her forehead to his, rubbing his hand on the hair on the back of her head. What was once pampered, clean and straight had become dirtied and curled, but nevertheless she was more beautiful than the gem of the highest sheen.

3

June 13th, 1702
Bai Von Puntales, Cadiz, Spain
11:20 PM

Teague had intercepted Delmaria as the small militia of men from the tavern began to ferry themselves down towards the far walls of the city, where the docks shrouded in night shadow sat. Edward walked by him, and as he did, grabbed the boy’s sleeve and tugged him violently as he continued, letting go not to simply drag him, but give him the implication he was to follow him. In this, Delmaria nodded as quickened his pace, keeping his view focused on the small Flamenco guitar that was strapped to the man’s back.

It was a quiet, humid night, a simple breeze pressing on a few clouds that glaciered across the black glistening sky. The sounds of the city had longed been hushed, so the silence was expected, and not as uncomfortable and awkward as those moments you feel as a room falls silent halfway through a conversation. In fact, the only thing that came as a shock was the sound of noise itself – the whistle and howl of the wind whipping through the battered streets, the rolling and writhing of the ocean waves as they came up on the Cadizan walls, before receding back to plan for a next assault, much like the British.

They were brought to a small opening in the wall, though it was more of a large crevice at the end of a dead road than anything else. They passed in between the chipped, narrow sides, and stood on a lengthy yet thin strip of bare dirt than rose like a cliff against the stone walls of the city. Before them , five poorly constructed wooden docks, much like those you would see in small fishing villages of the South Asian Third-World, rose down to the seas, where two ships sat before one large, wavering beneath a massive galleon.

The galleon itself was a daunting sight. Painted black, it blended in so strongly with the night that its massive hull could only be detected by a sharp eye seeing the contrast of it with its background. Giant masts rose up the sky to pierce it, like sharp daggers that plunged themselves in to its stomach. It was wide, and seemed like a heavy ship – but at the same time, it gave to you the sense it was agile as it was powerful, outrunning any ship that should try to pursue her. Teague smiled happily as he saw his ship, as though for the first time, and pointed to her name written on the back – the “Wicked Wench.”

They stammered down the dock, heading towards the ships in a flurry of eager men waiting to assume their dooms in honor. Only Delmaria was picked out of the group to follow Teague, so he automatically assumed he and Teague might be sailing out alone. This all changed, however, as they reached the end of the dilapidated dock, where from the side of the ship a few dozen men stared down at them.

They hung from the masts, the ropes, the nets, and the railings, all staring down at the boy and the pirate. Some were as young as ten, and others were as old as fifty, their individual experience and valor judged by the stains and cracks that lined their faces. They were wrapped in rags and torn linens that hung loosely down from their shoulders, dirtied vests, crew tanks and other strange yet poor wear the norm among them. They were all stern as a wall, and the thickness of the crowd, which lined the entire side of the ship was almost an emotional sight. Their tear ducts had run dry, each and every one of them here because they wanted to spend their limited time on earth fighting for something. They weren’t ready to die – just waiting.

Teague pounded his boots on the starch black deck, yelling at his crew, “Don’t just stand there! Places to go, people to see! Move!”

The flood of men instantly dispersed, running to their respective spots across the ship. As the organized confusion burst out across the ship, Teague walked towards the tall, towering, disconnected staircase that led up to the helm of the ship. Delmaria still couldn’t comprehend the greatness of the ship, but that didn’t distract him from hearing what Teague had to say as he strode ahead. “Do not automatically assume the nobility of my crew by misconception – my crew is one that fights to run, not one that runs to fight. We are not a mindless crew that lives off of blood, and I pride myself in that. A pirate should have as much dignity and conduct as that of an Englishmen.” Teague hurried up the staircase, and turned himself right up to the large, dark steering wheel, just as the massive sails of the ship fell open like black tidal waves falling down from the sky. As the ship kicked forward in the window, Teague called out, “SILENCE! Bring out the darkness!”

One by one, the lanterns that hung on the edge of the ship were blown out, submerging the ship in an enclave of darkness. For a moment, Delmaria felt as though he was not so much aboard a ship as he was mystically drifting through the night, by how well the ship blended in to the bleak atmosphere of the open waters. Over the side, Delmaria could see only a few miles ahead of the ship the outline of a stout fort on the flat horizon before them.

The fort had obviously undertaken a beating judging by the scars on its walls only a few days after it’s capture. Small holes, cracks, and fire stains littered any visible area of the fort, although it wasn’t much. The fort was short in height, about thirty feet off the ground, though it was more than likely built further inward than it was upward. From a flagpole that sat square in the middle atop the front wall, wavered a tattered British flag in the wind.

Approaching the building, Teague reached in to his pocket with his free left hand and pulled out a small white handkerchief, waving it above his head in a counterclockwise circle. This motioned for the two ships at the Wench’s side to prepare to turn to the left, which they did in the slightest and smoothest of motions. Delmaria turned his vision around to the right side of the ship so he could further view the fort, and it was from then that he realized just how close they were to the fort, it being less than a quarter of a mile away from them.

For just a brief moment, the crew was left in to take in the remainders of the silence, it possibly being the last that they would experience. Teague looked to his right, then to his left, and then looked out over the ship. “OPEN FIRE!”

The sheer force of the initial explosion was enough to send Delmaria rocking back to the railing behind him, the feeling of the ship tilt for just a brief moment under the cannon fire. The force of sixteen twelve-pound cannons unloading on to the fort might not have been much for an accustomed sailor, but it was enough to give Delmaria a startle reminiscent of the fire time he heard the dreadful sound.

As the three ships unloaded mercilessly on the fort, which had just begun to fire back in a laughably bad and disorganized manner, Teague motioned to his First Mate to take the wheel from him. He passed by Delmaria, and once again tugged him by the shirt as he passed (this seemed to be a normality of the man) telling “The battle has begun, my boy! Follow me to the dinghies!”

“But, Captain, I only have a pistol! Surely you must be joking?” Delmaria cautiously questioned as he followed Teague down the stairs.

Teague turned to Delmaria, and said simply, “Then you better know how to use it damn well, aye?”

The crew Teague had picked out of the chaos aboard the ship piled in to two dinghies, Delmaria jumping carefully in to the one the Captain had piled in to. It tipped back and forth unstably as the last pirate jumped in to the boat, and for a moment, Delmaria had a flashback to his experience just prior with the Rutherfords. He remembered the blood and the smoke on his face as he was forced in to the small boat... it was right after one of his first murders.

One of his first. It resonated in his head, the thought that he was starting to keep count of how many men died at his hands. What would the tally be by next month? Next year? In five years? If there was a man that lived in a cell inside his mind, would he begin to run out of places on the wall to etch in how many he'd killed? To think it was becoming an afterthought, it sickened him. It was at this point he started to once again question what he had become.

And this questioning blocked his vision up to the point he hadn't realized they reached the base of the cliff. The small boat crashed in to a small opening that was sandwiched in between two large patches of rocks, which quickly narrowed to a single-file path that snaked up the steep, rocky hill towards an opening that sat on the side of the fort. The men around Delmaria began to push him around like a doll to get to the path, almost with eagerness in their eyes. Did they really want to die? Was this the life that Delmaria was soon to live?

He was the last one to slowly stumble out of the dinghy, besides Teague, who watched him as he went about exiting. Delmaria tried to ignore everything that was around him, though - the explosions of the cannons, the shouts and howls from the inside of the fort, and the stone glare of Edward - so that he may concentrate on simply surviving the remainder of this brutal battle. He figured the fault of most was that they caught themselves in the midst of battle, and more importantly, in themselves.

Delmaria began to climb up the hard rock incline, his feet pounding under pressure. He caught up quickly to the line of pirates, who were pushing one by one through the small hole they were climbing through on the side of the fort wall. When it came Delmaria's turn, he threw his arms through and practically dove through the opening, though his flawless entry was interrupted by the fact he landed flat on his face. Still, he stammered to his feet, waiting to see what was going on.

The fort was a flat plain, with four thin walls surrounding it. It looked almost like an arena of sorts, with dozens upon dozens of pirates fighting against dozens of red coats. It was a sight to behold, the battle carrying on in individual fights scattered all across the fort.

Delmaria couldn't help but feel the rush of battle run through him, charging at the back of one of the soldiers. He ran up right behind him and cut the British man down the back, his red blood just adding a dark menace to his uniform. He yelped in pain as he slinked to the ground, and normally Delmaria felt compelled to help him. But not today - today, Delmaria was not fighting for another man, but for himself. And perhaps a selfish idea, but it was enough justification to let himself lose.

Though not engaging directly in to combat, he was a strong ally. He would run across, trying to dodge the battle, as he would cut and chop his sword in to the skin and limbs of anything that wore red. He was a blur in the battle, swinging and gutting so quickly that he hadn't a drop of blood on him. But he could feel his weapon picking away at every enemy, soldier, and officer, with no discrimination other than doing his best to not harm his fellow pirate.

And it felt good, too. He had found a medium to relieve himself of the stress that had built up in him, and each and every blow and strike had a little piece of his soul riding on it. He could feel himself feeling better and better every time he heard the drop and gash of blood, and from this, his doubts once again became an afterthought. It was as though here, on the battlefield, he became a new person - an evil person.

But his hell and fury came to an abrupt halt. He felt his legs knocked out from under him, sending him throttling to the ground. His sword stuck out in front of him, causing the hilt to jam in to his stomach as he fell, knocking the wind out of him. He twisted his pain-stricken abdominal as he thudded on the ground, trying to gain a sense of where he was.

His eyes locked on to a torn redcoat uniform, bayonet in hand, trudging towards him. He tried to get up, but he had no energy left in him, so he just fell back on to his rear. The soldier began to raise his bayonet menacingly, so in desperate action, Delmaria threw his sword up in the air to block the blow. But the soldier wouldn't let that get in his way - he hit the sword away with the barrel of his gun, and then raised up the tip, plunging it down towards the boy.

Delmaria felt the sharp metal point dive straight in to his left leg, digging in to his left thigh just in the middle of the muscle. He could feel the blood vessels throb as the blood ran out and on to the ground - and he screamed a loud, echoing scream, half in pain, and half in fear. He knew that he was trapped - he couldn't walk any further.

The soldier gritted his teeth and pulled the weapon out, pulling it back to go in for the final blow. Delmaria thought that the idea of how stupid his recklessness was would be such a terrible last thought - such a pitiful way to die. He tried to crawl away, but it was useless - some pirate he was. The pain was starting to take hold - his vision was becoming darker and darker. He prepared to be consumed.

Just then, the soldier paused. His face tangled and stretched in pain, before he dropped his bayonet right on the floor. Before the man's body even hit the ground, it was pushed violently aside like a rag doll, nearly spiraling through the air. The last thing Delmaria Darkskull saw before he passed out was a cloak - a heavy, leather cloak, pushing towards him. He felt a pair of thick swordsman's gloves scoop him up, the smell of Spanish spices faintly resonating in the air.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

FINALLY.

Well mates, now that that is over, I'm pleased to announce I will be able to keep up with posting once again. So, look forward to seeing more posts on here more frequently!

You know I love all those comments and reviews, so post them! Thanks, mates!