The Feral Dog Adrift - Chapter 1: Storm & Smolder

The 17^th of September
1693, fourth year of the reign of William III, King of England
The boundary between the Celtic Sea and the British Channel.

The storm batters against the worn hull and tattered sails of the HMS Osprey, her battle-scarred silhouette struggling to make headway against the waves. Her deck is covered in flickering lantern lights, as thick-voiced sailors struggle to keep her from being swamped in the freakishly large waves. The sails of her three masts are bundled tight, all eighteen gun-ports shuttered, anchor hooked onto the prow. High and low she bobs in the dark waters, a lone flicker of light in pitch darkness.

Deep in the Osprey's cargo hold he sits in cross-legged silence, gnarled wrists clasped in iron shackles. His boots and coat were long gone by now, claimed by the ship's officers as both trophies and replacements for their own gear. Only a pair of ratty canvas pants spare his modesty. Under the flickering lantern light above him, his skin gleams with the mapwork of a foul life: Streaked with grime and soot, scarred by sun's rays and old battles, with tattoos etched like a tapestry. And pock-marking this wretched flesh are copious, fresh welts and bruises. Yet under that mane of fiery orange hair, the muscled prisoner's eyes still shine with vigor, pupils wide with a calm, unbroken rage.

From his position, he can see his four watchers. Four men of His Royal Navy, each unsettled and nervous in their own fashion. Two are simple, fresh, clean-shaven boys – likely brought on from that other ship after his capture. The other two would have been useless during this storm, and so their position here is simply to keep them out of the way. One is so badly wounded as to be crippled: His arm in a makeshift sling, a hollow and mangled eye-socket covered with a strip of linen. The last is staring at the walls of the lower hull, muttering. The orange-haired man has seen this kind before: Stricken in combat, his eyes are likely full of gunsmoke and death. An injury of the mind.

If it weren't for this storm calling every able-bodied sailor to duty, these four would not be here.

A vicious wave crashes into the inside of the Osprey, and it sweeps across the deck of the vessel. Two men are washed overboard, and the ruckus above becomes even more desperate. Below, one of the boys stumbles and falls, sea legs still untrained. The other struggles to help his brother-in-arms up, and the trauma-stricken soldier begins to tremble. The prisoner makes his move.

“Sit your arse back down, Liam!” The wounded soldier calls out as the orange-haired prisoner surges to his feet. His one good hand points a pistol, struggling to keep it aimed true. Liam wastes no time, his scarred feet gripping the wood beneath him before his legs tense – and then launch him forward. He sees the man's single eye start with surprise, before-

KRRK. His forehead smashes into the wounded man's face, a splash of blood spurting out from the impact. The crippled sailor collapses, nose and bones beneath pulverized from the impact. His pistol fires, the musketball cracking off into the wooden hull aimlessly.

One of the boys, still on his feet, hastily begins to hoist his rifle up; The unwell mariner hollers, struggling to make his shivering hands and shuddering eyes aim. Liam, even with his hands bound and his body aching, streaks and lunges around the sailor-boy's gun. His hazel eyes are now lit with a wild, hungry fire; With a savage lunge, he drives his stained teeth deep into the lad's tender neck, and clenches his vice-like jaw shut. It takes only a shake of a mangy head, and the boy's throat rips apart, blood gushing out from mangled flesh. The young lad slumps against the wall of the cargo hold; In seconds, his body goes limp.

“HELP! WE NEED HELP! RED DOG IS LOO-” The other boy screams as he tries to take aim with his musket from the floor. He has no chance, as the orange-haired pirate stomps his head against the wooden hull with a knobbly ankle. WHAM. WHAM. WHAM. He's unconscious, but Liam keeps stomping. WHAM. WHAM. WHAM.

KRAKOW.

The chaotic air is struck quiet with a loud gunshot, and the shaggy red pirate grunting in pain. He looks back: Smoke billows from the muzzle of the haunted sailor's rifle. He feels his right arm's shackle slacken as his left arm and his lower back bloom with hot agony. He pulls his arms to his front; His left hand is gone- No, not gone. It's there, fallen to the floor of the hull. His left wrist is a ragged stump, and he feels the culprit rolling around in his gut, the musket ball piercing his wrist and into his innards.

“Death here then, instead of dancin' the hangman's jig.” The first words from Liam's lips, before he clenches his sole remaining hand and smashes that fist into the temple of his final jailer. Those haunted eyes roll back into their sockets, and he hits the hold's floor with a loud thud. The pirate reaches up, gritting his teeth as he feels that iron invader rolling around in his lower body, and feels the end approaching. He grabs the lantern from its hook in the ceiling, and rips it off, testing his grip on the glass-and-metal frame.

“Indeed. T'is a shame you won't live to face trial, Mr. Gault. But your corpse will still see me promoted.” That posh voice, dripping with noble ambition. Liam glances up from his bloody carnage, blood and viscera dripping from his filthy jaws and beard, his ragged stump, and the hole opened in his back. The new arrival's cutlass is already poised to strike, even as Liam's vision begins to blur at the edges. A blonde man, fair locks and pale skin streaked with the sweat of exertion and desperation. “Permit me to make your passing quick. You won't survive the night, and whatever foul honor you wogs swear by would surely allow for death by the blade over bleeding like a pig.”

“If I would not take Orange Billy's noose, wot makes you think yer blade has a chance?” Liam says with a harsh snarl, hefting the lantern in his good hand. “Why, James... Would I not take the flames of Hell firs' and foremost? Especially as you didn't feckin' move the gunpowder out?”

James' eyes widen with horror as Liam Gault turns on his heels, and his arm winds for a massive throw. The captain of the Osprey leaps forward, cutlass piercing through the air. It slices deep and stabs downward through the pirate's flesh, catching on the bone of his ribcage and cutting into his lungs.

But too little, too late.

The lantern soars through the short distance the shaggy pirate has flung it, and smashes against the barrels and bags stacked and shoved into the deepest recesses of the Osprey's cargo hold. Canvas and wood begin to smolder and smoke, the air growing hotter and hotter. The captain can only stare in horror, his mouth trying to find the breath and the voice to start shouting for help.

“I am Liam Gault,” the former prisoner turns, James' cutlass still jutting from his back as his own blood pours from his many wounds. “The Red Dog. Captain of The Lady's Mercy.” He coughs up blood as he falls to his knees, a smarmy and sadistic grin on his bruised and pock-marked face. “You burn with me.”

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The HMS Osprey burns for a long time, gunpowder stores cooking off with a brilliant flare and smoke rising into a pitch-black and stormy sky. Her crew fights to see the dawn, to beat back the flames of The Red Dog's final hour. 

By morning, no one remains to tell the tale.