Old Habits: The ship creaked in the waves of the Ustyeurt Straits. Athalon Elfessi sat in the captain’s office; a large map sat on his desk, being held down by an assortment of astronomy equipment and a half-empty bottle of rum with a set of shot glasses to the side. He let out a low sigh “In the outskirts of the Archipelago an Altalar serves an Ailor in a war that isn’t his own..” He poured himself a shot, setting the bottle down to watch the rum sway in the motion of the ship. He closed his eyes for a moment from the hypnotic sway of the spirit. A rush of images flooded his mind. A young Altalar walked along the docks in the Suvial islands, playing with the lid of a barrel as if it were a shield. An older Suvial worked a tavern, stressed and overworked. A horde of sailors drank and partied while the young Altalar sat behind the bar, shivering in fear. A strong, strapping Fin’ullen docking the ship back into port. His eyes opened with a knock at the door, “Come in.” the tired Neflin called out. A Fin’ullen marine came into the office giving a salute. The marine spoke quickly “Blockade is to hold until further notice.” Athalon gave a nod “Ah.. I supposed it would. You’ve all done good today Tyrion. Go and celebrate a victory, friend.” The Marine gave a nod and left the office, leaving Athalon alone again. He took the shot with an odd grimace, holding his head as a headache grew. He blinked. Like cannon fire a barrage of images bombarded his weary mind again. The sun rose over the port town, the once young Altalar a little older. He carried a small cutlass on his side and a look of conquest in his eyes. The Fin’ullen seemed unchanged in every nature, though more wealthily dressed than his earlier form. The elder immediately took the boy’s cutlass and tossed it into the water saying something to the boy but the image couldn’t replicate. The boy immediately jumped into the cold, early morning water to retrieve his cutlass, climbing back onto the dock where the man immediately pushed him into the water again and again and again. He continued until the boy was shivering and chattering. The boy went in to dry off, the Suvial woman who appeared slightly older than before giving him a hug, though the boy pulled away from embarrassment. He snapped back to reality as the crew began to party outside. Cheers in Modern Altalar echoed throughout the Straits, leaving the nearby ships confused as victory was completely assured. Elfessi took a long deep breath, attempting to calm his breathing as it slowly sped from the barrages. He poured another shot, closing his eyes as he went to down it again. Tempting the images to come forth, the Elfessi summoned them again. This time the boy was definitely older, working the sails of a large frigate style ship. The Fin’ullen stood at the wheel, though he wasn’t watching the horizon, his deep blue eyes tearing a hole in the back of the boy's head. A flash of light and the ship was in battle, though something was off. The battle wasn’t mutual the Fin’ullen’s ship, the Pride of Talea was giving chase to what appeared to be a merchant vessel. The greenhorn clad himself in leather armor, strapping a steel buckler to his arm as he grabbed a steel cutlass. Another flash and he was on the ship, cutting down the merchant-crew without mercy. His allies began to sing as the battle came to a close. The greenhorn was confused. All his life he was taught against murder and crime, but that all changed when the heavy sack of gold hit his hand. The glass was empty. He shakingly set it back down, taking a deep breath. The cacophony of unending victory sounding from outside. He looked around the office for a moment cursing under his breath as he poured another shot. He let out a soft prayer, “Ulley protect me from my demons past, present, and those to come.” He downed the second shot. Cannon-fire echoed through his mind. The boy no longer a boy, but a fierce Altalar. The images struggled, but they called forth a voice to the crew, “Desryl” was the voices’ mantra. A flash of light and the sea turned to city, an alley. A bloodied Desryl surrounded by a horde of Daens as a man approached. The man was part of the crew, but something changed. The Captain, the Fin’ullen, lent Desryl away to the man as payment for his rescue. Desryl worked and worked in a cartography shop, cleaning, mapping, being a clerk. The work never stopped. A flash and Desryl was on the ocean again. He wasn’t working the sails now, rather he was with an older Neflin standing over a derelict map of sorts along with a variety of golden and glass tools. Desryl stood over the maps examining and learning all he could. Then, the Fin’ullen walked over to him and the images learned a new word: “Son.” The Father led the son to the wheel, showing him how to direct the men. He whispered into his son’s ear, “This is your throne. Here you are god.” His willpower fought back any emotional showing as he slammed the shot glass down. He grabbed the bottle and began to down the whole thing. The shouts of victory drowned out the glugging sound of the bottle as Athalon drained it of all it’s nectar. There was a town engulfed by fire. It was the town. The same that the young boy played on as his mother worked in the inn and his father docked his ship, now engulfed in fire and surrounded by dark ships made of bone. Desryl stood at the wheel, his father behind him picking up a large spear, speaking, “It’s nights like tonight Atha that allow you to rightfully take your place.” The fight ensued cannon-fire, magic, weaponry, sorcery all creating the opera of unholy battle. The battle never seemed to end just ongoing and ongoing until the Bone-ships left, though they didn’t retreat. They did what they meant to do: kill. A flash of light and the crew were back on the ocean, Atha now swinging in his cot as he heard the voices of nearby crew plotting and scheming. They planned a mutiny. The next day came in a flash of deep darkness. Atha challenged the biggest of the crew scheming to a duel. They raged on in a fight. Atha nearly losT multiple times over and over again, but eventually cut a thin slit across the opponents throat and kicked him off the side of the ship. Then, he saluted his father and his father recognized his growing viciousness and saluted back. A final flash of light, though this one was more a gentle fade as screaming voices echoed in his head. The final vision showing a bound Ailor crew on the edge of the ship. A tall Avanthar stood to Atha’s side with a large trident, he spoke “Captain says your orders First Mate.” Atha’s face grew a thin devilish smirk. He waved his hand as he spoke “They are useless now. Kill them all.” The Avanthar one by one began shoving the bound people off the ship. Atha grinned in a horrendous excitement as they struggled. His father pat him on the shoulder “Well done Athalon. You are finally the elf I knew you could be.” The bottle was slammed onto the counter. Athalon listened to the praises of death and spoke softly to himself as a single tear went down his face “Old habits die hard.” Spoiler: Afterword and Some Info Hey! Thank you for taking time out of your day to read this. I enjoy writing though feel I'm not great at it, so what better way to learn then practice. :D The Lore Story takes place in the Ustyeurt Straits after the Kreiburg naval victory and establishing the blockade, but consists of the Mixed Altalar, Athalon Elfessi, remembering his successes and failures in a time before he came to Regalia. Feel free to leave comments to tell me how I can improve. Thank you again and have a chill day.
