Ink won’t wash away …
Bear’s cry shattered the night like thunder on glass. “Captain overboard! We’re adrift!” His voice rolled across the black, treacherous waters, echoing off waves that knew no mercy.
He scanned the churning dark, but found only a single sign— a purple ribbon, dancing on the tide like a ghost’s whisper. Silas would never part with it willingly. Something had happened. Something unspeakable.
“Captain!” Bear roared again, his voice raw with desperation. Soon others joined him, their calls rising: “Captain? Captain!” But the sea gave no answer. No hand broke the surface. No breath gasped for air. Only silence, and the cruel rhythm of the waves.
The crew shouted until their throats bled salt. They turned the Stromcrow, circling like mourners around a grave, refusing to believe the sea had swallowed their soul.
Bjorn was the first to voice the shadow in their hearts. “It must be his broken heart,” he murmured defeated. But his words were met with fury— a fist raised, a jaw targeted. “How dare you!” the other spat. “He would never abandon us!”
Bjorn lifted his hands, not in defense, but in surrender. “I didn’t mean he failed us,” he said, his voice trembling like a sail in storm. “I meant… we all saw what happened. Even the strongest hearts can crack.”
Bear stepped between them, his presence like iron in the wind. “Enough,” he commanded. “We’ve sailed too long together to forget— the sea does not ask. When it takes, it takes with purpose.”
And so they stood, men carved from salt and sorrow, staring into the abyss, where the ribbon floated like a final prayer.
A few weeks prior in the captainshall
The captain’s hall lay steeped in silence, the kind that settles only after the day has exhaled its last breath. Outside, the sea whispered lullabies to sleeping slaves, but within, two men sat cloaked in flickering candlelight, faces half-lit, half-shadowed—like truths not yet spoken.
“This one is rare,” the host murmured, his voice smooth as velvet, as he poured the wine with reverence, as if it were blood drawn from memory. “I know you’re no lover of wine,” he said, “but this… this is different. It tastes like a delicate slave— seductive, playful, a tease that dances on your tongue, then strikes with a kiss that leaves you aching for more.”
He smiled, but it was a smile carved from old stone. The jest hung in the air, a veil over something darker.
In the hush between words, the man with too many names leaned back, his eyes reflecting the candle’s flame like twin secrets. “I heard you met Snow,” he said, and with those words, his voice changed— deeper, colder, stripped of the charm that had played the part of captain.
Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): Noted the change in his friend and looked concerned…”Yes Niahm was noticed by him in Turmus and invited us to his home…that they knew each other was obvious”
“Yes,” he said, voice low and measured, “They know each other well. Just as she knows me… intimately.” He let the final word linger, like smoke curling from a candle’s flame.
Then, with a quiet breath that felt like a shift in wind, he added, “I wonder how long she’s known that I was the man she once called Crow.”
His gaze sharpened, cutting through the candlelight like a blade through silk. It wasn’t suspicion—it was calculation. He studied Portus not with curiosity, but with the precision of a man who had worn too many masks and knew the cost of each one.
Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): “I knew Crow a little back in Torvaldsburg and I never enquired too deeply of him and was quite prepared to take him on face value”….looks through the dim light to the man standing before him….”never once did she indicate that you were he….her past remained that…the past bothr for her safety and my own though it was never explicitly stated”
He grinned, the kind of grin that didn’t reach the eyes— a blade hidden in velvet. Lifting the glass with deliberate grace, he let the wine catch the candlelight, a crimson swirl of temptation and threat.
“Your mate,” he began, voice smooth as aged silk, “is far more than the naive girl you once collared. Axlan was wise— wise to keep her breathing, wise to deny her return to the man who claimed her like property. And his warning to you?” He paused, letting the words settle like ash. “Keep her past buried. Let it rot where it lies.”
He took a sip, slow and reverent, as if tasting prophecy. The wine danced in his glass, a silent witness to the storm brewing between them.
Then he leaned forward, eyes gleaming with something ancient and cold. “This conversation,” he said, “will end with one of us owning the company— and the other, his demise.”
Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): looks at him and feels the chill run through his body knowing that in front of him stood an accomplished fighter…a man with many contacts….charming when needed…”my friend I hope i have not caused you alarm so that you feel my demise is necessary…i can assure you her past has been left there and i have no desire to learn it”
He lowered his gaze when the word friend was spoken— not out of shame, but out of memory. In the shadowed caste of assassins, friendship was a relic, a fragile thing buried beneath steel and silence. Most who called him brother wore the same mark, but few outside the caste ever dared to touch the part of him that bled.
“This isn’t your demise, my friend,” he said, and for the first time in years, his voice held warmth— not the heat of fire, but the glow of a hearth long cold.
He straightened, the candlelight catching the edge of his jaw, revealing not the assassin, but the man who still loved his Home Stone, who still believed in honor, even when the world had taught him to kill.
“It is the demise,” he continued, “of your good friend, your partner, the captain of the Stormcrow— Silas Drake.”
The name hung in the air like a funeral bell, and the silence that followed was not empty, but sacred.
Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): could not bring himself to speak….there were many unanswered questions racing through the mind and the principle question being why…..”are you in any kind of trouble? is there no other option?”…the words spoken with the realisation that there was something more behind this….something deeper
He swirled the wine in his cup, watching the crimson cling to the glass like old blood. The question hung in the air, gentle but persistent—like a hand on the shoulder that wouldn’t let go.
He shook his head slowly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Not trouble in the way you might think,” he said, voice low and steady. “As a man of the caste of assassins… I suppose I am trouble. Living it. Breathing it.”
He paused, the silence stretching just long enough to feel sacred. “But I hope you’ll listen. It’s a tale I’ve not told to many.”
A deep breath followed, drawn from somewhere beneath the armor he wore—not the steel kind, but the kind forged from years of silence and survival. Only a few knew the truth of him. Fewer still had earned the right to hear it.
And yet here he was, ready to speak it aloud to the one man who had become more than a comrade—his brother in all but blood.
“Take some wine,” he said, offering the bottle with a half-smile. “Just to humor me. This will take some time.”
Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): returns the smile and relaxes some as i pour a good measure prepared to listen to the man who despite his recent revelation still counted among the closest and dearest…takes a sip of wine savouring it before looking back…..”I am all ears my friend”
: “I was born in Ar,” he began, voice steady but distant, as if the words were stepping out of a long-forgotten dream. “My father was a tarnsman, and so I followed. It was natural. I loved the beasts—wild, proud, untamed. I understood them. They understood me.”
He paused, letting the wine warm his throat before continuing. “In time, I mastered my steel. I was ambitious, young, and full of fire. I companioned a woman of my caste—strong, wise, beautiful. She bore me three children. We had a good life. Not perfect, but ours.”
His eyes darkened. “But always, there was the shadow of the Ubar I served. A man who thrived on chaos. His greed was a blade that cut through Ar, and many good men fell in his wake.”
The words slowed, thickening with memory. “One time, I returned from Ar’s Station. I knew something was wrong the moment I stepped through the gate. The air was too still. My house—plundered. I should have braced myself.”
He swallowed hard. “Our kettle slave lay dead in the hallway. Brutally murdered. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared me for what I found next.”
His voice cracked, barely audible now. “She was there. The woman I loved more than life. Her clothes torn. Her body… marked by her resistance. Covered in blood. Taken from me in violence.”
He turned his face from the light, as if even the flicker of a candle might expose the tear he refused to shed. Even now, after all these years, the wound had not closed. It had simply learned to live beneath the surface.
“I never lost it,” he said, voice low and hollow, “but in that moment… I lost everything. Even the will to live.” A confession that, for any Gorean man, was as unthinkable as surrender.
His eyes burned with memory. “In rage, I stormed the palace. I stood before the Ubar, demanding justice for her death— for the blood spilled in his name, for the ruin he left in the streets of Ar.”
But the Ubar did not flinch. He did not listen. He waved me away like filth, a maggot crawling across his marble floor.
“I threw my insignia at his feet,” he continued, his voice now a blade. “I spat in his face. And I walked out of that palace no longer a servant— but a man untethered.”
Outside, the wind had shifted. And in its wake stood a figure, silent, watching. Perhaps he had watched for years. Perhaps he had waited for this exact moment.
“That man was Scar,” he said, “and he did not offer comfort. He offered purpose. He recruited me into the caste of Assassins.”
And so, Melchior Wardell died that day— not by blade, but by choice.
From his ashes rose Crow. A name not born, but forged. A shadow with steel in his veins and silence in his soul.
Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): The tale hits hard as I think how such an action would have on my family situation….the reasons for his path and demeanour clearer now and also the pain of the loss of Belle bringing back so many painful memories….”and what of the children…please say they were spared”
The question cut him—not like a blade, but like a memory too sharp to forget. “I lost my two boys,” he said, his voice cracking under the weight of ghosts. “My daughter Rose… she was taken. I met her only when she was grown. By then, I was no longer a father— just a man in livery, trained to sever ties, to forget blood for steel.”
He straightened, not with pride, but with the discipline of a man who had learned to survive by burying his heart.
“Your mate,” he said slowly, “Raven… I knew her. She belonged to Scar. But she was never just a possession. She was warmth— the only ember in a compound built of frost and fury.”
He paused, eyes distant. “She taught Snow and me more than any blade. Only one in ten survived the compound.”
Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): “I do not comprehend how you managed to endure such a terrible loss as I can only think how much i would suffer losing Niahm let alone Caspian or Elodi”…….gives a puzzled look…”but why the need for the Demise of Silas…I can understand the need to hide away under the guise of Silas but why do you need to die?”
He poured the red liquid with practiced ease, the flask catching the light like a relic of old sins. The question hung in the air, reasonable, but heavy. He met it with a quiet nod.
“I won’t bore you with the contracts,” he said, “nor the names of those I served… or ended.” His voice was calm, but beneath it lay the echo of steel.
“The captain of the Stormcrow—he was a mark. Port Kar, as you know, is ruled by its council of captains. My client wanted to ensure he never claimed a seat at that table. And so, I became Silas Drake. A deckhand. A shadow among salt and sail. I climbed the ranks, earned the crew’s trust, and when the time came— I ended the contract. But something strange happened,” he chuckled, a sound more bitter than amused. “They didn’t question me. They didn’t ask where their captain had gone. They asked me to take his place.”
Silas Drake lived longer than intended. Longer than the contract required. Long enough to become real.
But his purpose is done,” he said, his gaze steady, his voice now that of Crow once more.
He looked to the man beside him— not as a mark, not as a mission, but as a friend.
“You’re capable of holding this on your own,” he said, and in that moment, it was not just a passing of responsibility— it was a passing of truth
Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): nods in agreement…somewhat understanding the current situation…..”So where are you headed now….i ask not if you are one again contracted but where your futures lies if not here among us….for you have become family…indeed but for that unfortunate incident which need not be mentioned we would be brothers now”
He drained his glass, the wine warm in his chest, a gentle haze settling over the edges of his vision. For once, he allowed himself to loosen the grip— to speak not as Crow, but as the man who had once dreamed of peace.
“I will return to my first love, Portus,” he said, his voice softer now, as if the words themselves were sacred. “To Ar… as it rises from its ashes.”
He leaned forward, the candlelight painting his face in gold and shadow. “I’ve made arrangements. I will walk its streets again— not as assassin, but as scribe.”
The name he chose was not his own. “Trajan Cernus,” he whispered, a mask carved from lineage and anonymity. “He was schooled, raised in quiet halls. If kin pass me by, they will not see me. They will see a scholar. A man of ink and parchment.”
But beneath that disguise, a deeper purpose stirred.
“I’ve accepted a seat on the council,” he said, “Tribune to the lower castes. A voice for the forgotten. A sentinel against the cruelty that once shattered my home.”
He paused, his gaze steady on Portus, no longer veiled in secrecy.
“This is my vow,” he said, “a sacred promise I’ve never spoken aloud. Not to Snow. Not to Raven.”
Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): listens carefully noting the sense of pride in his voice “far be it from me to deny a man his destiny but your council and guidance will be missed…..and I will miss a friend and companion with whom to share the finer things in life”….pours another glass of wine……”the company will go on in it’s operations of course but the loss of your presence will be felt keenly…is there no other way?”
Crow felt the heaviness of the words that were shared between friends. His mind as ever sharp as he of course had thought this through.
“The man Silas will find his grave in the thassa. When Bear comes to you with the news you will know that everything that is of the man Silas is yours. My gold, the exquisite wine collection and my girl.” he paused
“But you will gain a friend. A man with influence in Ar. A man that might persuade you to settle there too. To build that company with the talent and knowledge of your skill in the training of girls.” he would regard him now with a teasing gaze “Surely you will see the profit of such an arrangement.” he laughs
“The man Trajan a regular visitor as to ensure your interests are well represented in the council.” than his gaze turned a little dark “What do you think … can we trust Caspian and Elodi with the truth ?” as to Niamh he already knew he could give his life in her hands. She had kept it all this time.
Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): “Caspian needs to mature a little as he reacts quickly to new situations and could reveal something in the heat of the moment and Elodi loves her uncle Silas as did her Aunt so i think it is a good idea to keep the truth of the matter between the three of us to lessen the risk of Trajan being discovered unduly”…takes another swallow of wine
He nodded, slow and solemn, as if sealing a pact not with words, but with the weight of memory.
“Then it will be done, my friend,” he said, his voice carrying the finality of a closing door. “I only hope Elodi’s heart does not shatter beneath it. After Belle… she has known enough ruin.”
He paused, and for a moment, Melchior stirred beneath the mask— the man who once wept, who once held children in his arms, who once believed in peace.
But Crow had no room for ghosts. He exhaled, and with it, let go of every objection that belonged to the man he used to be.
Then he turned, his gaze steady, his tone softened by the candle’s dying flame.
“Now,” he said, “this is the moment for your last questions, my dear friend. The farm will wake early, and I know its rhythm well.”
Outside, the wind whispered through the trees, and the stars blinked like old companions. Inside, two men sat in silence— not as assassin and ally, but as brothers on the edge of farewell.
Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): “go in peace my brother….your secret will be kept and under the secrecy of your new identity i hope in time that our friendship continues in Ar although I am sure that although our interactions when others are present will be guarded we will both fully understand one another”
Crow would tip the glass to that of Portus as to seal the deal. Not a deal of the devil but one of the heavens. How both men defeated the cruelty of the gorean world. Challenged the codes of waht was considered true. A man that had murdered more men and women he could count and yet capable of forging bonds that would last a life time.
Crow did not speak. Words would only fracture the silence, and silence was sacred now.
Would step before the man he knew so well. And could not help but to open his arms as to beg for that brotherly embrace. Their embrace was not long, but it was deep. A communion of hearts, a farewell written not in ink, but in the press of ribs and breath.
When they parted, Crow’s eyes lingered— not on the face, but on the soul behind it.
“The purple ribbon,” he said, as if tasting the memory of it. “I will remember. Let it be a signal for communication. A sign that we have need for a moment like this.”
Then, without ceremony, he turned toward the door. The night was still, the farm quiet in its slumber, and the stars above bore witness to the closing of a chapter.
Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): watches him leave a wistful expression over my face and I drain my glass and sits back and contemplates my future
Crows Murder 
Leave a comment