The Conflagrare Dussack

∴ A Flickering Fury ∴

An ocean wave, or a tongue of flame? You never could make your mind up. You smile to yourself, turning the thick, wavering blade over in scarred hands, eying the twin fullers, the blackened rib cage of a basket, the copper strands that glimmer in the braided wire grip. The ceiling of your low, sparse cabin coughs dust as heavy footfall sounds above.

You pull an oil-slick rag from the box on the table, and run it over the rolling waves of the blade, humming an old shanty song to yourself. It is not one of your own crew’s – you must have picked it up in some port or another. A resounding cannon blast shatters the last bawdy chorus, but you do not look up from your task til the blade is bright and gleaming.

Only then do you rise to your feet, taking your time, relishing the feeling of the firestorm building within you. Sword in hand, you step without stumbling over the rough wooden boards, despite the alarming pitch of the ship. As you mount the steps to the deck, shouts and shots breathe a flurry of sparks into the very embers of you.

True, the waters ever did call you – but there’s always been fire in your heart.

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