Ozzymillz
New Member
1718. The Moon looks menacingly apon the coast of Ponce, Puerto Rico. It's red hue in the night sky reminds the now drunken and quite weathered Harrison Maynard, of that same stern moon 50 years prior. That blood red silhouette, drifting in the dark ocean sends a shiver down Maynards spine, and like the crack of musket fire to the back of his skull, all of those horrifying memories flood through his mind as he stumbles backward, careful enough not to spill the vintage bottle of 1612 Brandybane.
Maynard raises the bottle to his lips and chokes down several gulps of the salty tainted liquor, and manages the 30 or so paces back to the camp fire where the dimly lit figures that make up his crew, sit trading stories of lust with women all to endowed to be considered factual. "Capitan.." One of the voices calls out to Maynard, His weary eye glancing to the young Spaniard. Maynard's hand comes to rest on the boys shoulder while the other hand hoist the bottle in toast. "I feel these 60 odd years heavy on my feet men" Maynard says to the 17 wide eyed crewmen "Yet as I now breathe this air ablaze, I feel the Reaper's tears beg for his sow of a mother" The drunkard dictates in boisterous fare . The crewmen join in laughter, at their captains ever confident valor, But Maynards face grows gaunt in glow of the camp fire, and his voice lowers to barely a whisper "For I truly know, that a Reaper would cease to be a trouble..." The camp grows silent, puzzled glances spread from eye to eye. "c..Capitan, you should rest, we set sail.." Maynard's eye grows fierce and he brandishes the arrogant smirk he's known for, stopping the Spaniard mid sentence. The captain sit's among his men, then pulls a strange object from beneath his coat, as the crewmen gather, even more puzzled. The object had been closely guarded by the captain, so much so that this was now the first time any of his crew had seen it. At best the object resembled the helm of a gladiator of ancient rome, and the eye socket was glassed over, while the other was damaged and shattered inward, and above the socket, still embedded was a lead ball shot. This helm looked as though it has seen countless wars. the crown was pitted and scratched, as if set apon by a skilled swordsman, and even stranger were the markings that lined the edge of the crown. The helm was large, much to large for a mans head, more akin to the armor of the mythological giants. "This is but the facade of the true face of death..." The captain said passing the helm to the young man beside him.
Maynard raises the bottle to his lips and chokes down several gulps of the salty tainted liquor, and manages the 30 or so paces back to the camp fire where the dimly lit figures that make up his crew, sit trading stories of lust with women all to endowed to be considered factual. "Capitan.." One of the voices calls out to Maynard, His weary eye glancing to the young Spaniard. Maynard's hand comes to rest on the boys shoulder while the other hand hoist the bottle in toast. "I feel these 60 odd years heavy on my feet men" Maynard says to the 17 wide eyed crewmen "Yet as I now breathe this air ablaze, I feel the Reaper's tears beg for his sow of a mother" The drunkard dictates in boisterous fare . The crewmen join in laughter, at their captains ever confident valor, But Maynards face grows gaunt in glow of the camp fire, and his voice lowers to barely a whisper "For I truly know, that a Reaper would cease to be a trouble..." The camp grows silent, puzzled glances spread from eye to eye. "c..Capitan, you should rest, we set sail.." Maynard's eye grows fierce and he brandishes the arrogant smirk he's known for, stopping the Spaniard mid sentence. The captain sit's among his men, then pulls a strange object from beneath his coat, as the crewmen gather, even more puzzled. The object had been closely guarded by the captain, so much so that this was now the first time any of his crew had seen it. At best the object resembled the helm of a gladiator of ancient rome, and the eye socket was glassed over, while the other was damaged and shattered inward, and above the socket, still embedded was a lead ball shot. This helm looked as though it has seen countless wars. the crown was pitted and scratched, as if set apon by a skilled swordsman, and even stranger were the markings that lined the edge of the crown. The helm was large, much to large for a mans head, more akin to the armor of the mythological giants. "This is but the facade of the true face of death..." The captain said passing the helm to the young man beside him.
