�Sen� �er southward!�

The heavily accented, wind-piercing cry was that of Captain Barkarm himself in his desperate attempts to keep his ship, his life, on its course for shore. Even one as ruthless as Barkarm knew that they could not and would not survive another half-tenday at sea under such trying conditions. Those it was directed at did not meet his first call, and this brought the Captain to the decks. He was a sight to behold; a worn man in his late thirties, sporting cracked skin and lips that curled in a manner saved usually for serpents. His eye was small and beady, issuing a commanding glare to any that required it, and to some who didn�t; the second eye was never seen, hidden behind an eye patch in a manner clich� of pirates. The damp clothes literally clung to his skin, slightly too large so that they were baggy but plastered to his body by rain and seawater. Over these clothes Barkarm wore a brown cloak, which he always pulled around himself, perhaps of habit or to shelter him from the icy winds. But the most spectacular, and frighteningly unusual, feature of this man was not hidden by cloak or clothing. The Captain of the Black Skull had an arm made of solid bark, not carved into the shape of an arm and lacking any form of hand, it was a long shaft of wood protruding from the pirate captain�s shoulder, and was the obvious reason for the name that he had used for so much of his career.

The Captain�s orders rang out against the winds as he forced his way down his ship towards the stern, shoving his crew into action where they came within reach of his real arm. He had never seen his men so unorganized and it was no surprise to Barkarm that the Black Skull was going off course and off towards the west. Should the ship go too far in this direction, the Captain was aware, they would be dragged further out to sea by strong currents and winds. For this reason it was important that the masts were adjusted, set, and the steering was precise; even the slightest inaccuracy would cause disaster to the route. Rarely did a captain this side of The Isles match Barkarm�s wisdom on the waters, but he could not man the ship alone. The disarray of his crew unsettled him, and he feared an example would have to be made that could cut his crew down to twelve. The wooden arm struck the nearest pirate square on the temple, dropping him in an instant to his knees with an agonized groan. The Captain�s bellow quickly made the victim of the blow forget the stinging.

�Get back ta� ya lookout, matey, or ya� be regrettin� e�er settin� foot a�board ma� ship, aye!�

The pirate looked up at his Captain, his hand giving a shudder as he raised it to rub the bandana covering his throbbing head. The Captain saw the look of terror in the pirate�s eyes and for a moment it brought him a sense of satisfaction.

�Ca-� Cap�n� It�s �Sickle.�

�Eh?�

Barkarm followed the pirate�s finger as he pointed over his shoulder, and his one eye settled on his crew and for the first time he realized the reason for the ship�s unsatisfactory motion. The crewmen were not in their positions and were making no effort to be in such; instead they had formed a huddle near the stern of the ship. Barkarm left the pirate on his knees, disregarding him in favor of breaking up what could only be a crew mutiny, seemingly lead by the First Mate, Longsickle. Barkarm thought to himself as he made his way across deck that it would be a shame to end Longsickle�s life; he had always been loyal to the Captain and never had he seen a better pirate on Nelanther at wielding the sickle than him.

What Captain Barkarm did find was no mutiny, and nor was Longsickle a threat to his leadership. Pushing the cabin boy, Scrap, aside the Captain took a glance at what the pirate huddle was all about. And the horror in the shipmate�s eyes, and the words he had spoken made sense. Longsickle was the center of the crew�s attention; lay sprawled out on the deck, his eyes wide open and frozen this way, both sickles still firmly hung in his sash, and two slashes, long and deep, cut into his bare chest in the form of an X. The blood had been washed from the dead pirate�s torso by the torrent rain, but this did not help take the horror of the sight from the Captain�s eye, which quickly whirled around on his own dumbstruck men.

�Which one o� ya� gutted �Sickle? Speak now!�

The crew remained silent. This silence seemed only to fuel Barkarm�s fury, but he knew as well as any of them that he could not release it on the entire crew. If nothing else he needed them all to get his ship back on course before it was too late, and time was growing short. The paused silence was broken as Scrap, the cabin boy, took a wary step forwards, raising his high-pitched voice over the winds.

�Cap�n� Cap�n, sir, t�was The Wraith wha� did it!�

These words were enough alone to send the crew into feverish conversation amongst themselves, panic in their accented voices. The only man that remained silent was Captain Barkarm, until finally his curiosity got the better of him.

�Wraith? Wha� are ya� talkin� abou�, boy?�

Scrap was beginning already to regret having spoken up; he certainly did not wish to become the Captain�s example. But the words were spoken and even the cabin boy knew that obedience was the path to survival if any were to be had.

�Cap�n, sir, The Wraith� �e be feared amon�st crew all o�er The Isles, cap�n. Everyone knows The Wraith, they do. �E boards ships, �e does, an� e� kills crews� the �ole lot�and takes tha� ships��E�s a pirate killer, cap�n!�

The hush that had fallen was broke on Scrap�s last words, and it took two bellows from Barkarm to silence his crew. He certainly had not heard of this Wraith before, but he had heard of foolish rumors that left the docks to trouble crews; in fact, Barkarm did not doubt that Scrap himself was responsible for the paranoia that seemed to have broken out amongst the crew of the Black Skull. A single eyed glance to the slain and severed body of Longsickle was enough to bring the Captain from his thoughts and back to the rabble his crew were making on the slowly drifting ship.

�Silence, ah� say!�

The crew fell silent again and all eyes were on their Captain. Obedience had always pleased Barkarm.

�This Wraith figure ain�t real� �e�s jus� a rumor ta� get ya�ll fearin� tha� seas. So I�ll �ear no more �bout this �maginary killer ya seem ta� be yellowbellyin� o�er, ya�ear me?�

�Aye, cap�n.�

With the exception of Longsickle, the response was unanimous. Barkarm gave each of his pirates a steely glare with his one clear eye to make certain that this was the case. He thought for a moment of inquiring about the death of Longsickle, but his taste for an example seemed obsolete in comparison to getting the Black Skull to shore; the rain had not ceased and the winds seemed to be getting stronger. Just as the Captain was preparing to gives his orders, he heard a holler on the wind from an unfamiliar voice.

�Don� exist, eh cap�n? Ya willin� ta� wager on that �un, matey?�

The crew seemed to have heard the challenge also as they, like their Captain, tried to pinpoint the location of the voice, but this was made difficult by the storm absorbing and warping the sound to make it appear to come from a range of directions.

�Who be there? Show ya�self!�

The reply to the Captain�s demand came as the last had, distorted and eerie.

�Jus� ya local Wraith, cap�n.�

Lightning struck the dark mid-ocean skies at the same moment as twin scimitars struck Barkarm through the chest; marking an X that left his robe hanging open and blood flowing down his legs, trickling in torrents of red liquid. A second duel-bladed sweep splintered the wooden arm into two. A single agonized gasp, and Captain Barkarm of the Black Skull was laid dead beside his First Mate.

Stood now in the center of eleven stunned pirates there was a figure, clad head to toe in black leather. A belt tight around his waist held several daggers, vials and pouches. A black, silk mask covered his lower face, long brown hair flowing down his back and piercing brown eyes staring around, whilst in both gauntlets he held a scimitar, both curved into sharpened points.

�I-It�s The� The� Wraith!�

These were the last words spoken by the ship�s lookout, as he fell dead from a neck severed by the blade of a scimitar. This was all it took for the pirate crew to temporarily forget their fears and draw their blades. Daggers, scimitars and kamas left belt and sashes, and the crew took combat with the sole bandit. The dark figure dodged the first two blades that came his way, dispatching their wielders with a whirlwind attack of duel scimitars. However, he was not so lucky as the second blade was swung for him, a kama which cut into his cheek, drawing blood on touch. The hand that had brandished the weapon fell limp to the deck, lying in a puddle of blood that began to grow around it, followed shortly by the body from which it had been severed. Unable to get his blades around to the next pirate challenger, the mysterious figure gave him instead a stunning roundhouse-style kick to the back of the head, sprawling him out on the rain-splashed deck.

The figure could not be defeated. Twelve pirates had fallen to him in their attempts to put him to rest, but one member of the ship�s crew had made sure to keep his distance from the invader. Scrap stood now, having backed away from the massacre, alone and facing a figure dressed all in black and clutching two bloodied scimitars. The figure seemed to notice the cabin boy too, his dark brown eyes fixing on him almost accusingly. Realizing the figure advancing on him, the cabin boy spoke up, his voice as quaky as the ship rocking beneath him, in a desperate plea for his life.

�P-please� Spare me, won� ya?�

The enigmatic figure simply tilted his head, his flowing hair wafting behind him in the inundate winds.

�Can ya swim, boy?�

The question took the cabin boy by surprise, but he knew for his life he had no choice but to answer the figure.

�Aye� Aye. �Course I can, Wraith, sir��

�Good.� Through the silk mask, The Wraith smiled, which Scrap could find only vaguely settling. This comfort lasted only a short moment; the figure�s foot planted itself firmly on the cabin boy�s chest and a hefty shove sent him overboard and into the rough waters below. Tearing the silk mask from his lips, the figure glanced around the now vacant ship. It was off course for sure� off Barkarm�s course, anyway. A small chuckle left the man�s lips as he made his way to the ship�s wheel, leather boots splashing over the deck now splashed and stained blood red.

�Wraith? Hm� Wraith, Raph� �spose it kin�a makes sense.�