The frigate Queensbane cleaved through the azure waters of Earthengaugh with a ferocity that belied her age, her weathered oak hull slicing the calm sea like a cutlass through silk. Twelve billowing sails of taut, sun-bleached cloth drank deep of the wind, driving the vessel onward with a speed unmatched by any ship in the realm’s storied annals. A relic of a bygone era, she was a three-masted beauty, her timbers groaning with the weight of history—twelve years of storms, skirmishes, and plunder etched into her bones. Once a proud merchantman, she’d been reborn under the black flag, her name whispered in terror from the ports of Tartha to the rocky shoals of the Iron Isles.
At her helm stood Captain Banobany, a figure carved from legend itself. Her fiery red hair lashed behind her in a tight ponytail, barely tamed beneath the wide brim of her coal-black tricorne. She cut a striking silhouette against the salt-crusted crew—her impeccable black coat, trimmed with silver braid, clung to her frame, the crisp white shirt beneath a beacon amid the grime of her 113 scoundrels. Twelve years she’d danced with the tempests of Earthengaugh, her ship laden with 100 tons of ill-gotten gold, silks, and casks of spiced rum—spoils wrested from the hands of kings and corsairs alike.
Banobany raised her brass spyglass, its lens glinting in the midday sun, and peered across the shimmering horizon. There, slicing through the waves, loomed her quarry—a stout galleon flying the hated colors of Tartha. The enemy’s crimson flag snapped in the breeze, its bold red cross pierced by black arrows splaying outward like the spokes of a cruel wheel. A snarl curled her lips, her green eyes narrowing with a hunger that had felled empires.
“Avast, ye scurvy dogs!” she bellowed, her voice a thunderclap that rolled across the deck. The clamor of dice and drunken laughter ceased as if sliced clean by a blade. The crew—weather-beaten rogues with scarred faces and tar-stained hands—snapped their heads up, eyes wide with awe and a touch of fear. A wicked grin split Banobany’s face as she leapt from the quarterdeck, her boots striking the air in a daring somersault. She landed with the grace of a panther, her coat flaring like raven wings, one hand resting casually behind her back—perilously close to the curved scimitar that hung at her hip, its hilt wrapped in sharkskin and glinting with menace.
She paced the deck, boots thumping against the salt-worn planks, her gaze raking over her men like a storm over a reef. “There, to the north, sails a fat prize ripe for the takin’—them Tarthan bastards what spit on our colors!” she growled, her voice low and venomous. “Swift now, ye laggards—dead men tell no tales, and I’ll be damned if we let ‘em sing a shanty ‘bout our tardiness!”
She paused, fixing a piercing glare on a grizzled deckhand who dared linger too long over his cards. “Well, ye bilge rats? What be keepin’ ye?” she snarled, her hand twitching toward her blade. “Move yer sorry hides afore I carve me initials in yer gizzards!”
The deck erupted into chaos—shouts of “Aye, Cap’n!” mingled with the creak of rigging and the slap of bare feet on wood. Men scrambled like rats in a squall, hauling on ropes with sinewy arms, the great sails unfurling to catch every breath of wind. A lanky lad with a mop of greasy hair yanked a line, and up snapped the Queensbane’s own banner—a field of green pierced by four daggers, their points aimed to the corners of the world, a promise of death to any who crossed her path.
The frigate surged forward, her bow cutting the waves like a shark’s fin, the wind singing through her shrouds. The Tarthan galleon grew larger, its gilded stern and cannon ports promising a fight worthy of ballads. Banobany gripped the rail, her grin widening as the scent of powder and plunder filled the air. “Ready the guns, ye sea wolves!” she roared. “We’ll send ‘em to Davy Jones afore the sun dips low—this day belongs to the Queensbane!”

The Palace

In the opulent heart of the royal palace, where golden candelabras dripped with molten wax and tapestries of crimson and indigo recounted the triumphs of a blood-soaked dynasty, Queen Lysandra leaned forward upon her throne of shimmering mithril. The seat, a marvel forged in the ancient fires of Mount Aetherion, gleamed with an otherworldly light, its sharp edges catching the flicker of torchlight like a predator’s teeth. Her regal form was draped in a gown of midnight velvet, embroidered with silver threads that traced serpentine patterns, a subtle nod to the venom that coursed through her cunning mind. Her crown, a jagged circlet of obsidian and sapphire, rested heavily upon her brow, amplifying the icy menace in her sapphire eyes.
“Captain Banobany will succeed in her mission, Lord Commander!” she declared, her voice a silken blade cutting through the chamber’s stifling air. She tilted her head, a predatory smile playing upon her lips as she regarded the man before her. “You ought to muster more faith in her, Sir Lancel—or do you doubt the wisdom of your queen?”
Sir Lancel, Lord Commander of the Royal Armada, stiffened beneath her gaze, his broad shoulders tensing beneath the weight of his gilded armor. His face, stern and weathered as the cliffs of Tartha, twisted into a grimace at her reprimand. He was no stranger to her wrath—a man who had seen comrades fall to the headsman’s axe for lesser slights—and the price of defiance was etched into his very bones. “My queen,” he began, his tone resolute yet edged with caution, “I bow to your judgment, as ever.” He drew a slow, deliberate breath, steadying himself as though stepping onto a battlefield. “Yet this Captain Banobany—she is a known pirate, a brigand of the seas. How can we entrust so delicate a task to such a rogue?”
The queen’s laughter rang out, sharp and mocking, a cascade of chimes that danced upon the marble floor. “Ah! Ah! Ah!” she tutted, raising a bejeweled hand to silence him. “No pirate she, dear Sir Lancel—Banobany is a privateer now, bound to our cause by ink and blood.” Her eyes glinted with amusement as she watched confusion ripple across his chiseled features, savoring the moment like a vintner tasting a rare wine.

Sir Lancel’s dark brows furrowed, his storm-gray eyes flickering with uncertainty. He opened his mouth to protest, but the queen waved him on with an imperious flick of her wrist. “Speak, man,” she urged, her tone deceptively sweet.
He exhaled heavily, steeling himself. “Be that as it may, Your Majesty, I harbor grave concerns. What if she turns her sails to our enemies, lured by a richer purse? How steadfast is her loyalty to this contract when the prize—the Shard of Eryndor—is so precious, its power so vast?”
At this, Queen Lysandra rose from her throne, a towering figure of regal menace. The mithril behind her flared as though alive, casting her shadow long and sinister across the polished floor. The grand audience chamber, with its vaulted ceilings and pillars of alabaster, seemed to shrink beneath her presence. “She will obey, Sir Lancel,” she intoned, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. “For if she dares betray us, her fate is sealed—she will die by my hand, her ship a pyre upon the waves, her name erased from every tongue in Earthengaugh.” With a flourish, she sank back into her throne, the abruptness of the motion sending a ripple of unease through the assembled courtiers.
Sir Lancel’s frown deepened, though he swiftly bowed to conceal it, the rainbow hues of his meticulously dyed hair—a mark of his noble lineage—catching the light as he bent. Lysandra’s keen gaze lingered upon him, reading the distrust that simmered in his shadowed eyes. He was a clever one, this brooding knight, his honor as unyielding as the steel at his side. To execute him would be simple—her word was law—but his men, fiercely loyal, would turn against her. No, she mused, her fingers drumming a silent rhythm on the armrest, she must bind him tighter to her web.
“Very well, my steadfast Lord,” she said at last, leaning forward with a smile that promised both reward and ruin. “I decree this: you shall take a vessel of your choosing from my mighty Armada—the Silver Talon, perhaps, with her forty cannons and swift keel—and muster the finest warriors of my realm. Shadow Banobany’s course, ensure she claims the Shard. Succeed, and your name shall be sung in halls for generations. Fail—” Her voice sharpened, a dagger unsheathed. “—and I shall cast you into the Mithers, where the shadows feast and no light dares tread.”

Sir Lancel flinched, the threat sinking into his marrow, and bowed once more, his cape sweeping the floor. “As you command, Your Majesty,” he murmured, his voice tight with resolve and dread. With a curt gesture, he summoned his retinue of armored soldiers and strode from the chamber, the heavy oaken doors thudding shut behind him.
Lysandra reclined against her throne, her closed fist resting against her chin as she sank into contemplation. The Shard of Eryndor—its crystalline depths said to hold the power to bend fate itself—danced in her mind’s eye. “Sir Alistair!” she called, her tone unwavering, her gaze still fixed upon the sealed doors.
“Yes, Your Majesty?” came the reply, a stout figure stepping from the shadows to her right. Sir Alistair, her trusted advisor, was a squat man clad in robes of emerald and gold, his shrewd eyes peering from beneath a fringe of graying hair.
“What say you of this tangled game?” she asked, her voice a velvet shroud over steel.
Sir Alistair inclined his head, his expression grave. “Sir Lancel is a pillar of our kingdom, loyal to the core—yet he mistrusts this pirate” At her sharp glance, he hastily corrected himself. “This privateer, Captain Banobany. I deem your command wise, Majesty. Sending him to oversee her ensures the Shard’s return, lest her pirate heart stray.”
Lysandra’s lips curved into a faint, sinister smile as she turned her head back to the doors, her eyes narrowing to slits. “Hmmm. Indeed,” she murmured, her mind already spinning new threads of intrigue. The Shard would be hers—by Banobany’s hand or Lancel’s blood, it mattered not. In the end, all would kneel before her throne.

Queensbane

The Queensbane tore through the roiling sea like a beast unchained, her weathered hull shuddering with glee as she bore down on the enemy galleon, now a mere league off her bow. The wind howled through her twelve tattered sails, each one straining against the rigging like a pack o’ wild dogs clawin’ for blood. The frigate’s deck thrummed with the chaos o’ battle prep—blades clashed as they were yanked from scabbards, ropes creaked under the strain o’ sweaty palms, and the air stank o’ tar, sweat, and the promise o’ death. Captain Banobany, her red mane lashin’ like a whip beneath her black tricorne, ripped her brass spyglass from her belt and pressed it to her eye with a growl that’d make a kraken quiver.
Through the lens, she spied the Tarthan dogs scurrying ‘cross their deck like rats in a bilge fire—cannons bein’ loaded with tremblin’ hands, powder kegs rollin’ wild as the crew tripped over their own boots. A sinister grin split her weathered face, teeth flashin’ like a shark’s maw. “Boyce!” she bellowed, her voice a cannon-shot o’er the din.
A scrawny, toothless wretch with a stump for a hand skittered up, his one good claw clutchin’ a rusty cutlass. “Aye, Cap’n?!” he crowed, eyes wild with the thrill o’ the hunt.
“Arm the lads, ye scurvy git!” she snarled, her gaze still locked through the glass. “Tell ‘em to lash themselves tight to the rails when we close in—gonna be a hell o’ a dance with these Tarthan curs!”
“Aye, aye, Cap’n!” Boyce scampered off, hollerin’ like a banshee. “Ye heard her, ye barnacle-brained bilge rats! Swords up, ropes out—hold fast or kiss Davy Jones’s arse!”

Banobany didn’t flinch, her eye glued to the spyglass as she scoured the enemy ship for its soft underbelly. There—aft o’ the main deck, a patch o’ charred timber, black as sin, glistenin’ with the ghost o’ a fire they’d barely snuffed out. A weak spot, ripe for rippin’ open like a fish gutted fer supper. Her grin widened—perfect fer sendin’ the whole blasted tub to the briny depths. But a shadow crept o’er her mirth. That cursed Shard o’ Eryndor, the Dread Queen’s prize, lay aboard—Lysandra’s honeyed threats still rang in her ears, blackmail twistin’ her guts tighter’n a hangman’s noose. Sink the ship too soon, and she’d be feedin’ crabs herself. Her green eyes narrowed to slits, cold as the ice o’ the Northern Reaches.
“Margyle!” she roared, her voice a thunderclap that shook the planks. A lanky figure loomed up on her left—tall as a mast, skinny as a spar, with a grin sharp enough to carve whalebone.
“Aye, Cap’n!” Margyle stood proud, chest puffed like a peacock in a storm.
She flung the spyglass behind her without a glance, and his quick hands snatched it from the air like a gull nabbin’ a fish. Pacing the quarterdeck, her boots thumpin’ a war drum’s beat, she kept her glare fixed on the distant galleon, one arm jabbin’ toward it. “Take a gander aft o’ their main deck, just below—tell me what ye spy, ye clever dog!”
Margyle pressed the glass to his eye and let out a low whistle. “By the gods o’ the deep, Cap’n—ye’ve sniffed out a weakness! Charred wood, black as pitch—she’s been kissed by flame and left limpin’!” His grin widened, admirin’ this fiery she-devil who’d outsmarted half the seas.
Banobany’s lip curled, a sneer o’ pure mischief. “I’m itchin’ to send that miserable hulk to Eloin’s locker, let the sea-witches pick her bones clean. But there’s a trinket aboard I’m bound to nab—orders from that hag-queen Lysandra.” She shot him a glare that could melt iron. “Ye’re Weapons Master o’ this fine frigate, Margyle—gimme yer reckonin’, or I’ll keelhaul ye meself!”

He lowered the glass, meetin’ her gaze with a spark o’ his own. “Sink her we can, Cap’n—just needs timin’ sharper’n a harpoon’s tip and a crew with guts o’ steel.” A scimitar flashed to his throat, quick as lightning, her blade kissin’ his Adam’s apple.
“Our lads not brave enough, ye whelp?” she hissed, her voice a venomous purr.
Margyle didn’t blink, starin’ her down with a rogue’s calm. “Ain’t our crew I’m doubtin’, Cap’n—it’s theirs!” The blade vanished as fast as it’d come, and she snatched the spyglass back, swingin’ it to her eye. She scanned the enemy deck—gaunt faces, hollow eyes, a rabble stumblin’ over each other like drunks in a squall. A laugh rumbled deep in her chest. “Weak as whelps and twice as clumsy—this’ll be a slaughter!”
“Margyle!” she barked, swingin’ the ship’s wheel with a fierce yank, settin’ the Queensbane on a dead run for the doomed galleon. “Load the cannons, ye lanky sea-dog—chain shot and grape, ready on me word! We’ll carve ‘em up and pluck that Shard from their guts afore they know what hit ‘em!”
“Aye, Cap’n!” he bellowed, leapin’ to the gun deck. “Ye heard her, ye powder-stained swabs! Load ‘em up—let’s give these Tarthan pigs a taste o’ hell’s own thunder!” The crew roared back, a chorus o’ bloodlust risin’ with the wind as the Queensbane surged forth, her bow aimed like a dagger at the heart o’ her prey.
The Queensbane carved through the swell like a reaper’s scythe, her hull slicin’ the waves smooth as a hot blade through a slab o’ butter. The frigate’s decks buzzed with the snarl o’ ropes and the clatter o’ steel as her crew—hardened sea dogs every one—readied fer the bloodbath to come. The Tarthan galleon loomed close now, her timbers groanin’ under the weight o’ her own doom. Captain Banobany leapt atop the quarterdeck platform, her boots thuddin’ the salt-crusted planks, and thrust her scimitar skyward, its curved blade catchin’ the sun like a flare o’ righteous fury.
“Lads o’ the briny deep!” she roared, her voice a tempest o’er the crashin’ waves. “Our foe’s nigh upon us—yonder she sails!” Her scimitar slashed toward the enemy ship, now so close ye could smell the fear waftin’ off her decks. “We’re a heartbeat from glory, ye salty wolves! Give yer all to this scrap, and I’ll drown ye in gold and grog! Cross me, and ye’ll taste the lash o’ me wrath!” She sheathed her blade in a flash so quick it dazzled like a sunbeam, then yanked it free again, the steel singin’ a promise o’ death.
“We’ll storm that tub like the devils we be!” she bellowed, her red ponytail snappin’ in the wind. “Half o’ ye scoundrels board with me—cutthroats and blade-dancers, ye’ll follow me lead! The rest o’ ye mangy curs, haul the Queensbane aside and blast a hole in that aft end—send her guts spillin’ to the deep!” She slammed her scimitar back into its scabbard with a clang. “Draw lots, ye bilge rats—who’s stormin’ and who’s stayin’?”
She spun toward the enemy ship, now a cannon’s shot away, her crew scramblin’ to obey as the lots were cast—curses and cheers mixin’ with the creak o’ the rigging. Handin’ the wheel to a gap-toothed swab with a wild grin, Banobany strode to the bowsprit, her boots treadin’ the narrow spar with the grace o’ a cat stalkin’ a rat. Scimitar in one hand, dirk in the other, she balanced like a queen o’ the seas, the wind tearin’ at her black coat as the galleon’s deck rushed to meet her.

The enemy crew—pale, ragged wretches—gaped as the Queensbane’s bowsprit kissed their rail. Banobany’s grin turned feral, and she loosed a roar that’d wake the dead. “Lads! Ready yerselves fer war, ye bloodthirsty bastards!”
The Queensbane’s crew answered with a howl that rolled o’er the empty sea, a chorus o’ savagery that sent seagulls scatterin’ and the Tarthans tremblin’. With a mighty leap, Banobany vaulted from the bowsprit, landin’ amidst the foe with a screech that’d curdle rum. Enemies swarmed her like flies to a carcass, but she danced through ‘em like a storm o’ steel—her scimitar whirlin’ overhead, cleavin’ necks and crackin’ skulls, her dirk dartin’ like a viper’s fang. One poor sod caught the short blade up through his chin, the point burstin’ through his gob in a fountain o’ crimson that splattered her white blouse, turnin’ it a butcher’s apron.
Half her crew stormed aboard in her wake, a tide o’ cutlasses and guttural roars. Muskets cracked from the Tarthan ranks, powder smoke stingin’ the air as lead flew wild. Banobany’s eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, raked the chaos fer their captain—a coward’s silhouette lurkin’ atop the aft platform, peerin’ down like a vulture too yellow to join the fray. “Gutless swine,” she muttered, then charged, her blades a blur o’ death. She hacked through a knot o’ foes—slashing one’s belly open, spillin’ his innards to the deck, then plungin’ her dirk into another’s eye, poppin’ it like a grape. “Landlubbers!” she cackled, her laugh a mad hymn o’ slaughter.
A blade flashed at her flank, grazin’ her coat—she spun, eyes narrowin’ at a spindly rat of a man, his cutlass still quiverin’ from the miss. With a snarl, she swung her scimitar low, severin’ his leg at the knee in one brutal chop. He screamed, toppin’ to the deck, but she was already gone, racin’ fer the platform. A musket boomed, smoke billowin’ as a bullet screamed fer her heart—she dove, rollin’ ‘cross the blood-slick galley, then sprang up the stairs in a single bound, landin’ afore the enemy captain like a demon risen from the deep.
“Targosa!” she snarled, levellin’ her scimitar at his chest, the tip hoverin’ an inch from his embroidered coat. Her dirk gleamed in her right hand, poised fer a strike. “I’ve come to send ye to the Locker, ye craven dog!”
Targosa, a wiry man with a patchy beard and a tricorne too big fer his head, stared down her blade, his Adam’s apple bobbin’ like a cork in a squall. He flicked his eyes to the deck below, where the clash o’ steel and the shrieks o’ the dyin’ shook the timbers—Queensbane’s rogues and his ragged crew locked in a savage brawl, neither side givin’ quarter. “Ye can’t best me, Banobany!” he spat, voice crackin’ like old rope. “This ain’t no woman’s worl—”
His words choked off as her scimitar pressed to his throat, the edge nickin’ his skin ‘til a bead o’ blood welled up. She tilted her head, a menacing grin stretchin’ wide, then glanced left—where the Queensbane swung ‘round, her cannons glintin’ in the sun, primed to blow the galleon’s aft to splinters. “Say that again, ye gutless swab,” she purred, “and I’ll carve yer tongue out afore ye hit the planks.”

“Looks like yer doomed, Targosa!” Captain Banobany hissed, her green eyes blazin’ with a fury that’d sink a fleet. Her gaze bored into the man afore her, narrowin’ as she took in his short black beard and smooth, boyish mug—too clean, too green fer a sea dog o’ repute. A jolt o’ realization hit her like a cannon blast: this weren’t Targosa. She dove aside just as a cutlass cleaved the air where her head’d been, the blade’s whistle a death knell on the wind. The ship rocked beneath her, pitchin’ her off balance, and she sprawled to the deck, glarin’ up at the real Targosa—broad, grizzled, and leerin’ down with his steel bared fer the kill.
The pirate let out a guttural guffaw, his cutlass glintin’ as he loomed o’er her sprawled form. “Thought ye’d nab me that easy, eh, wench?” he jeered. But Banobany kicked out, her boot slammin’ his shin, then flipped forward in a whirl o’ black coat and red hair, risin’ like a tempest unleashed. She lunged, scimitar and dirk flashin’ as she dueled him amidst the chaos o’ the battle-rent deck. Steel sang a savage song—clashin’, scrapin’, sparkin’ as she feinted left and thrust right. Targosa’s eyes, cold as a shark’s, tracked her every move, huntin’ fer a chink in her guard.
Her face twisted with malice, she drove forward, scimitar slashin’ fer his gut. He swung high, the cutlass grazin’ the brim o’ her tricorne, missin’ her skull by a hair. “There’s yer weak spot, lass!” he crowed, spinnin’ like a dervish. His blade arced down, a brutal chop that forced her back a step, off-kilter on the swayin’ planks. She snarled, pushin’ in close ‘til their swords locked in a cross o’ tremblin’ steel, hilts grindin’ ‘tween ‘em.
“Ye need to die, ye snivelin’ coward!” she spat, hawkin’ a gob o’ spittle square in his eye. Targosa flinched, stumblin’ aft, and her rage erupted like a powder keg. Her scimitar became a blur, crisscrossin’ the air in deadly arcs, the dirk jabbin’ wickedly ‘twixt each strike. He parried wild, retreatin’ ‘til his boots hit the deck hard, and he crumpled, arms raised in surrender. “Enough!” he bellowed, voice crackin’ under her onslaught. Her blade froze mid-thrust, hoverin’ o’er his chest, her eyes burnin’ with hate as she loomed o’er the beaten cur. Kill him now, or drag him back fer profit? The choice danced in her mind like a devil’s jig.
She kept her scimitar trained on his throat, twistin’ to survey the fray behind her. Her crew o’ cutthroats were thrashin’ the Tarthans, blades flashin’ red in the sun, but the Queensbane lagged a touch astern o’ the enemy galleon, her cannons not yet in line. A burly figure charged toward her through the melee—Ursula, his face a mask o’ blood and scars, eyes wild with the battle’s fire. “Ursula!” she roared, her voice cuttin’ through the din like a bosun’s whistle.

“Aye, Cap’n!” he hollered, skiddin’ to her side, his cutlass drippin’ crimson.
“Tie this bilge-suckin’ captain up!” she barked, slammin’ her boot into Targosa’s gut. He doubled over, wheezin’ in agony. “He’s comin’ with us—might be the Dread Queen’ll toss us a fat purse fer his hide!” Ursula grinned, snatchin’ a coil o’ rope from the deck and lashin’ Targosa’s wrists so tight the hemp bit flesh, drawin’ thin rivulets o’ blood.
“Yer a fierce scrapper, wench, but ye ain’t no true pirate!” Targosa rasped, spittin’ at her boot. She answered with a knee to his chest, knockin’ the wind clean out o’ him.
“Right ye are, Targosa,” she growled, leanin’ close, her breath hot on his face. “I ain’t no mere pirate—I’m a godsdamned privateer, and ye’ll rue the day ye crossed me!” She straightened, glancin’ starboard where the Queensbane swung into position, her cannon muzzles glarin’ at the galleon’s aft like the eyes o’ a sea beast. Time was slippin’—she had to move.
“Boys!” she screamed o’er the clash o’ steel and cries o’ the dyin’. “Heave these Tarthan dogs o’er the side—feed ‘em to the sharks! Ready yerselves—the cannonballs’ll fly soon!” She spun to Ursula, her face a mask o’ menace. “Get that yellow-livered swab aboard our ship alive, ye hear? Or I’ll flay ye from stem to stern!”
With a final glare, she kicked open the hatch to the lower deck, her boots echoin’ as she plunged into the shadows below. The Shard o’ Eryndor—Lysandra’s cursed prize—lay hidden somewhere in this creakin’ hulk, and she’d tear it apart plank by plank to find it, or die tryin’. The roar o’ battle faded above as she vanished into the gloom, a predator on the hunt.

The God

In the fathomless abyss of the void, where darkness reigned thicker than the blackest storm, the Mighty God Seurez trembled with a wrath that rippled through the emptiness. Towering over the twelve priests prostrated before him, his form loomed colossal—an imposing silhouette of humanoid menace, wreathed in a sickly yellow aura that pulsed like a dying star. His bulging eyes, vast and unblinking, glowed with an eerie luminescence, while locks of wild, flowing hair cascaded beneath a crown of jagged obsidian, its weight a testament to his dominion. Seurez, God of Illumination, was a fierce sentinel of balance, his very presence a paradox of light and dread in this lightless realm.
“You must seek out all the Shards, my loyal priests!” His voice erupted, a deafening roar that thundered across the void, reverberating into the infinite dark as though the abyss itself quaked in fear.
The priests, bowed low in their meditative vigil, responded as one, their voices threading telepathically through the ether in solemn unison. Yes, my Lord!
Seurez’s massive hands clenched, his luminous gaze flickering with sorrow before hardening into a grimace of resolve. “I am shackled within this cursed realm, bound to avert such catastrophes. My brother decrees that I must leave the creatures of Earthengaugh to their whims—a fool’s edict!” His tone grew bitter, resonant with disdain. “Yet I shall defy this fate. When I discern the precise lairs of the nine Shards, I will reveal them unto you. We must guard them with our very essence—the Queen must not claim them!”
Yes, Lord of Illumination! came the priests’ fervent reply, their minds alight with devotion. These twelve, sworn to the Order of Seurez, adored their god with a zeal that fueled his might. Each had wrought marvels in his name—cities razed, heretics silenced—all to uphold his vision of equilibrium. Their faith was his strength, a symbiotic bond forged in blood and prayer.
The god nodded, a glimmer of hope piercing his dour countenance. “Go now, my priests—all save High Priest Banjael. With you, I would speak alone!”
Eleven of the shadowed figures shimmered and dissolved, their forms unraveling into wisps of nothingness as they returned to their mortal shells in Earthengaugh, their parting chants echoing through the void. Praise Seurez! God of Illumination! The air thrummed with their reverence, leaving only one—a lone priest kneeling in the glow of his master’s radiance.
“Banjael!” Seurez’s voice softened, though it retained its ominous weight. “I entrust you with the Shard locations. My sight grows dim, clouded by treachery, and I would wield your power to pierce the veil. This Queen shall not triumph!”

The god extended his hands, palms aglow with eldritch fire. As he focused, his mind a storm of divine will, shimmering symbols burst from his brow, spiraling toward the priest like embers on a gale. A golden ring, its center a yawning black maw, descended and settled upon Banjael’s head, crackling with arcane potency.
Teleportation! Seurez’s voice boomed within the priest’s skull, a telepathic command laced with power.
Another glyph followed—a bull wrought in molten gold, its horns sharp as fate—drifting down to merge with Banjael’s form, infusing his sinews with unearthly vigor.
Strength! the god intoned again, his gift a mantle of might bestowed upon his chosen.
Banjael’s aura flared brighter, his spirit bowing under the weight of such blessings. Thank you, my Lord! he replied, his telepathic voice trembling with awe.
Seurez broke his trance, his resonant roar returning to shake the void. “Seek the Queensbane, Banjael! There lies the Shard— wrest it from the grasp of those who sail beneath its cursed banner!”
Praise the God of Illumination! Banjael’s mind sang with fervor.
“Go, my child!” Seurez commanded, his voice a clarion call to destiny.
With a final pulse of yellow light, High Priest Banjael dissolved into the ether, his form dissipating like mist before a storm, hurtling back to the mortal realm of Earthengaugh. The void fell silent once more, save for the simmering rage of Seurez, whose glowing eyes fixed upon the unseen horizon, plotting the downfall of all who defied his sacred will.

Queensbane

Captain Banobany tore down the creakin’ stairs to the dimly lit deck below, her boots poundin’ the timbers like a war drum. The feeble glow o’ swingin’ lanterns stung her eyes as she squinted into the murk, scimitar drawn and gleamin’ wickedly in case some skulkin’ rat lunged from the shadows. But the cramped hold was still as a graveyard—nary a soul, just crates stacked high with moldy bread and salted pork, no glint o’ gold nor gleam o’ jewels to be seen. She cursed under her breath, her gaze snappin’ to a squat door at the far end, its iron hinges rusted and defiant.
“Blasted luck o’ the Locker!” she snarled, stormin’ toward it. She yanked the handle—locked tight as a miser’s chest. With a growl, she stepped back, coilin’ her strength, and drove her boot into the wood. The kick rang out, solid but shy o’ splinterin’ it. Teeth bared, she charged again, hurlin’ all her fury into a thunderous strike—CRASH!—the door burst inward, flingin’ her through in a tumble o’ coat and curses. She hit the deck in a heap just as a bone-rattlin’ BOOM shook the ship. “Cannon’s singin’!” she thought, scramblin’ up in a room that reeked o’ sweat and stale grog—livin’ quarters, with a rickety bed and cabinets leanin’ like drunks.
The Shard o’ Eryndor—Lysandra’s damned trinket—was here, or so she’d been told. She tore into the place like a whirlwind, rippin’ open drawers, flingin’ pillows, her hands a blur o’ desperation. Another CRASH rocked the galleon, tiltin’ it a hair to port. She whirled, eyes wild—then froze. The bed. It was under there, she’d stake her life on it. She heaved the frame up with a grunt, and there, sprawled in the dust, lay an old codger in tattered robes, his bloodshot eyes starin’ up in terror, beard quiverin’ like a jellyfish.
“Who be ye, ye hag-ridden wretch?” he croaked, voice frail as a whisper on the wind.
“Mind yer tongue, ye old barnacle!” she snapped, malice floodin’ her glare. “Where’s the Shard? Speak quick!” Another CRASH shuddered the hull, splinters rainin’ somewhere above.
“Shard?” he wheezed, shrinkin’ back. “Ain’t here, I swear it!” Her scimitar flashed up, poised to end him, but he wailed, “Nooo! It’s elsewhere, but I can fetch it—spare me life!”
Banobany’s lip curled. “Ye’re comin’ with me, ye lyin’ sea slug. If ye’ve spun me a yarn, I’ll make drownin’ look like a mercy!” She hauled him up by his ragged tunic, bootin’ his arse fer good measure. “Move, ye creaky bag o’ bones!” He stumbled forward as another cannonball slammed the ship, the deck groanin’ under the strain.

They bolted up the stairs, burstin’ onto the main deck where chaos reigned. The galleon listed hard, her bow risin’ as water clawed at her guts. Most o’ the Tarthan curs were dead or dyin’, her own crew whittled to thirty blood-smeared rogues. Ursula held Targosa fast at the aft, the Queensbane loomin’ close now, her hull kissin’ the sinkin’ wreck. Banobany cursed—had she blundered?—but there was no time fer regrets. She flung the old man to the deck with a thud and leapt down after, draggin’ him aft as the ship bucked like a wild beast.
The Queensbane edged in, her crew slingin’ boardin’ planks ‘cross the gap, the enemy galleon sinkin’ fast under their feet. Water surged ‘round their ankles as her lads hauled loot—sacks o’ coin, casks o’ rum—back aboard, whoopin’ with greed. Banobany yanked the old man along, last to cross as the planks groaned. She hit the Queensbane’s deck just as the Tarthan ship gave a final death rattle, slippin’ beneath the waves in a swirl o’ foam and timber.
Cheers and roars erupted ‘round her, her crew drunk on victory and plunder. She strode through ‘em, head high, ‘til the noise ebbed, then threw her arms up, silencin’ the lot. “Lads, ye’ve done me proud!” she bellowed, flashin’ a grin wide as a shark’s maw. “Tonight ye’ll feast like kings—mead and meat ‘til yer bellies burst! And mayhap one o’ ye lucky dogs’ll warm me bunk!” The men howled, eyes glintin’ with lust and hope, hangin’ on her every word.
She spun on her heel, hips swayin’ like a ship in a swell. “And then!” she cried, thrustin’ a fist skyward, “ye’ll eat like kings again!” The deck shook with their laughter, a raw, lusty roar—they’d kill fer her, die fer her, this fiery siren who’d hauled ‘em to riches and renown.
“But keep yer wits sharp, ye scurvy lot!” she barked, yankin’ her scimitar free and slingin’ it o’er her shoulder as she paced the blood-slick planks. “We ain’t all mates here.” She stopped dead afore Targosa, bound and kneelin’, and pressed the blade’s tip to his throat, nickin’ his Adam’s apple ‘til a bead o’ red welled up. She arched a brow, voice droppin’ to a purr. “Are we, me dear, craven captain?” Her grin was a promise o’ torment, and the crew held their breath, waitin’ fer her next move.

The Queensbane carved through the restless sea, her timbers groanin’ under the strain o’ a fresh victory, the air thick with salt and the tang o’ blood. Below deck, Captain Banobany stormed down the rickety stairs to the stowage hold, her boots thunderin’ like a squall. With a snarl, she planted a savage kick into the old man’s ribs, sendin’ him tumblin’ down the last steps in a heap o’ rags and wheezes. Targosa followed, shoved hard by her iron grip, sprawlin’ beside the geezer with a grunt. She locked the hatch behind her with a clank o’ finality, then sauntered down, casual as a cat stalkin’ a wharf rat, her coat flappin’ like a raven’s wings in the dim lantern glow.
The two captives writhed on the damp planks, groanin’ in agony, their pleas fer mercy a pitiful chorus. “Spare us, ye devil!” Targosa rasped, while the old man whimpered somethin’ incoherent. Banobany sneered, deliverin’ a sharp boot to each o’ their guts fer good measure, relishin’ their gasps. She stepped o’er their crumpled forms, hummin’ a eerie sea ditty—“Oh, the waves do roll, and the sharks do bite”—as she sparked a few lanterns to life, their flickerin’ flames castin’ ghastly shadows ‘cross the hold. The ship rocked, creakin’ like a ghost galleon, as she snatched two rickety chairs from a table and slammed ‘em down side by side.
“Up, ye scurvy dogs!” she barked, haulin’ the old man by his scruff and ploppin’ him in one seat, then draggin’ Targosa into the other. His oversized tricorne toppled off, rollin’ into the gloom. He spat at her, a gob o’ defiance from bound hands, and she repaid it with a fist to his groin that doubled him over, wheezin’ like a punctured bellows. Leanin’ in close—her breath hot, her face mere inches from his—she purred, “Targosa, let’s have us a civil little parley, eh?” Her grin was a crescent o’ menace, sharp as her scimitar.

Targosa, clutchin’ at his pride through the pain, could barely muster a glare. She turned her head slow, like a hangman sizin’ up a noose, and fixed her icy stare on the old man. “And you,” she tutted, drawin’ her dirk with a flourish, “ye’ll spill all ye know ‘bout this Shard!” The blade danced along his cheek, pressin’ just hard enough to dimple the skin without drawin’ blood. His eyes bulged, wide as moons, and she chuckled. “Think sharp, ye old codger!” She twirled the dirk afore his face, a gleam o’ steel tauntin’ him, then sheathed it with a snap and began pacin’, hands clasped behind her back.
“Targosa,” she mused, pivotin’ to face him with a cocked brow, “why’s a dread pirate like yerself haulin’ ‘round a graybeard like this?”
Targosa’s laugh burst out, a mad cackle that echoed off the damp walls, his eyes locked on hers ‘til her scimitar found his groin again, the tip prickin’ through his breeches. “Tell me, ye bilge rat!” she snarled, pressin’ harder.
“We… found…” he gasped, wincin’ as the blade bit deeper, “him… on Gartner’s Isle…” The steel prodded, urgin’ him on. “Spit it out, or I’ll geld ye!” she roared. “He begged passage, that’s all—please, Cap’n, ease off! I’ve naught else to tell!” His eyes, wild with truth and terror, pleaded fer mercy—a man in such a fix’d confess to the gods o’ Dalon themselves.
Banobany eased the blade back, perchin’ on the table’s edge to study their backs. Targosa heaved, his breath ragged from her tender mercies, while the old man sat still as a corpse, odd and unbowed. “Oi, graybeard,” she called, her tone shiftin’ to a curious lilt, “what’s yer name?”
He turned his head slight, voice steady as granite. “I’ve borne many names in this world. In this life, I’m Dariot.” She rolled her eyes, slappin’ her thigh with a guffaw that sent a chill through the hold. “Grand! A lunatic and a laughin’ pirate—me crew’s a bleedin’ circus!”
Her delight flared wild as she strutted past ‘em toward the stairs. Halfway up, she spun, pointin’ at Targosa. “Ye should be dancin’, ye sorry swab! Ye’re off to meet the Queen!” Her grin turned vicious as she jabbed a finger at Dariot. “And you’ll be singin’ to her ‘bout that Shard!”

To her shock, the old man let out a dry, raspin’ laugh. Her mirth curdled to rage—she charged back, landin’ a fist square in his jaw that toppled him, chair and all, to the deck with a crash. Satisfied he’d got the point, she straightened her tunic, her lips twitchin’ with dark g
lee, and climbed back to the main deck. She locked the hatch tight, the clank echoin’ like a coffin nail, and strode off to her captain’s duties. Yet a gnawin’ unease clung to her gut—somethin’ ‘bout that old codger stank worse’n a week-old catch, and it weren’t sittin’ right at all.

Later on…

Down in the Queensbane’s dank stowage hold, Dariot lay sprawled where Banobany’s fist had felled him, the chair toppled beside him like a broken spar. A low groan rumbled from his chest, his bruised mug a map o’ pain—purple and swollen where her knuckles had kissed him hard. Targosa, still lashed to his own seat, tilted his head, a crooked grin twistin’ his battered face as he stared at the old man. “What a wench, eh?” he crowed, voice thick with a twisted brew o’ awe and venom. “She’s twice the pirate I’ll ever be—half o’ me wants to salute her, the other half’d gut her soon as look at her!” His laugh was a rasp, cut short as Dariot’s feeble mutter broke through.
“How could she leave me like this?” the old man wheezed, clawin’ at the air fer purchase. His gnarled hands scrabbled at the damp planks, seekin’ leverage to haul his creakin’ bones upright, but each heave only sank him deeper into despair, the bruise throbbin’ like a storm cloud ‘cross his skull.
“No use, ye old barnacle,” Targosa sighed, slumpin’ against his ropes. “Lie there and whisper to the gods o’ Dalon—ain’t no point in fightin’ it now.” His breath was heavy, a man resigned to the whims o’ fate and a she-devil’s wrath.
Dariot relented, collapsin’ flat with a shudderin’ exhale, his rheumy eyes roamin’ the shadowed hold—lanterns swayin’ gentle, castin’ flickers o’ yellow o’er crates and chains. A sigh slipped free, relief that the red-haired tempest had stormed off, leavin’ him breathin’ yet. But the air shifted—sudden, sharp, and wrong. A blue rectangle o’ light flared to life beside his head, its edges cracklin’ like witchfire. Blackness bled into its center, shapin’ a doorway outta the void itself, and afore Targosa could blink, two spectral hands shot out, clawin’ fer the old man.
“Oi—what in the Locker—?” Targosa sputtered, but Dariot was already gone, yanked through the portal with a yelp, chair and all, swallowed swift as a fish by a shark. The doorway snapped shut, leavin’ naught but a whiff o’ ozone and a stunned silence.
Targosa’s eyes bulged, dartin’ ‘round the empty hold in a panic, his chest tightenin’ like a cannonball’d lodged there. “Gods o’ the deep, she’ll flay me alive fer this!” he muttered, voice tremblin’. He didn’t know where the old codger’d vanished to, nor how, and Banobany’d carve answers outta his hide when she found one o’ her prizes missin’. Sweat beaded on his brow, the ropes bitin’ deeper as he strained, dread coilin’ in his gut like a kraken’s tentacles.
Hours dragged by, each creak o’ the ship a taunt, ‘til the hatch’s lock rattled—a slow, deliberate clank that froze his blood. The door groaned open, and heavy boots thudded down the stairs, echoin’ like a death knell. Targosa’s breath hitched, his mind racin’ fer a lie, a plea, anythin’ to stave off the storm brewin’ in Banobany’s shadow as it loomed closer, her silence more terrifyin’ than any roar.