Ajax Jaggerjacks sat hunched over a battered wooden table in The Rusty Cutlass, his fingers wrapped loosely around the neck of his second bottle of rum. His broad shoulders stretched the seams of his black leather wife-beater, the fabric clinging to a torso that looked like it had been carved from stone. His muscular arms, bare save for the furred gloves that crackled with faint blue energy, bore the scars of old battles, a map of past fights, and narrow escapes. But it wasn’t just scars that marked his skin—Ajax was covered in tattoos, a patchwork of ink that told the story of his life.
From his neck down, his body was a gallery of classic pirate motifs—anchors, ships, mermaids, and skulls—inked in bold, dark lines that stood out against his sun-kissed skin. These were the marks of a man who had lived by the sea, a sailor’s tribute to the life he had chosen. But it was the tattoos on his arms and head that told a deeper story.
His arms were a tapestry of swirling, wave-like patterns that seemed to shift and shimmer as if alive, their fluid lines interrupted by jagged, crystalline ice formations near his wrists. These designs were more than just art—they were a testament to his heritage and his journey as a kineticist. Ancient runes and sigils, passed down through his family for generations, were woven into the waves and ice, their meanings known only to those who shared his blood. The tattoos seemed to pulse faintly with the same blue energy that crackled around his fists, a visual echo of his control over water and ice.
His bald head, gleaming under the dim candlelight, was adorned with more of these personal symbols. Intricate patterns of waves and frost curled around his scalp, framing his face like a crown of ice. Beads of sweat formed on his brow, glistening in the heavy, salt-thick air, and his bushy brown beard framed a strong jawline marked by a crooked nose that had been broken more times than he could count. His bright green eyes, sharp with mischief and menace alike, scanned the room lazily as he took another swig from his bottle.
The tavern was alive with the kind of noise only pirates, smugglers, and desperate sailors could make. Laughter, loud and boisterous, rang over the clatter of dice rolling across wooden tables. The occasional bark of an argument threatened to spill over into violence, and the dull thud of fists meeting flesh was as common as the sound of tankards slamming against the bar. Smoke from cheap cigars curled in thick, slow-moving wisps, mingling with the scent of sweat, spilled rum, and the faint metallic tang of blood. Near the bar, a group of sailors argued over a game of cards, voices slurred with drink and veiled threats. Across the room, a pair of bouncers—hulking brutes with arms thick as anchor chains—watched the crowd, their heavy truncheons resting against their shoulders, ready to crack skulls at a moment’s notice.
Ajax had been in Blacktide for almost a week, long enough to get a feel for the city and its undercurrents. It was a place that smelled of desperation and opportunity in equal measure, a pirate’s playground where fortunes could be won or lost in a single night. The docks stretched far into the harbor, lined with ships ranging from sleek sloops to massive galleons, each bearing the scars of battle and the sigils of countless pirate crews. The market district was a lawless, tangled mess of stalls and permanent shops where merchants sold everything from stolen jewelry to cursed trinkets, while the smarter ones kept hired muscle to guard their goods. The Drowned Quarter, a stretch of slums where those too broke, too foolish, or too unlucky to carve out a better life ended up, reeked of disease and treachery.
But it was The Rusty Cutlass that had kept him anchored here longer than planned. A two-story beast of a tavern with dark wooden beams stained from years of spilled drinks and dried blood, its walls were lined with mounted weapons, tattered pirate flags, and wanted posters so faded that the faces on them were nothing more than ghostly smudges. A rusted iron chandelier, half its candles melted down to nubs, swayed slightly with the breeze slipping in through the open windows. The bar itself, a massive slab of dark oak, was tended by a one-eyed bartender whose whalebone prosthetic clinked against the glass bottles as he poured drinks. It wasn’t the cleanest place, but it had strong drinks, good fights, and just enough chaos to make things interesting.
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And yet, with nothing but his thoughts and his half-empty bottle, Ajax found himself slipping into old memories, the kind he had spent years trying to drown. He had been fourteen when they took him, just a stupid, reckless boy from a nameless fishing village, eager for adventure and too na?ve to see the danger coming. **White Beard Edward’s** crew had come ashore under the guise of trade, but trade had turned to blood and fire, and Ajax had been swept up with the rest of them, thrown into the belly of a ship before he even understood what was happening.
At first, he fought. He had swung his fists at anyone who tried to push him around, spat in the face of every bastard who thought they could break him. That earned him his first keelhauling. He still remembered the way the barnacles had torn into his back, how salt water had filled his lungs as he was dragged beneath the ship, emerging half-drowned and shredded, but still defiant. The years that followed had been a blur of pain, blood, and fleeting moments of camaraderie. He had learned that defiance had a price, but so did loyalty. He had watched men he called brothers turn on each other for a handful of gold. He had met women who whispered empty promises of love and escape, their hands tracing the scars on his skin as if they could erase them. He had laughed with friends whose names were now buried beneath the waves, their faces nothing more than fading memories.
**Dawson**, the quartermaster who had taught him how to read maps and mend broken masts. **Elena**, the cook who had smuggled him extra rations when starvation was used as punishment. **Riggs**, the old deckhand who had once taken a flogging meant for Ajax, just because he saw the fight in the boy’s eyes and wanted him to live long enough to use it. Dead. Every last one of them.
He took another swig of rum, letting the burn chase away the ghosts. That was then. This was now. He had escaped. He had stolen enough gold to buy half a ship. The rest was waiting for him on **Firemount Isle**, tucked safely away with his grandmother. And now, he had a plan—the best he could come up with. It wasn’t complicated, but it was solid. He just needed the right people to make it work. The door to The Rusty Cutlass swung open, letting in a gust of cool night air, carrying the scent of the sea and the promise of something new. Two figures stepped inside, their presence pulling Ajax from his thoughts like a sharp hook to the gut.
The first was a lean, wiry man with a sharp, mischievous grin, his dark eyes constantly scanning the room like he was searching for his next mark. A small, golden-furred monkey clung to his shoulder, its tiny hands gripping the collar of his loose white shirt as its beady eyes darted across the tavern. There was something about the way the man moved—graceful, light on his feet as if he had never known the weight of chains or the sting of the lash.
The second was something else entirely. Tall and draped in dark, flowing robes, the figure moved with an eerie stillness, the long, beaked mask of a plague doctor concealing their face entirely. The leather of the mask gleamed under the candlelight, its black lenses reflecting the flickering flames, giving them the appearance of something not quite human.
Ajax grinned, setting his bottle down with a dull thunk against the wood. His fists crackled faintly as he flexed his fingers, the familiar surge of kinetic energy humming beneath his skin. This was it. This was where it all began. “Alright,” he muttered to himself, rolling his shoulders and standing to his full height. “Time to make a good first impression!”