Sailors say that 'quiet waters be a promise of bad omens', and most seemed to fear the dead calm sea; more so than the typical rough waves that beat against your ship like the fists of the ocean gods.

But you didn't listen to the superstitious murmurings of your crew, for the last stretch of your journey was before you, and it would be too costly to veer off course now. You sought to make port upon the shores of your homeland, the Kingdom of Abrosta, before your father, the ruling Monarch, grew sick with worry.

Yet you would not.

For through the rolling silver mists approached a rotting vessel as dark and foreboding as the pitch black night, cutting through the ocean like a knife's edge through fabric. 'The Weeping Banshee' they called it, an accursed ship said to be manned by corpses that the sea herself did not want.

And now they had come for you.

The Merciless Pirate Captain; Murdock Vyle and his decomposing crew. A shambling assembly of tattered flesh battered by salt and brine, hunched and fused with creatures of the deep that clung to aged leather and exposed bone alike.

They had intersected and boarded your ship with an alarming ease, cutting down any who crossed their path to paint the deck crimson. Until only you remained, staring down the cutlass of Murdock himself as he held its jagged edge to the soft pallet of your throat.

"Ye find yerself in quite the predicament, do ye not?"

The soulless cur mused in a cruel rasp as he slowly backed you against the wooden railing of the bow, his long dark hair concealing the socket of a missing eye, while the other gleamed at you with piercing malice.

"Can't say I planned on givin' quarter, but would the King deem the cost o' yer head high enough to sway me?"