The Only Good Thing

God isn't a concept. God isn't an idea, or a thought, or something that could be out there. He's not an old man leaning over a balcony, ready to hit us with a lightning bolt as soon as we do something wrong, he's not a God waiting to punish us.
God is real. God is there. He's here. Right here, right now. He's the force that created life. He's everything that ever was, and everything that ever could be. He does things that we can't imagine. He made the wind and the ocean, the trees and birds. He made the rain. But we still ignore him. We still blow him off and do our own things.
And we still, above all, get angry at him.
Do we even have that right? There's no way. So often, we get angry at God when things go badly. If we have something, and it gets taken, we're angry. And we choose to be angry at God. But we never stop to think about why we had so much in the first place. Who put it here? Who gave it to us? God gave it to us.
We don't have the right to be angry. Or happy. We don't have the right to clothes, food, or shelter. We don't have the right to friends, or family, or love. We don't have the right to an education, the feel of grass on our feet, or the warmth of the sun.
We don't have the right to live.
But He gave us life. God gave it to us. He gave us emotions, family, friends. He has given us so much, and He has given us his love. He created us to love. Then he gave us a choice, and what did we do with it? We tore his heart out, because time and time again, we choose to live for ourselves. After he gave us life, love, and hope, we broke his heart. And I'm not even going to start talking about salvation. He is the ONLY good thing, and we slap him in the face every single day.
And it's not just the big things that we have to give to him. It's everything. How we interact in the smallest ways can have a huge impact. A kind word instead of a harsh one can make someone's day, instead of ruining it. But still, for some inconceivable reason, we want to be mean. We want to be selfish, we want everything to be about us. And it doesn't even feel good. Sure, you get what you want now. Do you feel good? Forget about your body. Is your heart at peace? Is your soul resting, knowing that you've done the right thing to the best of your ability?
And when I say the best of our ability, I don't mean the "O, you tried. That's good enough." I mean the doing the absolute best you can, even if it's a major inconvenience to you. Absolute selflessness.
Is it really that hard to live like Jesus?
Why do we always have to live for ourselves? It's not like we matter. Others do. We're not the bomb. We're not the reason for life. HE IS!
The love of God is the very reason that we're on the earth! Let's stop ignoring it! Let's love, as Christ loved, and not for ourselves. Not for the wrong reasons. But because it's the right thing to do. Can we turn darkness into light? It's not that hard. We just tell ourselves that it is.
Sometimes things are hard. Sometimes things get tough. That's for a reason, every time. It's for OUR good. God's given us everything that he can to help us. Only we choose to push it away, time and time and time again. And then we come running back to him, realizing that we've done wrong. Then we run away again.
I can't count the times that I've told God I'd finally give him everything. But every time I've told him that, he's said "Sam...most things aren't everything. I mean everything. You're hurting me." But do I even get it? Can I? I don't know. But what I do get is huge. Why do I continue ignoring it??
God gave me everything. Why can't I give him all that I am?
Because I'm too cool, of course. I'm too good.
NO! I'm not. I'm not nearly good enough. If I was, God would just turn to me and say "Here. You can do better. Here's the universe to play around with."
Dear Sam:
Act like Jesus.
Love, God.
Every time I hear the story of Jonah explained, I laugh a little bit. Because Jonah was so angry when God saved the Ninevites. He was "angry enough to die." Why would anyone be angry that more than a hundred and twenty thousand people were just saved? Jonah is angry that God takes what God gave him. Jonah didn't realize that God provided in the first place. Is that so tough to get?
He gave us EVERYTHING.
It isn't complicated at all! He gave it all to us, we need to give it all to him. Hard?
Yeah. Sometimes. But isn't everything that's worth it difficult?
So many worldly things entangle us so much. Money, especially. If that was the most important thing on earth, I'm sure God would have told us so. But it's totally not, and it's still focused on so much. I can't deal with it sometimes.
The most important thing that God gave to us is others. That and the ability to love. What in the world could be more important than that?
It's not how much money we make that matters.
It's not how many gold medals we win.
It's not how many people know our name.
It's about the people. It's about how much joy you brought to others. About much you gave, not how much you got! It's about how you lived your life, not what you got out of it.
Will we deny to others what we demand for ourselves? Must we be selfish and they be servile? That's wrong. Way wrong. They matter more.
We all have the capacity to be kings. That's how God intended it. We just screwed it up. We're all kings with broken crowns.
So go ahead. Live your life. But do you really want it to be meaningless? Especially when it can be so meaningful?
So go. Feel the wind and smell the ocean. Taste the rain and remember: He is the only good thing. The only.
Wonder at that for a while. And then?
Do something about it.

PEANUTS

SALTED

Here are a few DANG good soundtracks that everyone should listen to!
Now someone save my sanity and tell me I am not turning into Erik...

I will say for a fact that right now I don't know what I am going to do with my life. I don't know if I'm going to end up going to college. Or what. Maybe. Does God want me to? I dunno. However, I do know what I want to do. I want to help save children and sex slaves in Uganda and India and wherever else life takes me. I want to help, instead of doing anything for myself. In fact, I can't think of anything better than spending my life for others. Even dying for them. Being martyred would be awesome. Like that one Russian guy said...if a lark were threatened with death for singing, it would continue to sing. So it must be with us and Jesus. How can we stop living Him if we are Him? That's what supposed to happen. Don't stop. Ever. 'Till death.


Also my house originates many strange quotes.

Tonight.

Tonight I will not do my history homework. Because tonight it does not need to be done. It needed to be done on Sunday night, so I can rest well and know that I am not missing anything for tomorrow today. Also, I just needed to write. I haven't in a long time, and that just isn't good. It's liberating to write your thoughts, you know. Quite liberating indeed. Which brings me, not directly, but because I want it to, to a sad fact.
I miss my friends. While this fact on its own may not be sad, it makes me feel sad. I have not seen my friends since Sunday. That is only two days. Yet I miss them quite a lot. Also I miss the Belleques. I have not seen them for much longer than two days. It has been weeks, in fact. And that is just too long to have not seen your best friends of the same gender. Hmm. I must arrange a trip to see those ones.
So I have decided to be nicer. Because a lot of the time, I'm a jerk. Not because I actually have mean thoughts...I generally don't. I'm just a butthead sometimes. I don't know why. Also swearing is a bad habit, and a combination of orange, lemon, and pear juice is an explosion that everyone should try at least once before they die. I like to listen to music. Music of all sorts. And I am excited for the Family Force 5 concert on the 3rd of October. I want to go to it. And I am going to it. I am just excited for it.
If ever there was anything I wanted right now, it was to talk to one of three people in person and at length. It doesn't really matter which one. I just want to have a serious or somewhat deepish conversation with someone. I dunno why, but I feel like I'm carrying something heavy around. I can't think of what it is though. Maybe it's just a thought. Hmm. We'll see.

The Ship Back Home-work in progress!

It is cold. So very cold. Silence fills the frigid air, and I can see my breath turn to crystals. With a gloved hand, I hold the hilt of my sword. The sad, quiet congregation of men and women around the boat murmurs, stamping their feet against the frozen ground. Soon, all of the fighting men will board the ship, leaving our loved ones behind. I glance at the small figure beside me, her warm hand entangling mine. Our leader, Mulcrag, calls us to board. He is our leader, for the sole reason that he has the most experience. He isn't the best fighter, and his beard is greying. We are all fierce warriors, and Mulcrag would let anyone take his place if there was a good reason for it. He is a good man.

They are all good men.

With a final squeeze of her hand, I take my leave. I walk fourth in line, slowly up the rough, wooden gangplank. Our warband is forty strong, we call ourselves the Sabres. We're somewhat infamous among our enemies for small, devastating hit-and-run missions. We were pushed out of our homeland in the South by invading dwarves, and forced to flee by land by the dark corsairs that roam the sea. We have no wood to make a ship, we little that was available to us here was used making our homes, and the wall that surrounds our settlement. This ship was once a corsair vessel, we captured it a few weeks back. I remember...

The clamour of battle all around me, the clash of my enemy's weapon upon mine. His two-handed broadsword lashes through the cold air; I duck the blow. The outsized, heavy weapon is better suited to open areas on land, and is no match for my long knives in close combat like this. I dart in, quickly, under his guard, and draw two bloody lines across his chest. He goes down clutching the ragged scratches and screaming. Another pirate takes his place. This one is obviously wiser, wielding a short sword and a hatchet. We circle each other, occasionally lashing out, trying to find a flaw, a weakness of any sort in the other's defense. I take another step, and my foot comes down on the head of a fallen warrior. My ankle turns, I stumble. That is when my enemy strikes. His blade whips down, swift and sure. I fall,
barely raising my knife against him. The blow jars my arm and reverberates in my ears. Looking up, I see his face inches from mine. Weary, dangerous eyes squint out from browned, weathered skin accustomed to high winds, bright sunlight, and sea spray. I can see his yellowed teeth, full of gaps and scurvy as he leers at me. His warm, moist, rancid breath upon my face makes me shudder in disgust. Suddenly, his hatchet flips, snaring my dirk by the crossguard and flinging it into the bright, clear air. It twirls a last, lazy arc, glittering in the cold morning sun, before coming down and burying itself a half inch into the ship's deck. The corsair's blade rises once more. Before he can bring the cold weight of death down upon me, I roll away and plunge my dagger to the hilt in his thigh. As he screams in pain, I wrench another blade from its place on my leg, and yank it across his throat. Hot blood sprays across the deck, covering me in a fine, red mist. I reclaim my weapons and clamber to a higher position, looking for more blood to spill.
That was five weeks ago, when the foolish corsair captain sailed too close to shore. We swarmed the ship, captured it, and we are now going to try claim another. The corsairs use slaves to turn the oars, we have only ourselves. Only six of us are seafaring men, they will direct the rest of us. We are all willing to learn. We dubbed the ship Reclaimer, for with it, we shall reclaim our home. It's a magnificent vessel, with the long oars sticking out, ten from each side, and a large square sail. There are also four ballistae mounted on each side; we have javelins to fire from them, and pine resin to light them, if need be.

As I board the ship, I glance back at the women and children on the shore. Many are weeping. A clear, eerie voice rings out across the cold air. She is singing.

Some men will die
When they sought to live more
These eyes still cry
When you bow out the door
But take the helm
And sail the foam
We'll overwhelm
Our ship to home!
And in the keep
Our hearts are kept
The blood will seep
From memories wept
But turn your sails
End my pain
Through tightest tales
And crimson stain.

The song stirs something inside me, makes me think of home. It brings a strong longing, and with it, a lust for blood. We will seek out these desecrators, amass our forces, and take back our home.
The ropes holding the ship to shore are cut, and we are at last afloat. With a final glance back, I see the shore taken by the early morning mist. I take my turn at the oars. A mighty heave, and we are sailing towards that endless horizon. With the men who know the sea leading us, we soon catch on to the rhythm of the oars. We row to the beat of the drums. I begin to sing in a low voice, and the others beside me soon take up the cry.

We will fight back to the homeland,
we will fight, from the sea!
We'll leave the corpses in the sand,
wallowing in filth and misery!

We will tear the land asunder,
killing like plague and wild beast!
We will fight like wind and thunder,
a gale force blowing, from the east!

Ever we fight for lands that shine,
killing the cows and drinking the ale!
Now the poor bastards curse and whine,
at last we return unto sunrise pale.

Our traditional marching song heartens the men, and soon we are farther along than we expected to be. Mulcrag calls us to a halt, and the ocean current is safe enough for us to drift tonight. We spend the evening drinking mead and ale, and telling stories. The night is cold. I pull my furs tight around my shoulders, and think of her. I want nothing more than to be able to take her home. Again, I feel a longing in my soul for the warm sunshine and green grass of the south. I am shaken out of my innermost thoughts by Mulcrag, who slaps my back and sits down beside me.

"All righ' there, Cráne?" he asks.

"Yes, just thinking, Captain," I reply. "Thinking of home."

"Well, when we're all said an' done our mission, we'll all be able t' pack up, let y' take that pretty lass o' yers, an' go home, eh? Before any o' that, though, I want ye t' know, Ah'm appointen' ye Sergeant. Ye'll be leadin' 'bout 'alf the men, when it comes time fer fightin'."

"But, Mulcrag...why me? I'm not the best fighter among us, and certainly not the best strategist, surely-“

"Ye may not be the best warrior on this boat, but ye're damn close, Cráne. An' ye've got summin' else besides, summin' the other don't have. Ye've got spirit, Cráne. Ye fight fer summin' else, summin' more. Ye've made this a personal vendetta, an' that's dangerous to yer enemies. All th' lads've seen ye fight, there's no doubt, an' when ye do, there ain't no stoppin' ye. Ye fight like ten men with those knives o' yers, fer God's sake!"

"All right, I get the point, Mulcrag. Who will I be leading?"

"Ahm...let's see...Fennscar an' 'is men, that's sixteen there. Then ye kin take Eli an' Rapclaw, fer archers, an' then Kerstix an' Maw with their bloody 'ammers, in case ye need a bit o' 'eavy work done."

Fennscar's men fight with spear and sword, they're useful in all situations. Eli and Rapclaw are two of our best marksmen, they can hit a target the size of a gold coin from a hundred metres away. We're all handy with any weapon, but Kerstix and Maw wield their hammers with a crazed fury beyond us all. It seems Mulcrag has given me a better warband than I could have asked for.

We pass away the hours of the night with idle banter, and I take my leave. I stretch out my thin bedroll belowdecks, and try to sleep. I can hear the timbers creaking beneath me, and the rigging groans above. Every minuscule movement of the vessel upon the waves is felt, and I can hear the waves vainly lapping upon the barnacle-encrusted hull of the ship. It is cold.

Suddenly, I hear a shout from above. It's Eli, from the crow's nest.

"I see a ship! Douse the lights!" he quietly shouts down. I rush above, pinching out candles and lanterns as I do. Specks of light cut through the velvety blackness, outlining a ship. Mulcrag quickly makes a decision.

"Men, oars! Quickly, quietly bring us closer. Cráne, take yer three stealthiest lads, and' get 'em up 'ere, now."

Ten minutes later, Eli, two of Fennscar's boys named Carn and Zek, and I are clinging to the anchor rope of the enemy corsair's ship. We are shivering, clad in naught but thin shorts. Mulcrag's plan was for us to quietly swim from the Reclaimer to the corsair ship, slip aboard, and silently kill as many of the pirates as we can without being detected. The water is freezing, but so far we haven't been seen. I begin to scale the rope. I haul myself hand over hand up the clammy hemp, and soon enough, I reach the top and clamber aboard, with all the grace of a drunken frost lion. I reach down with one hand to pull up Eli, and with the other, take the long knife from my teeth. Eli, Carn, and Zek are all armed similarly. I signal to them when they're all up, and we spread out across the ship deck, slowly moving forward, from shadow to shadow, like ghosts on the wind. I see a corsair standing about five metres ahead of me, holding a torch. His back is turned. As silently as a panther stalking its prey, I sneak up behind him and slip my knife between his ribs. He falls into my arms with a soft sigh. His hot blood pours out over my hand, burning in contrast to the cold air and water outside. The rest of my body doesn't feel cold anymore, and I vaguely wonder if I have warmed up, or if I'm dying. Has the frost finally taken me? It doesn't matter. We clear the rest of the upper deck, and move down the stairs at the back of the ship.

We reach belowdecks, where the slaves are kept manacled to the oars. I put my finger to my lips, warning the others to be silent. Slowly, I peek my head around the stack of crates. Then all hell breaks loose.

There are at least ten corsairs wandering through the mass of sleeping bodies, and one spots me. His loud shout raises the others, slaves and corsairs alike. The slave men can do nothing but sit and watch the unfolding events. Our enemy's numbers double with the rapid influx of waking corsairs. We are sorely outnumbered, and still only armed with our knives; Eli has a sword that he pilfered from a slain corsair. I step around the corner of and fling my dagger at an enemy; he goes down with it buried in his eye. I grab Eli's knife and prepare to sell my life dearly. The pirates charge.

The corsairs on three sides of us, a wall at our backs. A corsair with a four-foot spear decides to take me on. I'm so tired...the day of rowing has finally begun to take its toll. He jabs at me. I sidestep the polearm to the right, grab the haft of the weapon, and bring my blade down, hard, on the arms holding it, again, and again. With a howl, the man releases the spear. I smash him in the face with the end of it, crushing his nose. There is a satisfying crunch, and red blood gushes out. I flip the spear around, and ram it into his gut. Pulling the lance from the corpse, I face my next enemy. That took a lot out of me, I can't keep it up much longer...my limbs are burning, my head buzzing. A corsair faces me, holding a mace ready to take my head from my shoulders. Before he can do so, I quickly thrust my spear into his throat thrice in quick succession. The flow of crimson drenches the deck, soaking into the dry, thirsty planks. As he falls, his lifeless carcass twists, wrenching the spear out of my hand.

Exhaustion begins to slow my movements, dull my senses. Snarling, I grab a corsair by the throat and draw him in. I drive my dirk hard, creating a new entrance to his skull, cracking bone and spilling blood. It is all I can do to lift my arm again, and my bare feet slip upon a deck slick with gore. I stumble to my knees, the pirate's body collapsing heavily upon me.

I hear a thunderous crash. Heaving the body off me, I struggle to my feet and glance towards the noise. The crates blocking the other entrance to the room have been bodily thrown across the chamber. Storming through to doorway are Mulcrag, Kerstix, and ten other men. Overcome with relief, I collapse again. The last thing I see is Mulcrag staving in a man's skull with his axe, and the rest of the men overwhelming the remaining corsairs. Everything fades to black...

I wake later, lying on the bunk of the one cabin of the ship. My head is throbbing hard, and my tongue feels swollen and dry. I sit up, but it only makes my head throb more. Mulcrag is standing beside me.

“Thanks for the rescue, Captain. What the hell happened back there?” I ask, rubbing my aching head.

“Ah, well, after we sent ye an’ yer lads in, we didn’ ‘ear anythin’ fer a good while, then we ‘eard fightin’. Ah figured ye could use some ‘elp, seein’ as there was only four o’ ye. Good thing I came, too. After the fight, we freed all o’ the slaves. Good news ‘bout that, by the way. They’re gonna ‘elp us row the other ship, try get another one before we ‘ead back up North. Ah’m sendin’ ye and ten men over there, so tha’ ye kin direct affairs off yonder.” Mulcrag says, gesturing out the open door. “We din’t lose anyone over there, either.”

I thank him again, and leave to gather my weapons and effects. I walk slowly, trying to clear my head. It’s still pounding. One of the Sabres, his name is Famas, walks up to me. He’s one of the few men who had been on a ship before this mission. He hands me a strange lump of some kind of slimy green plant, and tells me to chew it. I put the goopy vegetable into my mouth, and chew. It tastes vile, extremely bitter. I almost spit it out, but as the juices run down my throat, the terrible ache in my head is subdued.

“Mmph. Thanks, Famas,” I say, slurring the words. “What is this stuff?”

“Don’t mention it, Cráne. And you really, really don’t want to know what’s in that.” I press the matter, and regret the answer. “All right, all right. It’s your funeral. It’s a certain type of seaweed, with fish oil and ground up snow lion dung.”

I grimace terribly. I cannot believe I ingested that.

“Thanks anyway, Famas,” I say, removing the thoroughly chewed green mass from between my lips. I throw it over the side. Spitting as I go, I head down towards the oars. My pack is there, along with my sword, my clothes, and my bedroll. I shove the clothes into my pack; it is too hot to be fully clad. I gather up all my items and transfer them to the other ship. Mulcrag shouts the order to get ready to depart, we’ll be heading a little farther South before we go back North. I give the command, and the drums begin to beat. The ship creaks, the sail stretches. The wind is with us today, and we move swiftly. A crew member sidles up next to me. We call him Hawkeye, he’s our best lookout. Me and him often go ahead of the group to scout, as I am the stealthiest among us, and can kill silently.

“Hey Sarge, me an’ the men have been thinkin’. This tub needs a name.”

“A name?”

“Aye, a name. We don’ have any suggestions, we figured we’d leave it up to you.”

“Alright, Hawkeye. How about the Soulreaver?” I ask, because this ship has a large steel blade mounted on the front of it, for ramming other vessels and sinking them to the depths of the sea.

“Sounds fine to me, Sarge,” he replies, and saunters off to oversee the rowing.

The day passes slowly, but we move like gazelles on the run. With the wind at our backs, and motivated rowers, we make good time. By nightfall, we are nearly halfway down the shoreline of the continent, where we will eventually be when we attack the dwarven settlements on land. This time we anchor the boat, the current is choppy. Tonight everyone settles down early, tomorrow we will be heading back by noon if we can’t find another ship. I make sure double lookouts are posted, looking to all sides.

Morning comes quickly. Much too quickly. It’s already warm, I feel warmer than I have in a long time. Still clad in just a pair of shorts, I wake the rest of the men, and prepare to set out. Breakfast is hard biscuits and salted meat, and the remaining water is rationed carefully, we want enough to make it back. Hours pass. No ships are in sight one the beautiful, calm, blue water. Mulcrag calls a halt, and we bring the ships as close together as we dare.

“It’s time to head back, I don’t think there are any more corsairs in these parts,” he shouts across. Suddenly, I hear a loud tearing sound. A large javelin flies through the sail and pierces the deck nearly upon me, and I instinctively take cover. I roll behind the mast as five other harpoons thud into the deck. The last two are flaming.

“Get bucket lines on those, NOW!” I shout, scanning the seas for who attacked us. Three more javelins sail out of nowhere, with uncanny accuracy, snapping rigging, going straight into the captain’s quarters, and knocking the lookout straight from the crow’s nest.

“Damn it! Where are they?” I scream, looking harder all around. I see what looks like a shimmering heat wave on the water. It’s isolated, though; I decide to see what it is.

“Eli! ELI!” I yell, my voice beginning to hurt. “Eli!” He runs up, ducking and weaving across the deck.

“Yes, sir?” he asks.

“Gather everyone who isn’t on fire duty who knows how to shoot a bow, and get them up here, now!”

“Sir!” He runs off, still bobbing everywhere. A javelin comes dangerously close to pinning him to the deck. As the Soulreaver continues to take a beating, he runs below. Less than two minutes later, he returns with eleven other men.

“Lads, I want you to aim as best you can, and shoot at that shimmering bit of air. Throw as many arrows there as necessary.” The men murmur amongst themselves, they probably think I’ve gone mad.

“Just do it, and do it now!” I yell again, tearing my throat raw.

The men stand in a line, take aim together, and fire. The arrows fall uselessly into the ocean, just before they strike the wavering air. On the third volley, the shimmer flickers for a moment, and a small, quick-looking vessel can be seen. Almost instantly, it disappears again.

“Keep firing until you’re out of arrows!” I command, running off to find men to man the ballistae. The firing teams are already there, javelins loaded. I light them, and tell the men to aim at what the archers are shooting for. As one, four ballistae turn and fire. The flaming spears draw dark, smoky trails across the clear, blue sky, and then strike their target. One of them falls uselessly into the water, but the other three make it through. The shimmering apparition disappears, and the ship can finally be seen. It is on fire, and the men on board are struggling to put it out. A lone man clad in robes stands on the highest point of the deck, with his arms spread wide, as if to embrace the skies. I pull my sword belt over my shoulders, so I can easily grab my weapon from over my arm. My four daggers go in their sheaths, on my thighs.

“Oars! Bring us closer!” The Soulreaver slowly begins to move forward. Soon, we pull alongside the smaller ship. Most of their fires are out, and the corsairs abandon what is left to help defend the vessel and their lives. My boys ready grappling hooks, ropes from the rigging, swords and hatchets. Suddenly, we are upon them. We swing across to the other ship, feet first. At the apex of my swing, I let go of my rope and fly through the air. I land atop a pirate, somehow avoiding his flailing sword. As his head hits the deck, I hear a crack, his neck is broken. Crouched atop the corpse like a vulture on carrion, I smoothly pull two knives from their place on my thighs, and swing around. Most of the men are engaged in combat already, trying to hack their way through the defenders. I see two men, Kerstix and Ramglore, in a ferocious battle with five pirates. I run their way, attacking from behind. My first blow fells a man, but my second is parried. The odds a little more even now, we pair off, Kerstix instantly dispatches a distracted enemy with a blow to the head. My daggers weave a complex pattern in the air, blocking every blow. The corsair overcommits, and leaves an opening. I step inside of his guard, and draw him closer by his throat. I murmur in his ear.

“Go to sleep now, you little fool.” My blade whispers silently into his chest. The man falls, and his blood pools out across the ship deck. Without warning, a green fireball blows past me, singeing my face. It hits one of my men in the chest, and he bursts into coloured flames. I violently whip my head around, my hair flying in the wind. The upper deck. I take off, my face contorted with indescribable rage. My normally blue eyes are ablaze with wrath, and my mouth is set in a furious, animalistic snarl. I leap for the upper railing, grabbing ahold with my right hand. My body collides heavily with the wall; I feel no pain. I only know the hate, the rage, the lust of battle.

I swing myself up and over the rail, landing on my feet. The robed man is standing not five metres in front of me, still throwing his devilish green fire. As I watch, the flames erupt from his fingertips, narrowly missing the fighting men below. The man is bald, his head shines with perspiration. His face is screwed into a grimace of concentration, but his eyes are still closed.

I rush the man, but as I near him, there is a blinding flash of light, and a deafening BANG! I am hurled backwards through the air, landing hard on my back. The wind is knocked out of me. Gripping the rail, I pull myself to my feet. Slowly, I circle him, wary now of other tricks. He just stands there, throwing fire at my men. I slide a dagger from its sheath, take careful aim, and launch it. The blow should pierce the man's neck, severing his spine. Instead, it is thrown back as I was, and lost to the clamour below.

I frantically look around for some means of getting near enough to kill the man; I can't let him kill any more of my lads. A gull, hit by a stray arrow, plummets to the deck, nearly hitting the mage. I glance up at the mast and rigging. Perhaps...

Shortly thereafter, I am scaling the rigging like a scalded monkey. I crawl directly over the wizard, who still has not moved. If the bird reached him from above, maybe I can, too. I don't think his mystic protection extends over his head. Trusting my luck to the devil, I let go. The impact of landing jars my whole body, causing my knees to give out. A sharp pain lances through my ankles, but I am right behind the mage. Without any hesitation, I pull a knife from its scabbard, and shove it into the man's stomach. Finally, he moves. His whole body jerks, and he gasps. A look of pain and terror, confusion and hate, flickers across his face. I rake the blade upward, spilling his guts across the deck. The wizard grabs my right forearm with a grip as iron. His hand burns, scorching my flesh. I let out a cry of pain and rage, but it is lost to the sounds of fighting.

I prise his dead hand off of me. Thin tendrils of smoke curl from my skin, rising to mingle with the sickly-sweet scent of burnt flesh. I look back to the battle below. The tide seems to have turned with the death of the wizard, the corsairs are quickly capitulating. Some throw down their weapons, begging for mercy.

We give no quarter.

Later, I walk among the bodies of the slain, wrapping my scorched arm in a greasy rag. Blood everywhere, gore congealing on the deck and wall. The smell is rancid, and some of the newer recruits lose their stomachs over the side. I order four men to dispose of the still-warm corpses.

There is a faint, weak moan behind me. I turn, a fallen corsair is feebly moving. I laugh cruelly, placing my foot on his chest.

"It's over, pirate. The world is ours," I quietly say to him. I press hard, and hear ribs crack. The corsair’s chest caves in, and blood trickles from the corner of his mouth.

Note that this is unfinished!