The War of So Many Moons

Posted: January 20, 2015 in Uncategorized

They left on the morning of a New Moon. It was usually best to leave on a new moon. Merigan had discovered that early. It was easier not to change, and that made crews feel safer. He’d turn into a Wolf tomorrow night if the seas were good, just so the men could acclimate themselves to watching him stalk the decks. It scared new men, but they’d soon learn to embrace it, even love it. The Pirates called themselves The Wolf’s Teeth, and he was proud of that. An old first mate had called them “cubs” and it stuck for awhile, but when the new First Mate, James, signed on, he changed it to “the teeth.” It was a better name. James had served for the last 5 years.

Merigan’s ship, The Mercy, left harbor with spices, wine, and a good deal of silver. He planned on trading it for every piece of gold the Tigers had, all the skins he could sell, and the good will of people he had yet to make enemies of. He also wanted to eat alligator. He’d heard Tigers eat alligator.

They left early in the morning, and the wind had been favorable. The ocean before him rolled, and he was already loosing sight of land. The 41 men on the boat pulled ropes and positioned their cargo. It would be a long voyage. I full Moon Cycle. A complete rotation. It would have made more sense to leave right after a full moon, to avoid the big orb’s pull and the rage that came with, but Merigan’s men loved that rage. In two weeks, at the deepest point of their voyage, Merigan would swim the waters and kill a great shark. And the men would feast and love it for him for it. It was a good life, a Wolf on the sea. A life unimaginable. Merigan gripped the helm and wondered how he would die. He hoped something ate him. He hoped it was huge. He’d killed men and Bears and Wolves; Badgers, Wolverines, a Big Cat, Hyenas, a handful of Rats, an Islander he could only refer to as a “Hound,” a more Bobcats than he cared to admit. He hoped whatever ate him wasn’t a Shifter, and that it ate him in one setting.

He couldn’t return home, and they wouldn’t even bury his bones there. But having them ground into dust would be okay, even if he had to trek through shit to get there. Having them rot on the bottom of the ocean would be fine too. He wagered that was probably most likely. It seemed less romantic.

Merigan was big man, all Wolves were, he was strong and lean and wiry. His arms never carried too much mass, but they were thick and cabled with muscle, and hung to almost his knees. His back was wide, and his head was a boulder of fur. Hair shot out from his head in a wild main, and he wore an unkempt beard. His clothes were too big, and hung about his body. A redcoat designed for a fat man long dead wrapped about him, and loose pants were cinched about his waist with a haggard belt and bright gold buckle. He rarely wore a hat. His boots were amazing. This luxury he did not scrimp on. He commissioned cobblers to make him fine giant boots he polished and wore with great pride. And he inspected the feet of every large man he killed. Merigan loved fine boots.

On his waist in a sash made of silk from an island, he had a long silver sword that was sharp as a razor. He had two silver daggers, and punching knife made of iron he wore as a Wolf. It was unnecessary, but it was easy to use, he liked more than risking his hands. As a Wolf Merigan stood two heads taller than a man, and the reach of that blade made lethal from what felt like a world away, and it sent a cold message to enemies, when a Werewolf killed like a man.

Merigan set out on this mission for a lot of reasons. And he knew one of them, was to kill a lot of men.

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