Beyond the shores of Kasai, far from the borders of Arcadia, the seas roiled under darkly-clouded skies. Waves rose then crashed by the thousands, like ever-shifting mountains bounding over the horizon. Lightning struck from the heavens, a bright flash which seemed twice as blinding in the pitch black of night.
There, amidst the mountain-like waves, two ships fought in a battle for life or death. From the south, a foreign junk with ridged sails like a sea dragon. From the north, their quarry, a galleon, twice as long and thrice as tall, with rows of red-striped sails erected from the finest oaken masts. A hundred cannon ports lined its broadside, smoke rising fresh from their barrels. The sea screamed and slammed against the ship, but it held fast, its hull unmarred, its course undeterred. The ship was more than wood and metal. Men turned its wheel, wind pushed its sails, and fire spat from the cannons. But at the helm, with a dagger held between gritted fangs, was its captain.
"HARD TO STARBOAAARD! Give them no dignity of retreat, MAKE! THEM! ROUT!"
Seven feet tall, with nearly three hundred pounds worth of muscles. Clad in little more than a loincloth and a pair of water-faded boots. He was a man from the neck down, no doubt, even with a skin of bronze and the curving tattoos burnt into his arms. But above his shoulders was the face of a hog; coarse, hairy, with a broad pink nose and great, curving tusks.
Korgan was his name. Captain of the Razorback, admiral of the Fourth Fleet, and Ivelda's chief outrider. His eyes gleamed an inhuman yellow, his prey reflected upon their surfaces; the last ship of the soon-to-be-extinct Eastern Typhoon smuggling fleet. They thought to flee beyond Rhindeval, to create a new life for themselves with the ill-gotten spice in their hold.
Korgan flicked his tongue and flipped the dagger in his mouth.
They thought wrong.
A barrage scattered from the Razorback's starboard. Fire and iron pelted the pirate's sails and smashed through their hull. With their wings clipped, the Razorback closed in with ease, casting a shadow upon terrified faces.
Korgan loomed from the deck, with burly men and women at his side, and a massive axe rested over his shoulder; a thing of iron and wood, with a hilt bound in leather and a crescent-bearded, battle-scarred head. He flashed a grin, then gave his orders. "No prisoners."
"NO PRISONERS!" His crew repeated amidst a chorus of cackles.
Korgan leapt, and brought his axe down with a bellowing roar.
CRUNCH.