The myth
They say she dines on human flesh, that she adorns her cabin with the bones of her prey. They say she is demon spawn – a curse from the Mad Passions. They say to look in her eyes is to see straight into Hell itself, to hear her laugh is to hear your own death. They say. But I know the truth. I have seen her. She is far worse than anything they’ve said.
I served on a royal airship; a true air mining rig. The worst we saw was an occasional elemental and those were bad enough. Perhaps we were cocky, certainly complacent.
They call her flag the Winking Man – a skull with a dagger through one eye socket. The Winking Man is generous to any ship that immediately heaves too and gives unconditional surrender. The ship’s passengers and crew are left grounded, unharmed, with pockets full of silver. Not one of these has ever seen the demon captain. None of these has ever seen the Crying Man.
I have.
When a ship flees, a blue standard is raised beneath the skull; no quarter, no reprieve, death is coming. The Crying Man. The demon captain stands at the bow, calling wind and lightning to heal - setting fires and shattering both man and mast. Yes. I have seen this demon. She paints herself with the blood of her crew and goes naked into combat but for the armor constructed from the bones of her conquests. She wields a massive great- sword in one hand and casts fire from the other.
My entire ship’s complement was slaughtered. At the end, her crew brought me, barely alive, to the demon. It was then I saw that, besides the blood painted runes and bone armor, she also wore blood pebbles of a stone more deeply red than any I have ever seen.
The demon forced me to drink of my captain’s blood and then dipped her own hand in the same. Her crew ripped my shirt from me and she placed her hand on my chest, staining my skin and burning her print into my flesh. “I have placed my mark upon you – your life is mine to spend as I require. Spread the word of my vengeance; warn the people of my wrath. Do this and you shall continue to live. Do not and I shall call for your soul.” The demon then demanded a dagger from one of her crew and said, “A gift, to remember your duty.” Her crew held me down as she carved the Winking Man deep into my chest. Before I passed out, I recall one of her crewmen grinning, “Be glad it’s your chest, man.”
And so I tell the story, lest she recall my soul to her domain. I don’t care what those horror stalkers say, she has marked my soul. On stormy nights when the wind runs fast, I can hear her whispering to me through her mark.
The truth
Aeryl Tarew was born in a human kaer, positioned, unfortunately, in the badlands. While other kaers were emerging, at last, into the hope of a new age, this kaer remained below, still battling for their survival.
Nor was she born under the rather dramatic name of Aeryl Tarew – this came much later. Not to say that her given name wasn’t dramatic in itself, especially given the traditions of her people. It was, in fact, Justice of the people Speaker, or, Justice Speaker, for short; her father was what passed for a judge in that kaer and it was expected that she would follow him.
Before Justice had reached the age of accounting, both of her parents and her two older siblings died in a defensive action against a named horror. Angry and heartsick, young Justice left her kaer, vowing never to return to that place of proud and stubborn people.
Disaster followed. The caravan with which she had stolen away was ravaged by a desperate group of sky raiders. Although the rest of the caravan perished in the attack, Justice managed to convince the raiders that she could be of use as a menial servant.
For many years, she slaved and sweated, watched and learned. The raiders beat her as a matter of course and used her for their own pleasures when other options failed to present themselves. Her people thought her dead and so she was, for she was not truly alive. For five years, she was merely “girl.” For five years, she bided.
In that fifth year, the captain ordered her to his cabin. This was nothing new. But this time, she had a plan. This time, she was strong enough, big enough, smart enough to fight back.
She emerged later from the cabin, naked, drenched in blood and holding the captain’s head in one hand, a dagger in the other. “My name is Tarew. I am Death awakened. I am the mother of Horrors. I am Fear and I am Rage; I am your new captain.” In the tradition of that ship she fought many of the crew over the captaincy and, also in the tradition of that ship, she killed them all. The new captain had a set of armor constructed from the bones of these men.
Thus began her reign of terror in the skies. She had, indeed, chosen her new name well. It was the most terrifying thing she knew; it was the name of the horror that had killed her family.
Her prowess in battle became legendary, her cunning and ruthlessness more so. She quickly expanded her command from one small, shabby air ship, to a fleet of sleek and powerful ships.
To any prey that surrendered, she did, indeed, offer much. All hands kept their lives; they were set to the ground and given 15% of the worth of their ship’s holdings to divide between them. To many of the sailors, Tarew offered the chance at adventure, wealth, and piracy.
Ships that flew under her flag and charter had simply to give her 40% of their plunderings. Of ships that flew in her command, she demanded a mere 20%. If a Theran ship defected, she would offer them the chance to refit their ships to operate without the need for blood magic. Such ships would serve her until those costs were repaid.
However, those ships that did not offer immediate and uncompromising surrender were boarded and all hands, saving one, brutally slaughtered. The last was left to tell the tale, to spread the legend. To create the fear.
One government, at last, and at the persistent insistence of its merchant class, finally began large scale counter measures against Tarew and her fleet. Fortunes exchanged hands, ships were built, adepts hired, and long range plans were laid. Tarew fell at last to treachery, magic, and sheer man power. She was tried in the Theran courts and her execution ordered.
Still, nothing is ever as it seems on the surface of Theran politics. Someone high in the ranks of the government had a use for the berserker demon pirate. Tarew’s execution was held but through the machinations of several illusionists, it was not Tarew that was hung. The sky raider was brought, instead, into the power of this Tharen official.
The official had spent most of his life studying magic – the power and rituals of naming magic in particular. He had devised a ritual that he believed would only partially rename a pattern – allow him to tear away just a portion of the pattern and install new bits of his own devising. Tarew would be the official’s new pawn in his bid for power. In his plan, Tarew would emerge as a new admiral for his fleet of Tharen airships and he would turn her loose upon the barbarian lands of Barsaive. This would earn him glory and renown while having the added bonus of upsetting his rivals’ carefully laid plans.
The ritual began as the official hoped; Tarew’s pattern began to shred exactly as he had designed. The new pattern began to weave itself into the old. However, one of the official’s rivals had heard of the ritual and had given this information to Tarew’s crew. As odd as it may sound, the crew of Tarew’s flagship was fiercely loyal to their demon captain. They fought their way through the heart of the Theran empire and, as often happens in these things, arrived just in time to interrupt the final stages of the ritual. During the ensuing chaos, Tarew managed to escape.
Confused, disoriented, her pattern in ribbons, Tarew defaulted to survival. Bombarded by confusing thoughts and images – her own past and someone else’s – Tarew knew only that she had to reach Barsaive. Barsaive was important. There was something she had to do in Barsaive.
Days and weeks passed as Tarew fled the searching grasp of both the Therans and her own people. The images and memories finally began to sort themselves into categories of “mine” and “not mine.” Months passed and Tarew grew to know the other memories as “Aeryl.” Aeryl had been a Theran patriot, had been, unusually enough, a loyal, competent, and decorated soldier. Had loved and been loved; had a family. Had believed in the dream of Thera. Had been disgusted at the corruption and degradation of her government. Had been caught in a plot against the same. Had been executed as a traitor.
Tarew remembered dying as Aeryl.
Aeryl had fought against tyrants, raiders, corruption. Had fought to uphold the ideals of a just government, one that would serve the people. Tarew remembered a little girl named Justice who had thought the same things, believed the same things. Tarew felt a sudden and terrible wave of homesickness.
Tarew went home, only to find that Death had walked before her once again.
Devastated, the old anger, the berzerking rage, began to grow again. Never again. Never again!
Tarew wanted to run and bite and claw and kill and make someone PAY. But it wasn’t right anymore. It wasn’t the same anymore. She had the memories of Aeryl…she had the memories of a little girl long since dead. Her heritage long since denied. Her people dead – herself possibly the only survivor. She hadn’t been there. She should have been there. She was their legacy.
A legacy of murder. Of pain. Of fear.
Never again.
Tarew returned to her crew only to find that her great flagship had been destroyed in the effort to save its captain, most of the crew captured or dead. Some few had escaped, had returned to the fleet only to see it crumble without the direction of its admiral. Many had been destroyed by infighting, others had been destroyed in poorly planned raiding actions, some few had turned legitimate once more.
Tarew quietly put out the call to the few loyal crewmen remaining. The few ragged airmen left from the great glory days gathered to hear what the demon captain had to say. She talked to her men and women for many hours, many days, many weeks. She told them what she had seen, what she had done, what she had become.
And then, she told them her plan.
They would part and spread themselves to the corners of Barsaive. They would train and they would watch. They would gather funds. They would gather people. They would gather secrets. They would work their way to positions of power.
And then, one day in the not too distant future, the call would go out and they would build. They would build a fleet that would far surpass what they had before. Except this time…this time the war would be carried to the raiders, the horrors, the despots, the tyrants. They would fight them in the air, the ground, in the courts of the kings.
The little girl from the kaer in the badlands might be dead these many years; the stubborn people who would not leave the kaer might be dead as well. Aeryl the Theran patriot as well. But justice…justice did not have to die. And justice would come, one way or another.
Everyone would be given one chance to change. One chance to renounce what they had become. One chance. After that…no quarter, no reprieve, death is coming.
But for now…
For now, the Winking Man waits and watches, organizing, biding its time.
Soon enough, the Crying Man will return.