This sort of quick call to action is fire in the veins. His very first raid. Izzy has never felt more alive.
As a boy, he had been terrified of the concept of pirates. His family's livelihood depended entirely on the mercy of avoiding them, and so tales of these wretched demons haunting the open waters were the stuff of nightmares. It was easy to hate them without seeing them as men. It was easier then, as a kingsman, to kill them. Just dirty animals being put down for their own rotten good in self defense (and by active pursuit).
Here, in this raid, suddenly the tables are turned. They are the demons here to take what they like and kill anyone and everyone in their way. You would think that he would find it difficult to see an innocent man and kill him for his riches, but whatever bank of sand it is that holds back the emotion stays in place. The fact of the matter is, if he doesn't kill, if he doesn't help, he or his crew could die as a result. And out here? Your crew and captain are all you have.
So it's easy.
It's also easy to follow Edward into the fray, never straying too far, keen to learn and watch his back. Izzy notices immediately that whilst Ed is an absolute savage of a fighter, he opts out of every killing blow that presents itself. He takes the eye, not the brain. The hand over a heart. Not ideal but certainly a choice.
Cannon fire is thunderous from The Ranger behind them, a team of men having stayed back to support the boarding party. They never aim for the deck, that would risk their own, but they aim high above at the foremast. Once a ship looses that, they are finished no matter the outcome.
Izzy loses track of the number of times he is almost killed in this fight, alone. Three times Edward parries a blade meant for Izzy's back or neck. Three times Izzy pivots downwards just in time to spear a man through the throat. Another two are his finishing a man pinned by Ed's dagger and nearly takes their last ditch effort to stay alive. He kills them, too, unblinking with no remorse expect for the blood that soaks his old linen shirt. Ruined, for certain. It feels like a whirling dervish like this, picking up where the other leaves off, covering and advancing in kind. Perhaps they are. Exhilaration in bliss. In victory.
There is a loud, cracking scream of the mast shattering and falling to the right, and cheers explode from their gunners. The vessel's captain, if he is even still alive, has no choice but to surrender. A Dutch merchant ship laden with spices and fabric, they will eat very well tonight, indeed.
When it is all said and done, Ben stands victorious over his gathered crew with a puffed chest. Hands on his hips he laughs before picking up a bottle of champagne they had found in the belly of the Maarseveen and shakes it. With a flick of his thumb, the cork shoots out and he sprays his boys with a cheerful (but unhinged) cackle, sips, and then sends the bottle around. The Maarseveen is anchored and left to float like a bloated carcass. A speedy getaway is made, and the party of a good day's work rages long into the night.
Not wanting to miss out, Izzy stays, but eventually excuses himself below to wash the blood from his clothes and body, promising to return with rum when he's decent. He looks like a beast and dried blood is so very uncomfortable. He sighs as he scrubs the fabric and fingers a small hole in the material. He'd had some close calls today and this shirt does nothing for protection. He tells himself that once he's saved up he'll buy something better when they next dock. That this went well and he should be proud of himself, not let all the little failings catch his attention and circle around and around play by play. How to improve for next time. What worked, what didn't. There's a lot to think about.
Sigh. There's probably no point in even trying to save this piece of shit shirt, to be honest. If only he had another.
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As a boy, he had been terrified of the concept of pirates. His family's livelihood depended entirely on the mercy of avoiding them, and so tales of these wretched demons haunting the open waters were the stuff of nightmares. It was easy to hate them without seeing them as men. It was easier then, as a kingsman, to kill them. Just dirty animals being put down for their own rotten good in self defense (and by active pursuit).
Here, in this raid, suddenly the tables are turned. They are the demons here to take what they like and kill anyone and everyone in their way. You would think that he would find it difficult to see an innocent man and kill him for his riches, but whatever bank of sand it is that holds back the emotion stays in place. The fact of the matter is, if he doesn't kill, if he doesn't help, he or his crew could die as a result. And out here? Your crew and captain are all you have.
So it's easy.
It's also easy to follow Edward into the fray, never straying too far, keen to learn and watch his back. Izzy notices immediately that whilst Ed is an absolute savage of a fighter, he opts out of every killing blow that presents itself. He takes the eye, not the brain. The hand over a heart. Not ideal but certainly a choice.
Cannon fire is thunderous from The Ranger behind them, a team of men having stayed back to support the boarding party. They never aim for the deck, that would risk their own, but they aim high above at the foremast. Once a ship looses that, they are finished no matter the outcome.
Izzy loses track of the number of times he is almost killed in this fight, alone. Three times Edward parries a blade meant for Izzy's back or neck. Three times Izzy pivots downwards just in time to spear a man through the throat. Another two are his finishing a man pinned by Ed's dagger and nearly takes their last ditch effort to stay alive. He kills them, too, unblinking with no remorse expect for the blood that soaks his old linen shirt. Ruined, for certain. It feels like a whirling dervish like this, picking up where the other leaves off, covering and advancing in kind. Perhaps they are. Exhilaration in bliss. In victory.
There is a loud, cracking scream of the mast shattering and falling to the right, and cheers explode from their gunners. The vessel's captain, if he is even still alive, has no choice but to surrender. A Dutch merchant ship laden with spices and fabric, they will eat very well tonight, indeed.
When it is all said and done, Ben stands victorious over his gathered crew with a puffed chest. Hands on his hips he laughs before picking up a bottle of champagne they had found in the belly of the Maarseveen and shakes it. With a flick of his thumb, the cork shoots out and he sprays his boys with a cheerful (but unhinged) cackle, sips, and then sends the bottle around. The Maarseveen is anchored and left to float like a bloated carcass. A speedy getaway is made, and the party of a good day's work rages long into the night.
Not wanting to miss out, Izzy stays, but eventually excuses himself below to wash the blood from his clothes and body, promising to return with rum when he's decent. He looks like a beast and dried blood is so very uncomfortable. He sighs as he scrubs the fabric and fingers a small hole in the material. He'd had some close calls today and this shirt does nothing for protection. He tells himself that once he's saved up he'll buy something better when they next dock. That this went well and he should be proud of himself, not let all the little failings catch his attention and circle around and around play by play. How to improve for next time. What worked, what didn't. There's a lot to think about.
Sigh. There's probably no point in even trying to save this piece of shit shirt, to be honest. If only he had another.