Name: Solomon
Gender: male
What do they do when the weather is horrible?
What do they do when the weather is horrible? They get to work. Solomon is a pirate by trade and a captain by nature and a storm is the best cover for a raid anyone can imagine. He was born and raised on a ship and he's more at home with his feet braced on a slippery deck than he is with his toes curled up in the grass. He finds exhilaration in storms, in losing control of his ship and giving her over to the sea's tender ministrations; during particularly bad monsoons he can reliably be found hanging at the top of the mast and screaming for the ocean to "try harder, lassie!"
When hurricane season is upon them Solomon is at his luckiest. It is during storms that he can most safely beach his ship and unload his crew; it is during storms that guards huddle beneath the eaves of their castles rather than brave their posts. Storms give Solomon the cover to do his job that nice days do not, and a storm brewing in the night always unsettles the locals. There's a myth about him these days and he's overheard it in taverns a couple of times now, but he always laughs it away when his crew jests about it. Solomon finds peace in his work and he overlooks the legends growing at his feet; he's more concerned about the ending days of monsoon season and if he's got the time and charisma to convince his crew to take on one more country, one more castle. A man like Solomon doesn't have time for stories, but that doesn't mean they aren't told.
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Extra:
"Have you all heard the one about the Stormrider?"
A ginger at the bar snorts and leans farther into his drink. "Everyone has," he says darkly. "It's baloney, mate."
"It's not," the first says. "It's true. I seen him for myself."
The men at the bar quiet. Reluctantly they turn as one to look closer at the speaker, a man wearing a cloak slackened around his neck and still damp from the rain. It's monsoon season and the storms this year have been particularly fierce. Castle Rockwall still feels the ache of its emptied treasury.
"Where?" One asks finally, suspiciously.
"On the water," the cloaked man says. "And they do what he says."
"No man can control the sea," the ginger snaps. "I don't believe it. He may be talented but he ain't no god. He's just a pirate."
The man frowns. His hair drips blackly down his face. "I've never seen someone cut through a storm like his ship did," he says. "It was as if he was speaking to her. Like she was doing her best to get him safe to shore."
They all exchange looks, unsettled by this story. They've heard the tales before, each of them, but not to this extent; just vague murmurings about a ship cast from black wood that's crowned with a flag the color of war. No one has seen this ship reliably, no military people or government officials; it's all gossip traded on barstools and over cigarettes. It's all just a story.
But... "What color was his flag?" The redhead asks, mouth twisted into a reluctant smile, and the hooded man smirks.
That night the men go home to their wives, their families, their friends, and tell the story themselves. It grows in its retellings; the pirate captain actually is speaking with his ship, and she's speaking to him too. Solomon has a thick black beard and exhales smoke when he breathes. It's said that when his boots touch the sand it hisses and turns to glass.
Solomon, three countries over and with his hair darkened to disguise it's sterling color, nurses a drink at a bar. A man a seat down from him whispers dangerous lies about a pirate king who can control the sea. His friend listens raptly; Solomon closes his eyes and hides a smile against the rim of his glass. He will not hear the end of this from his crew, he knows, and yet he listens anyway; there's something incredibly satisfying in the stories that turn him into a god.
When he gets back to the ship he orders his quartermaster to his chambers. "Paint a skull on the flag," he says loudly, and at the man's bewildered look, grins. "Someone said we had one. I rather like the idea myself."
The morning dawns grey and a storm sulks miles over the horizon. Solomon stands on his deck and looks up at his flag, snapping in the breeze, the skull contorting into laughter with each pull.
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