It’s been a long time, my friends. But of course, I come with another part of our story. Gather ’round, pour yer preferred brew; for our story is about to begin…
…
France
Capitaine Mathis Artus sat across from Commandant François Moreau at the table. He studied Moreau’s face as the news was broken to the room. Gasps of surprise and shocked whispers erupted around the room when Amiral Chapelle announced that the English were already making their move. Moreau’s expression barely flinched: he’d already known that the other world powers were racing to the Farthest Shore. Not that it was unexpected; Moreau had been one of the best Capitaines since Garnier or St. Croix. But Artus thought he alone, had been informed of the situation ahead of time, and was to take charge in the advancement of the French fleet. The apparent prior inclusion of Moreau in the Amirals’ plans dashed his visions of greatness, and filled him with a feeling of betrayal.
Moreau glanced at Artus just long enough to give him an arrogant, knowing smirk. Artus glared back, eyes full of hate. As per usual, Moreau had stolen Artus’ opportunity to prove himself in action. Ever since his start on the Premiére Republíque under Moreau, the two had butted heads, constantly at each other’s throats, both trying to gain the favor of the admiralty. Moreau’s rank always gave him an advantage, even receiving a promotion to Commandant the same day Artus received his promotion to Capitaine. As the two men continued to stare each other down, Amiral Jean D’Arc stood and began to explain what their course of action would be. They turned back to face the Amiral, like the other officers, each waiting to hear his name leading the fleet.
“And leading the fleet on this endeavor,” Amiral D’Arc said, “Will be none other than Amiral Matthieu Grievous.”
Moreau and Artus froze, and looked down the line of Amirals, searching for a face they had only heard about. A few other officers clapped as a tall man stepped forward from the line of other Amirals. His face was marked with lines and scars from his time on the seas, and despite his muscular physique, the mere task of walking to the front of the room seemed to cause him discomfort in his legs and back. The room silenced itself as he stood next to Amiral D’Arc.
“Now then,” Amiral Grievous spoke with a deep gravelly voice. “As of this moment, any man who commands a ship will report to me, and is officially under orders to prepare and set sail by this evening. The Farthest Shore will be ours, and any English bastards that get in our way will taste our cannons and our swords!”
As the Amiral’s words stirred a cheer from the gathered officers, he coughed into a handkerchief for a moment before continuing, “And that goes for the Spanish, and the Americans, too! That shore is French land, and it is our responsibility to inform the rest of the world of their mistake in thinking they can take it!”
The room erupted into cheers and many of the Capitaines left to prepare their ships to sail. Moreau and Artus looked at each other again, both bewildered. Everyone who had working ears had heard of Amiral Grievous; he took no prisoners, gave no regard to the rules of warfare, and had almost been court-martialed for immoral and inhumane treatment of both enemy and friendly sailors. The two men once again narrowed their eyes at each other and stood, turning to leave for their ships immediately. If there was any Amiral to impress, it was Grievous. And there would be many opportunities for that, now that the race for the Farthest Shore had begun.
…
And there we have it, me lads; tonight’s chapter has concluded. But there is still more to tell. So stick around, don’t stray too far; for it be sooner than ye think, that I’ll be here again, with the next chapter of me story, ready to tell…
-J.W. Darkhurst