The Blood in Old Notes

A late middle aged man walked into the center of the circle. He bore more scars than any of the crew combined, even after the crash. Once in the center, he sat upon a large, creaky stool. Built as it was from the ship’s old steering wheel and what was left of the ship’s railing. Padded down by the unused section of the sail. “If I may trouble you all for a few more minutes before I, at long last, begin.” The crowd chuckled, and he continued. “Firstly, Miss Lywing, words truly do not do this seat justice, and you may officially count as one the many who will be insisting you find further use that wrecked eyesore still down at the coast.

“Hear, Hear!” Several members of the circle cheered as they shared a drink.

“And secondly I must warn you that what you are about to hear is not for the faint of heart. And before you mock me, my fellow former crewmates, I was a Vigilante.” Owen allow the gasps and mutters to settle. “My hometown was… one of the “Forgottens” as I have heard you call them, and rightfully so abandoned as they are.”

“We… I didn’t mean any offense, Owen…” Carissa said. “All the times I asked, and talked about those places.”

“Offense?” Owen replied. “Friends you have given kindness and concern, yet also privacy. You have voiced caution to my choices, yet also shown them respect. You speak of the places like where I come from not with the hatred I once believed you had for them, but with pity and sympathy that our ‘oh so glorious king, can not be bothered to protect.” The quote dripped with just as much sarcasm as though around had so often said it.

“Mayhaps he was too busy robbing the rest of us to take the clothes off our friends back, ey lads?” Charlie replied, causing a roar of laughter.

“No my friends, if there is one thing you have not given me. it is offense.” Owen said. “And I have long to truly tell the tales as you all have, today I have at last completed how I shall do so. Without further ado, the story of Onyxfist Owen.” Owen raised his flute up, and began to play.

It began somber with hints of an even darker overtone. The story of a boy alone on the streets and often beaten being written by notes as solid as words written by a newly dip quill. A strange mix of a happy and stressful rhythm following. Emotions rarely, if ever, mixed, yet they flowed flawlessly. An older boy now part of a crew. Enjoying the nights they had anything at all, and in consistent fear the days they had to steal it.  What came next was beautifully broken. A sympathy of hatred not towards the world, nor himself, but of all the things that had forced him down this path. A resolve to right all the wrongs of this world woven within it.

Several members had gotten up. Not to stop listening, but to set up what little defense they had against the winds. Barriers normally preserved only for storms were tonight used to protect a single song.

Owen looked a little more peaceful as he heard the noises of the barriers being lifted. He played much more at peace, but not once did he waver from his song. A bittersweet tone came with the days of Onyxfist. A tale of mostly joy as he cleaned up his home, but within it contend the misery of wondering what it was for. Slowly but succinctly the latter took over, and it was clear to all just what had happened to Onyxfist. He, like all the others there, gave up on the land that had given up on him.
And where Onyxfist left the world, Owen began it. Notes that portrayed the need to search the world dance with the circle. Drinks set down as the crew listened, almost entranced. And with a smile as their oldest sea shanty began to play. But it clearly meant more than that to Owen, anyone could have known just by how easily he played his own version of the tone. To him it was a fresh start, a chance at something he never got to be. The last few notes fading out as he ended his tale.
“And so, my friends. Well the times of Onyxfist's life are long behind.” Owen said. “It's time I allow myself to begin another.”