The last beams of sunlight illuminated the many wooden cabins. The air was still warm and dense. It was a quiet evening – for Booty Bay standards. Normally, at this time of the day, or at any time of the day for that matter, loud laughter, chairs being smashed in two, breaking bottles and other typical sounds drunken men make could be heard from the local tavern.  But on this evening the sounds of jollity and bar fights were replaced for chirping crickets and gentle waves clashing against the shore. Maybe this was one of those rare moments when the rugged sailors were missing the warmth of their mothers embrace and quietly drowned their sins and regrets in rum.

A few of the local guards were on duty, patrolling the docks. Or that was what they were supposed to do. On such an exceptional quiet evening there wasn’t much to look out for. And so the small number of Bruisers, as they referred to themselves, spends their time rolling dice and sniffing snuff. Except for the guards, there was almost no one to be seen on the docks.

Almost, that is. At the edge of one of the piers ePiC sat down with a worn out rod in his hands. His clothes were just as shabby, his skin was tanned. The only thing that wasn’t emphasizing the typical image of a scruffy sailor was the exotic and delicate looking dagger, which was sheathed and attached to his belt. Unlike the rest of his attire, the dagger was clean and polished. ePiC was staring into the distance; the sky was filled with a wide palette of colours varying from deep magenta to bright yellow. Although the rod was still in his grip, ePiC wasn’t paying any attention at all to it. Obviously they weren’t biting, as not a single caught fish could be spotted anywhere near the young man. But catching fish wasn’t really on his mind right now anyway. 

“Any luck?”, a voice said all of a sudden. ePiC was startled, he hadn’t noticed the man that was now standing next to him.

“What does it look like”, he replied with a quick glance over his shoulder at the stranger.

The man was older, he must have been in his forties. He was standing with a straight back, his chin up and his eyes looking down upon ePiC. There was a moment of silence.

“It looks like the fish are sleeping’, son.”

“Mind your own business, old timer,” said ePiC indifferently without looking this time.

“And it looks like you could use a drink, mate. You won’t catch any fish today. Come. The Salty Sailor, it’s on me.”

Without looking back, the man walked past ePiC, heading straight to the tavern.

ePiC looked up. Probably just another retired politician who wants someone to talk to, or even share the story of his miserable life.

But he was right, that old seadog, he really could use a drink. His throat was parched. Of course, he would already have quenched his thirst if he had some pieces of silver, but unfortunately, his pockets were as empty as an ogres head with a lobotomy. He shrugged, dropped his rod and decided to follow the man into the tavern.

Inside there was a mixed odour of sweat and smoke. The tavern wasn’t as empty as ePiC had thought, there were actually more than a few shady man filling the place. Some of them were too hammered to even notice the two of them, others looked up with a threatening glare, but the middle-aged man didn’t pay attention to any of them. He nodded at the bartender, who was polishing a mug with a rag so filthy that one would wonder if the mug would actually get any cleaner at all. The man kept walking winked at the slender, but not too slender waitress, which replied to him with a cheeky smile. He headed for a table in a corner of the tavern. His table. Right after the pair sat themselves down, the waitress came over to them, again with that mischievous expression on her face.

“What can I get you boys?”

“The usual, sweetheart,” answered the man before his youthful table companion could say a word.

Although it wasn’t likely he was about to even verbalize a single syllable, partially because ePiC didn’t feel like talking, and partly because he was giving its full attention to the exposed belly of the bargirl. She had a small, subtle piercing in her belly-button.

A snap of the fingers from the other man.

“Uh, yeah, I’ll have what he’s having.”

The dim light prevented that the rush of blood to his head would become visible. The girl smiled briefly at him, glanced at the older man and swaggered away.

“You have some drool on your face.”

“Hilarious.”

“I know.”

The waitress returned with two mugs filled with grog and placed them on the table. 

“Nice hat,” the young man said after taking a big gulp, “You a thief?”

“Was.” The old man was taking little sips from his beverage.

He wasn’t in the slightest bit interested, thief weren't really that big of a deal here. Neither were retired one. But the young man decided to play along. 

“So, what is it that you do now then?”

“I’m a mentor, ePiC.”

ePiC almost choked while trying to knock down his drink.

“How-” The old man immediately interrupted him.

“Because I like to take an interest in my students.”

ePiC was now sitting straight in his chair. Puzzled.

“Who are you?”

“The name’s Cruel.”

 A slight grin appeared on his face.

“You might have heard of me."

Never before had the room seemed as inhospitable as it did this morning. The floor, that had been scrubbed clean during an hour of cursing and frustrated splashing of water and soap the night before, seemed to be missing it's coat of dirt as you'd miss a sweater in the winter. The pattern on the faded wallpaper - which had probably depicted lilies at some point - wasn't made any less hideous by the darker squares, untouched by the sun, where things used to cover it.

No longer would the dresser groan in agony each morning as it's drawers were forcefully shut by a hurried and furious hand, no more would the floorboards creak in protest from being mangled under stomping plate boots rushing towards the door on their way to the Cathedral.

ePiC let his gaze wander across the room, the place that had been his home for the last five years, and let a quiet sigh escape his lips. Outside the door his belongings were packed up in a bag, yes, singular, one bag. The worn down furniture would stay with the room, welcoming it's next guest as it had once welcomed him, waiting patiently for the new marks that would be left on their wooden surfaces. Marks that could tell stories of times that had gone by inside those four walls. Marks left by bed poles against the wall, marks by a dagger used to sharpen a pencil, idly cutting the edge of the table while ePiC gazed out his window, books on the table in front of him. Marks in the flaking paint on the door where a shoes had hit it more than once, thrown from the bed.

That's what I've managed to accomplish, in twenty-six years? One bag of stuff. Not even anything fancy. Just... useless junk.

And this little revolver, of course. Guess that kinda makes up for it, eh.

He took a few aimless steps around the room, running his hand over the walls, the clean empty surfaces, watching every inch of it and  remembering. Remembering the first day when he arrived, how free he felt. No one else to show consideration for, no one but himself.  Returning home from drunken evenings, after picking his hand on somebody’s packet, cold mornings when he never wanted to get out of bed. The same place where he had spent his first night with a girl.

To be fair, ePiC had spent a lot of "first time" in that bed. He knew which one he'd remember, though. The thought made a small smile creep up over his cheeks, a quick glance cast over his shoulder out in the hallway.

After his last look, he walked down the stairs, and out on the street. He goes directly to the place where Cruel had told him that he will live for his life from now.

The first thing he noticed was the windows. Big windows, overlooking the steadily streaming water of the canals reflecting the afternoon sun, and a green tree. A balmy, fresh breeze was coming through them, curtains flapping lazily against his face as he leaned out to take a deep breath.

Turning towards the room again, his eyes widened as he tried to take it all in at once. The white, clean walls, the smooth wood of the floor that didn't make a sound when he spent what felt like an eternity walking across it to the other side. Another window, overlooking the Cathedral square, where a group of orphans were playing hopscotch. On the third and fourth walls, the doorways leading to the kitchen and the bedroom. And when he looks at his back he see’s Cruel leaning in the doorway, “hope you like it here….”