We barely slept last night.
It wasn't the cold. We've endured worse. Gerhart once dozed off in the middle of a swamp with leeches clinging to his calves. Comfort's never been our problem. No—this time, it was the questions.
How are the Tilenburgians going to profit from this mess? What are our real terms with them? How do we keep them on our side? And that's without even touching the issue of the Dark Elf corsairs.
So, noon finds us standing at the so-called Tilenburg Port. "Port" is generous—it's more of a crooked line of boats clinging to the shore like drunkards after a tavern brawl. There's a short dock, worn by years and salt.
I'm here with Count Gerhart, a bag of gold in my hand. He's got a barrel of moonshine by his side. You know, standard diplomatic fare.
Far on the horizon, dots begin to shift on the water—growing, approaching.
Ships.
A larger one flanked by two smaller vessels, each flying a dark purple flag emblazoned with... well, what I suppose is meant to be a dragon in flight. Black on purple. Edgy.
My heartbeat picks up, not from fear—more from anticipation and the sheer absurdity. That emblem looks like it came from a back-alley tattoo parlor run by someone who never outgrew their emo phase.
As the fleet draws closer, the noise starts.
Shouting. Laughter. Singing?
A sea shanty. Of course. Because of course pirates sing shanties. It's practically mandatory.
Now they're close enough to see.
Elves. Tanned, lean, and striking in that way all elves are—except these carry none of the grace of the woodkin. They're decked out in black leather, studded belts, mesh shirts, bandanas, and tight pants that must be boiling under the sun. I can practically smell the sweat and eyeliner from here.
Then, one figure steps down—presumably in charge.
Or trying to look like it.
"Here for the money?" he says in a tone that's more bored teenager than bloodthirsty marauder.
He's tall and skinny, with spiked boots, fingerless gloves, heavy eyeliner, and a scowl that feels practiced in a mirror. Honestly, he looks like someone who'd cry during a poetry slam, not command a pirate fleet.
I force down the laugh building in my throat.
"Greetings, Darkkin. I am Leonhart, and this is Count Gerhart of Tharros Vale. We've brought what was requested," I say, keeping it formal. Or trying to.
"My name's Darkblood," he replies. "First mate of the Doomsday Fleet. I'm speaking for Captain Edge Voidborne."
I swear, I nearly lost it right there.
Darkblood? Edge Voidborne? Are they forming a boyband or just raiding Hot Topic?
From the corner of my eye, I notice Count Merkel trembling like a leaf. Seriously? This guy scares you?
Darkblood squints. "So why're you even here? We're not, like, doing business with you."
I sigh. "We're here to support Count Merkel and negotiate a proper understanding with the Darkkin. May we speak with your captain directly?"
He rolls his eyes so hard I'm surprised they don't fall out. "Ugh... We're not really in the mood to talk. Just give us the money or we'll, like, take your kids or something."
That's their threat?
I'm tempted to call Bishop Austin and have him baptize the whole fleet with holy fists.
Instead, I nod calmly. "I understand. But don't you think your captain would prefer to receive this payment personally? What if he decides later he wants more and you have to sail all the way back here? Seems inefficient."
He pauses.
Thinking must be exhausting for him.
"Hmm. Yeah, I guess that's annoying," he says. "Fine. Get on. I'll take you to him."
The crew throws down a rope ladder. Gerhart and I exchange a glance and climb up.
Hook's in the mouth.
Let's see how deep this sea really runs.
Our fleet sailed for nearly an hour. To my surprise, the Dark Elves were... competent. Efficient, even. Commands were clear, the deck was well-organized, and the ships glided smoothly over the sea. Shanties were sung—though I'd argue that was unnecessary—but overall, it was, quite literally, smooth sailing.
My attempts at extracting more information were a lost cause. I tried questioning Darkblood, but every response was a variation of "yeah," "no," "whatever," or just a lazy shrug followed by an eye-roll. It was like talking to a walking dialogue wheel stuck on "apathetic teen." I lost count of how many times he responded with that vacant look, as if my existence was mildly inconvenient at best.
Then I saw it—a silhouette on the horizon, massive and imposing.
A floating fortress.
It loomed over the sea like a sleeping beast. Metal, towers, watch posts... and an eerie stillness that made my jaw tighten. So much for "just a chat."
We were led toward the behemoth, crossing a suspended iron bridge that creaked underfoot. Once aboard, I realized we were not alone. There were at least three hundred Dark Elves present, all dressed like they were waiting for the headliner at a My Chemical Romance reunion concert. Black eyeliner, shredded sleeves, fishnets—if this wasn't an emo convention, I'd eat my boots.
Darkblood walked ahead, parting the sea of moody elves like a kid showing off his new friends. The crowd whispered and stared, as if we were either honored guests or tomorrow's ritual sacrifice. Honestly, not sure which one I preferred.
Despite the crew's... aesthetic choices, the structure itself was surprisingly sound. Metal beams, reinforced bulkheads, and even what looked like entire buildings built into the deck. It reminded me of a cruise ship, if that cruise ship had been sponsored by Hot Topic and despair.
Eventually, we stopped at a large black door. Possibly once red—now hastily painted over, perhaps? Darkblood knocked.
"Come in!" a voice thundered from the other side.
The door creaked open, revealing a large chamber with graffiti-scarred walls, hanging banners emblazoned with skulls, serpents, and at least three different Latin phrases that were probably spelled wrong. We were led to a heavy table in the center. Darkblood dusted off some chairs with a half-hearted swipe, gestured for us to sit, then called for his captain like a child inviting a friend out to play.
Heavy footsteps echoed through the chamber, accompanied by a raspy, almost theatrical breathing.
Wait... was their leader Darth Vader?
Then he appeared.
A flowing black cloak. An ornate suit of armor carved with dragons, demons, and way too many spikes. An oversized sword, clearly more for show than function, rested in one hand. And across his face: a golden half-mask—somewhere between Phantom of the Opera and a cheap masquerade costume. Written across the mask in what I assume was supposed to be blood—but was way too pink to be convincing—were the words: VOIDBORNE.
This was it. The king of cringe. The edgelord of edgelords. Captain of the Floating Tryhards.
He sat down across from us with all the grace of a theater major playing villain in a high school play. From a nearby table, he grabbed a skull-shaped goblet, filled it with a deep red wine, and took a delicate sip... only to wince like a child tasting cough syrup.
"Voidborne," he said, voice dripping with faux gravitas. "Edge Voidborne. Sup, dudes. Where's my coins?"
I placed the coin pouch on the table and gave a nod.
"Greetings, Captain Voidborne. This is Count Gerhart Ironwill of Tharros Vale, representing Count Merkel of Tilenburg," I said, maintaining my best diplomatic tone. "I see you have quite the... extravagant taste."
He smirked, visibly pleased. Count Gerhart offered a polite smile, bless his soul.
"You may count the coins, if you wish," I continued. "Just to confirm that we are not deceiving you."
"Nah, dude," Edge waved dismissively. "It's not about the coins. It's about the statement, y'know?"
Gerhart nodded solemnly. "Credentials. I see. That is indeed important."
I resisted the urge to bury my face in my hands. Please, Count... do NOT encourage the man.
"I mean… don't you use them for anything?" I asked the so-called Edgelord, trying to make sense of his maddening logic.
"We get plenty from the shores. Traveling merchants, shipwrecks, you name it. We stash them somewhere around here," he shrugged. "But we don't really need material things like coins or jewels."
"Indeed, Leo," Count Gerhart chimed in, stroking his mustache like a man who just discovered fire. "They live by the sea. Wealth means little to them."
Whose side are you on again?
"You got me, brooo," Edge grinned and fist-bumped Gerhart like they were frat brothers who just discovered a mutual love for axe-throwing.
Why is this conversation growing exponentially dumber by the second?
"Then explain this," I pressed. "You threatened Count Merkel—said if he didn't give you what you wanted, you'd enslave his people."
"True," Edge replied with the enthusiasm of a man commenting on the weather.
"And?"
"And we take them," he said flatly. "Make them our errand boys. Pour me tea, clean my shirts, fluff a pillow or two. Nothing big. We don't let them work the ship—that's important. After a few days, we send them back."
It's not slavery. It's more like... a weekend getaway on the pirate cruise.
My brain hurt.
Before I could unleash my righteous indignation, a voice called out from somewhere deeper in the ship—flowing, melodic, unmistakably Elvish.
"Dear, ask your guest if they'd like something to eat..."
Edge stiffened. "Mooom! We're in the middle of something!"
The voice belonged to a woman, and thanks to my gift from Nullarion—the blessing of tongues—I understood her words clearly. But I decided to lean in further.
In Elvish, I replied, "Good evening, ma'am. Sorry for the intrusion."
From behind a curtain of thick, woven silk, she emerged. A striking figure—cinnamon-toned skin, raven-black hair, and clad in an ensemble that defied both practicality and reason: an iron chain bikini and layers of soft, flowing silks. Her eyes shimmered with equal parts curiosity and amusement.
"You speak our tongue?" she asked, cocking her head.
Edge groaned like a teenager caught texting in class. "Mom, you're embarrassing me…"
"Take your oversized friend and go perform a ritual or something. I'd like a word with this one," she said, voice firm with that terrifying maternal command no son can defy.
"Let's go do some slaughter ritual, my dude," Edge muttered, nodding at a grinning Gerhart. Normally the name of the ritual would set off alarms—but in this context, I could barely summon the will to care.
As they exited, the woman gracefully took the seat across from me. She switched to the common tongue, her voice now measured and diplomatic.
"You spoke our native language, human. Who are you, and how did you learn Elvish?"
I straightened, adopting the formal tone of a court scribe. "Leonhart Aldric, at your service. Scribe to Count Gerhart of Tharros Vale. I was blessed by Nullarion, which allows me to understand every language, written or spoken. That same gift helped me forge bonds with the Woodkin. Our realms now flourish together."
She smiled, wistful. "Deirdre. It's been long since I've spoken to any of our kin…" Her eyes drifted for a moment, as if chasing memories through time. "Would you care to join me for a walk?"
I nodded. We rose and slipped out a hidden door at the back, stepping onto a quiet deck bathed in orange twilight. The sea stretched endlessly, and the last rays of the sun cast glimmers on the waves.
In another life, under different stars, maybe this would feel romantic.
"Please forgive Eideard," Deirdre said gently, eyes fixed on the ocean beyond the deck. "My son is a good-hearted boy. He's just never had a real adult to look up to."
I nodded solemnly. I understood. My nephew, back in my world, joined a motorcycle gang and got arrested not too long ago. Kids need anchors. Without them, they drift—sometimes into storms.
"We left the Old Kingdom around eighty years ago," she continued. "It was just Eideard and me at first. But then, children began to follow—orphans, runaways. I took them in. One by one. And eventually, I seized this elven fortress-ship. We've lived on the seas ever since, without word from any of our kin."
So much for 'Edge Voidborne.' Just Eideard, the boy adrift.
"Why did the Dark Elves flee to the sea, Lady Deirdre?" I asked.
She looked at me, searching for something in my eyes. "Because we were hunted," she said. "By the nobles of the Old Kingdom."
Then her voice softened.
"May I entrust you with a secret, Leonhart? If the Woodkin deem you trustworthy, then perhaps… so can I."
"You have my word, my lady. We do not betray those who offer us trust—neither people, nor Woodkin, and certainly not you."
She inhaled deeply.
"My son… is the bastard of the King of the Old Kingdom."
My heart skipped a beat.
She didn't flinch.
"I was once a spellsinger," she said, her voice low and distant. "I could call beasts—of the land, sea, and sky—with nothing but song. They called me the Beastmaster in the Old Kingdom."
Now that's a name that sends a chill down the spine.
"I've heard legends," I said quietly. "Elves who could rouse dragons from slumber. You were one of them?"
"You heard right," she nodded. "I was married to the king's brother—Field Marshal of the Elven armies. A strong man. Just. But one night… he was away, suppressing a rebellion in the eastern provinces. And the King came to me."
Her voice trembled. I said nothing.
"He was drunk. He chained my hands and feet… and took me. All through the night."
I swallowed hard. The air around us felt heavier, denser.
"Eideard was born not long after. My husband knew. But he never turned away. He raised Eideard as his own. Protected him."
"And the King?" I asked, though I wasn't sure I wanted the answer.
"He came again. Tried to take me again. But my husband stood in his way. Fought back. He saved us—but paid with his life. Slain by the King's guards."
A pause. Her eyes glistened under the fading light.
"But the truth had already spread. That my son had royal blood. That he could claim the throne. The King and his nobles wanted us dead. So we ran. And we've been running ever since."
The silence lingered.
I reached out and gently took her hand.
"My deepest condolences, my lady. Your strength humbles me. When the time is right, I will speak to Count Gerhart. Tharros Vale will protect you, your son, and your people."
She nodded slowly, the burden in her eyes momentarily lifted.
But deep inside, something stirred within me—a bitter, unfamiliar rage.
Why do I feel this hatred… for people I've never met?
Why does the very name Old Kingdom make my blood boil?
Then, her eyes changed again.
"How rude of me, Leonhart," she said with a soft smile. "Now, to lighten the mood… I'd love to show you my pets and little cutesies. Tell me, are you an animal lover, Leonhart?"
"Yes," I replied without hesitation. "I love animals. Especially in this realm, Lady Deirdre."
I expected some sort of elegant elven garden filled with noble beasts—perhaps giant stags like those revered by the Wood Elves.
What I found instead was something else entirely.
It wasn't an animal pen.
It was a monster den.
The air was thick and humid, and the massive room before me was more like a living ecosystem than a cage. A dense swamp sprawled across one section, a rocky crag in another, and in every corner lurked something that should've stayed inside a bestiary.
Dozens of massive lizard-like beasts—they looked like velociraptors from the old world—skittered and clicked their talons on the stone floor. Above them, harpies, part-woman, part-beast, nested in jagged trees, glaring down at us with unnerving curiosity.
A nine-headed Hydra lazed in the swamp water like it owned the place. On the other side, a colony of Medusas—with their snake-like lower bodies and hair full of writhing serpents—were calmly reading scrolls and minding their own business like this was a park.
I shrieked.
I don't even know what kind of sound came out of me, but it wasn't human.
Lady Deirdre giggled.
And then I saw it—a massive tank filled with churning water and a monstrous, razor-fanged beast with seven heads swirling in its depths.
"That's a Kharybdiss," Deirdre said casually.
OF COURSE IT IS.
Hovering above it all, on a colossal roosting platform, was an actual Wyvern. Just chilling. Like some winged god that decided gravity was optional.
My soul may have left my body for a brief moment.
Then Lady Deirdre lifted her hands—and began to hum.
A soft, enchanting tune, simple and wordless, but powerful.
Every beast stirred.
The Hydra roared.
The Harpies shrieked.
The Kharybdiss thrashed.
The Medusas hissed.
And I—Leonhart—made another sound no human throat was designed to make.
"This is how I seized this fortress-ship," she said serenely, her voice rising over the cacophony. "They helped me… so I took them with me."
Right. So, she didn't take the ship. She conquered it with a literal army of apex monsters.
Honestly? I think it's us who needs her protection now.
Just as the creatures calmed, a loud thumping echoed through the ship—followed by the beat of war drums.
Deirdre turned to me with a grin. "Come, the slaughter ritual seems to be starting."
Slaughter ritual?
Before I could question it, she took my hand and pulled me along.
We arrived at a vast open hall deep inside the ship. What I saw next will haunt and confuse me until the day I die:
There was a concert stage.
And on it—Eideard. Or rather, his alter ego: Edge Voidborne.
He was shirtless, eyes wild, screaming into a crude microphone like a banshee.
His words?
Incoherent. Cringy. Hilarious.
The band behind him pounded a furious tribal rhythm on makeshift drums made of scrap metal and bones. The crowd? A sea of black-clad Dark Elves moshing with reckless abandon.
And at the center of it all...
Count Gerhart.
Dancing like a lunatic.
Spinning in circles, tossing unfortunate moshers like ragdolls, fists pumping in the air as if he were possessed by the ghost of a drunk war god.
I froze in place. This was the "ritual?"
Yes. Yes, it was.
The sacred emo-punk throwdown of Edge Voidborne and his beast-loving band.
The night flowed, wild and unrestrained. Ale was passed around. Voices rose in a hundred different pitches. The band didn't stop.
Eventually, they pulled me on stage.
I stood there, blinking in the lights, until instinct took over.
I opened my mouth and, in full theatrical growl, belted out:
"REIGN IN BLOOD!!"
By Slayer.
Silence. A beat.
Then—
ROARS.
CHEERS.
CHAOS.
The pit exploded. Even Edge Voidborne started headbanging.
I looked down from the stage—and Lady Deirdre was smiling at me.
No words were spoken. But in that moment, there was understanding.
Tomorrow, I believe we can finally reach a mutually beneficial agreement with Count Merkel.
Tonight?
Tonight, I mosh with the monsters.