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From six to twelve, Merlwyb Bloefhiswyn sailed as supercargo on her father’s ship. She learned the ways of the ship from stem to stern, how to climb the rigging and how to slide down a rope without taking the skin off her palms. How to swab and holystone the decks to keep them clean. How to read wind and wave, and what to do when storms broke upon the ship. And much more.
She wrote to her mother dutifully, every week. And twice a year, she and her father travelled back to Ul’dah to visit.
Her father gave her no favor, not that she would have accepted it anyway. They were both determined that she would earn her way. At eight, she’d announced to crew and captain that she was going to be a pirate captain herself one day. This goal was firmly fixed in her mind.
On her thirteenth birthday, she became part of the crew officially, one of the eighteen men and women who sailed under Captain Bloefhis’ command. There was no question of her abilities; after her years as supercargo, they knew her worth. The hazing was a mere formality - a mark of acceptance.
The year Merlwyb was seventeen was marked by furious storms on the Rhotano Sea. Reports of foundering ships were common, and many captains chose to stay in the comparative safety of the ports. Those that did not often found themselves left adrift at the mercy of wind and wave until the weather calmed enough for other ships to venture forth and attempt a rescue.
The crew of the Bloody Bastard was huddled up in Moraby Drydocks when Captain Bloefhis strode in just before sunset - not that the sun was visible in the storm. “I’ve just had the news that the Antelope dragged her anchor and hung up on Hullbreaker Isle,” he announced.
The Antelope was a Lominsan ship, a trader. It was their own countrymen who needed aid. This was about honor, not profit. As one, the crew rose from their seats, their faces grim and set.
“We can be ready to go in a bell, Captain,” the officer said. “Men - get your best foul-weather gear. Bring extra rope - everyone’s going to be on a line tonight.” He noted that Merlwyb went to speak to the innkeeper before she bolted upstairs. This was explained momentarily when the man came out of the kitchen with a bag of sausage rolls wrapped in heavily waxed paper.
“You might get blown out t’ sea for a time,” the Hyur explained. “It’s not much, but it’s what I can spare.” He nodded sharply and went back to his post behind his counter.
As the crew assembled at the dock, more of the townsfolk came by with small things. An extra lantern. A barrel of fresh water. A blanket. A shirt. Anything that could be spared that might prove useful in a horribly dangerous mission. All of it was accepted with thanks and taken to the Bastard .
“We’re not going to get out of the bay with the ship,” Bloefhis said. “Launch the longboat, downmast. We’ll have to row.”
“Aye, Captain,” Rysstyl saluted. “You ‘eard the captain. Longboat away! Downmast!”
The longboat hit the water, and the crew quickly unstepped the mast and stowed it. “Move it! Tide’s at ebb!”
They cast off quickly. Even with the mast down, they felt the wind. Rysstyl chanted the rowing beat, keeping the oars in time and watching the crew. Those who were not rowing were organizing supplies better, and rigging safety lines for everyone.
Bloefhis stood in the prow and looked out toward Hullbreaker Isle. It was a short trip in good weather. With the storm and under oars, he calculated it would be at least a bell, perhaps two. As they neared their destination, they’d have to slow down or risk hitting one of the myriad jagged rocks that gave the island her name.
His daughter was on the port-side second oar, pulling the oar to Rysstyl’s chant. It was back-breaking work, he knew; any captain worth the title had pulled oars, hauled on ropes, had done whatever needed to be done. Long before they reached Hullbreaker Isle, the rowers’ hands would be chafed raw and bleeding from the constant friction of the wooden oars, their bodies aching from neck to knee.
They were out of the dubious shelter of the bay, and the storm blew even more fiercely, whipping the seas into whitecaps. Every ilm of progress was fought for, and sometimes it felt like they were going backwards. The sky lit up as jagged bolts of lightning split the night, and the crash of thunder sounded almost immediately after.
He muttered a quick grace to the Navigator that the crew were all experienced seamen. Bad enough to take them out in this; it was far too dangerous for a novice to face.
Rysstyl began switching out the rowers as the quarter-bell struck, a tricky operation. In good weather, they’d bring the oars in, the crew would exchange places, and then run the oars out again. In this storm, they needed to keep the longboat moving to avoid getting turned broadside to the angry waves. So the officer was calling a slightly faster chant to increase speed with a very brief pause after the final measure, just long enough for the two crewmembers to slide past each other and the new one to grab the oar.
Again their training and experience paid off as the eighth and final oarsman switched out without mishap.
Hullbreaker finally emerged into view, a slightly darker mass against the sea and sky. Against it, he saw the lighter form of the Antelope and grimaced as he realised she’d run aground on Widowmaker rock, a granite formation that had earned its name a thousand times over.
They pulled closer, until they were about fifty fathoms away - any closer, and the granite jaws beneath the swirling waters would chew the longboat to pieces. Antelope was hung on one edge of the Widowmaker, Bloefhis saw. That was the only reason she was still afloat.
He saw no signs of life on the other ship, but that didn’t mean anything - they were likely below, trying to shift cargo to work themselves loose. He took one of his pistols and fired it up into the sky during a lull in the thunder. They’d hear it and know that help had come.
Sure enough a figure emerged onto the deck waving a shirt frantically. Bloefhis holstered the pistol and waved back.
“We’ve got to get them on a line,” Rysstyl said.
“Who’s our best chance?” Bloefhis knew the answer even before his lieutenant answered.
“Merlwyb.”
“Get the line ready.”
She was leaning against the mast, conserving energy - she’d pulled two stints on the oars and like any good sailor was resting when she could. But she jumped to her feet when he gestured, and came to him.
“Captain?”
“We need you to take them a line,” he said.
She looked over at the barely visible shape that was the Antelope and then back at him, meeting his eyes squarely. “Aye, Captain.”
Jacket and shoes hit the deck. Barefoot, she pulled her claspknife from her belt and hacked off the silvery fall of her hair, that had hung down her back. Silvery white strands whisked away in the wind. The knife went back in her belt. She took the line that Rysstyl gave her, securing it around her waist.
And then she dove.
In later years, when they talked about it, they all agreed it was a spectacular dive. Long and shallow, calculated to minimize time below the surface. Bloefhis watched, his face impassive but his lips soundlessly forming the words of the Sailor’s Prayer, the invocation to the Navigator to carry them through.
Merlwyb surfaced and struck out toward the other ship, choosing a much slower pace than she was capable of, Rysstyl noted. She was saving her strength - a wise move. The water was cold, and it would leech the strength from her, and she was already worn down from rowing.
The crew watched grimly. Nothing they could do to help. White-knuckled, they prayed as only sailors will. She was nearly at the halfway point now. And she was tiring. It showed in her every determined movement as her bare arms sliced the water.
A pocket of calm. She stopped for a moment - a gamble, but a good one, Rysstyl thought. Gambling that the rest would be worth the extra chill of the water. Then she struck out again, one woman battling against the worst that wind and wave could do. Her progress had slowed again, but she was much nearer now, at the three-quarter point.
On the Antelope, there was a bustle as a pair of sailors came over the stern on lines and went out chest deep into the water to meet her. There was a cheer as their hands locked together, the sailors pulling her onto the rocks. And then onto Antelope’s stern, where they fastened the tow line.
At dawn the sky lightened and the hungry waves began to settle. The Antelope was hove to fifty fathoms off the Widowmaker. Bloefhis had come alongside them long enough to retrieve his daughter who had been bundled into warm dry clothing and then wrapped in every blanket they had.
He looked around in satisfaction. “Upmast! Finish bailing! We’ll sail ‘er home!”