In service of the Golden Tempest

Mission Log:

Weeks had passed, some of the most grueling and frustrating days in Damons experience.

He had fought tooth and nail to escape the grasp of his servitude only to find himself in something entirely worse in an entirely different way.

All the struggles, all those lines he had crossed, only to trade one devil for another.

His freedom robbed, living under the tyranny of others, just the same.

Back on the fateful day of his capture, kneeling on the floor before two pirates swearing himself in to their cause, given the choice between selling himself to them or being sold to the highest bidder.

After his initiation, the men left the cell, noting that he would be cast into isolation to overthink his decision. "Let it sink in. See it as your first assignment or challenge, or whatever you like."

At first, he didn’t grasp the meaning of their words. He was left alone in the dark cell, god knows where on the island. But with time, that dreadful passage of time, he began to understand what they had challenged him with.

For it was there, in the cold, lonely, darkness that he was faced with himself, by himself.

He lost track of time; he didn’t know how long it took, but it seemed to happen much faster than it should.

He was plagued by his failure to the point where he could barely hold a meditation for more than a few breaths before losing his will again.

He was a murderer, a wanted fugitive, a deserter, and now a pirate. When all he wanted was to be left to follow his own will and forge his own fate. Prey to his own gods.

He went through moments of panic, regret, felt the fever of anger burning him hot, and cold showers of grief washing over him. For a while he was consumed by hate—for his father, thats cowardly mans empty words, at his mother, her cold unloving eyes, the Shinobi that tried to stifle and discourage him, at the lords he was forced to serve, and now to these men forcing him into subjugation once again.

Hate lingered for too long, but eventually, even hate was laid to rest in that dark, gloomy room.

Then he lay there crying, sobbing in the faint light of his cell, but that too passed. It seemed like this place was unwrapping him, peeling him like an onion, one layer at a time, as his thoughts and feelings were torn from his flesh and made real.

It was as if all the passing year's worth of emotions broke over him. Waves crashing into the cliffs, grinding the stone with every new surge.

Someone would slip food under the door, then water. It was the last measure of time left to him now.

He slept and woke again, napped and shuffled about with waking nightmares.

At one point, he sat on his knees and prayed. Meditation hadn’t been working; nothing could distract him from what was in his head and heart. So he prayed and chanted as his old master had taught him.

The young silver-haired boy hummed and asked his gods, the mighty spirits of times past, to give him the strength to endure, the strength to rise again after every fall, and the strength to want to fight for a better day. He begged them for the salvation of his will.

They did not answer, not in his head and not out here. Still, he did not waver; he simply practiced his devotion.

And after a long time of feeling abandoned in the darkness, he found, to his own surprise, conviction—both in his unshaken belief and in himself. He was still here afterall. He would have to start again. So what? He was forced to bend to his will again? It had taken him years to escape his previous life, and it might cost him years again to escape this one, but by the gods, he would. He knew he deserved a better life, the life he wanted. All he needed to do was take it, just as he had taken it from his former masters; he would take it once more, and any time after that if it is what needed to be done.

When at last the iron door before him opened, his first thought was to thank his gods, but that thought was shattered like glass at the first words spoken by his captors.

“Dammit, you’re right; he survived that little sucker. I was sure wed find him hanging. Ugh, fine, fine, you win. I'll grab my coins.”

Damon couldn’t even make out the shapes of the men standing in the doorway, so poorly was the light shining on their outlines.

But then he heard the familiar voice of Abu. “Alright, kid, I’ll ask you one more time. Will you serve the Golden Tempest?”

“I will.”

Damon hadn’t heard his own voice in what seemed like eternity, but it was oddly stern, oddly brash.

“Good. Follow me.”

Since then, a lot had happened. He discovered his isolation had lasted just a week. He was introduced to the fortress where the crew resided—a worn stone brick military outpost high in the mountains on one of the first islands of the Kaminari Kogane ****archipelago.

Abu assigned him a bunk bed, showed him the mess hall, tossed him some clothes, and introduced him to a few key figures he had seen on the deck of the Kami. He was made to understand how the pecking order among these bandits functioned. Abu was the captain of the Kami, but he and four other captains reported to Kante, who, in turn, was one of four ring leaders, all reporting to the man they called Abel, who ultimately led them all.

He was also clearly made to understand just how low he was in this hierarchy—lowest of the low.

In the days that followed, he witnessed the horror and audacity these men committed. They smuggled, stole, looted and worst of all, treated people as merchandise.

These islands were the gateway to the west and thus relevant trading routes widely used by smugglers and criminals from Fire, Water, and Lightning.

Now, after almost a month of cleaning and scrubbing bow and rear, he was to be given his first actual orders.

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The boy was shaken awake long before the first breath of dawn. In the darkness of a moonless night, Abu hassled him into his gear, and soon after, the two strode down the winding hallways of the fort towards the main gate, which was well-guarded even at this ghastly hour.

The silver-haired missing-nin wore loosely fitted undergarments, over which he strapped a ragged brown hanten he had found among the rags in the washroom. The thick cloth would be enough to protect him from the harsh winds blowing up the cliffs from the stormy ocean below.

The black hakama pants and a navy blue obi were the only pieces of his ensemble that belonged to him, now the last remnants he clung to ever since his capture.

Cool late-night summer air slipped through the cracks in the large wooden gate, whilst Abu  instructed Damon on his first mission.

“Listen, kid, you’re going to escort one of our mules down into the village to a restaurant owned by an accomplice. You are to deliver her there and report to him. The contact’s name is Naro, got it?”

Damon, with deep shadows under his eyes, stared back with quiet resolve into the cold orbs of the large dark-skinned man commanding him.

“Yes, Captain.”

There was a brief hint of hesitation in Abu’s voice. He stuttered a moment before finalizing, “Your life’s at stake here, Damon. Make sure our merchandise reaches the location, do your job down in there. Otherwise, you’re done here.”

Damon repeated in a flat tone, “Yes, Captain.”

Abu eyed him for a few moments, his lips pressed tight and his pupils narrowed, showing a skeptical expression Damon hadn’t seen before.

In the dimly lit corridor, he could make out the shuffling of feet approaching slowly.

Abu turned his massive figure in the gangway, revealing behind him an elderly woman dressed in a formal, tightly-fitted, colorful kimono, with an elegant obi held in place by a wooden obijime. It was further more adorned with an **obidome** shaped like a sakura leaf. She was as refined a lady as Damon had ever seen one. Even her wooden geta were splendidly adorned. She reminded the boy of the high-born nobles in Kumogakure.

Two pirates Damon didn’t recognize accompanied her, wordlessly handing him a large folded pouch.

“Guard this. They’re her belongings. She knows the way... more or less. It’s a restaurant in the heart of town. Lamplight’s the name” Abu said, staring at the frail old woman.

He then twisted his neck to gaze intensely down at the new recruit one last time.

“Get going, Damon, and don’t disappoint the Tempest, kid.”

With that, the large wooden gate slowly arched open, creaking under its own weight. Damon slung the pouch over his back and took the first step onto the rough, uneven path leading down the cliffside road. He could already make out the village—nothing but a collection of distant lights. It was the largest settlement and harbour on this first island.

The elderly woman stepped out beside him, wordlessly beginning to painstakingly, slowly trot forward into the night.

Damon sighed internally, careful not to show her—or the onlookers, whom he imagined were watching them with scrutinizing eyes—his true emotions. They would be under the pirates’ observation as long as they were visible on the cliffside.

Their journey downhill was muted and cold. Neither of them spoke a word to each other, Damon only occasionally glancing back over his shoulder to ensure the woman was keeping pace.

He didn’t expect any resistance. After all, it was the middle of the night, and the pirates were too well-connected on the island to face any serious scrutiny from the locals. The villagers knew all too well the fate of those who interfered with their notorious neighbors' dealings.

Slowly, the lights of the village grew closer, and the night itself became brighter as the darkness gave way to the illuminated road they were winding down.

Before long, they reached the first wooden huts, and then the settlement became denser, with lights strung up on lantern posts, and even the sound of the ocean washing in could be heard.

It wasn’t much longer before the gray-haired woman took charge, silently leading them through the streets and narrow passageways. The air smelled of salt, and the bustling nightlife eventually drowned out the sound of waves crashing on the shoreline. They were close to the harbour district now, where their final destination awaited.

Once inside the city, Damon grew more cautious. If they were to be ambushed, it would be here. But their silent pilgrimage came to an end as they stood before a large establishment. Sailors lingered around the entrance, mugs of beer and sake in hand, or puffing on pipes while chatting. From inside, the sound of laughter and conversation overlapped, along with the occasional clinking of glasses and cutlery.

The large kanji on the wooden entrance was illuminated by a single bright flickering orb, revealing the pub’s name: the Lamplight.

Damon led them inside.

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