Boom!

The tavern shook violently, the wave of the blast bringing the bustling brawl to a standstill. The crowd lowered their fists and sheathed their weapons. Their faces paled as their dazed eyes fell on the door. In a wave of frenzy, the crowd bounded towards the exit, pushing their way outside with eager curiosity.

Tristram sat up with a groan, rubbing the egg-sized whelp on his head. The bloody hell was that? The drunken captain struggled to his feet, staggering between the aisle of tables before finding his footing. With a satisfied smile, his eyes fell on a lone bottle rocking about the table in front of him, the liquid inside sloshing about in its tumble. His fingers flew to the bottle, plucking the unscathed bottle from its roll. He swung the bottle to his lips, catching the corked top with his teeth. The captain chomped down on the spile, his sharp fangs burrowing deep into the plug. With a twist and a pop, the cork pulled free.

Shree!

The cap fell from Tristram’s teeth as the familiar squeal filled his ears. His eyes widened and his brow furrowed. He stood motionless, listening to the passing whistle in wait for the inevitable rock of the explosion.

Boom!

The color faded from the captain’s face as the Earth shook beneath him. He wiped his glossy haze from his eyes and forced his legs to stiffen. He forced his sight to focus and quelled the queasy rumble of his gut. A growl formed beneath his breath as the world stilled around him. With a huff, he advanced forward, joining the crowd at the door. He pushed through the crowd in a determined haste, breaking through the sea of sailors to the chaos of the streets.

Shree!

Another sharp whistle passed over the crowd. With a deafening crash, the fiery projectile slammed into the awning of the tavern sign. Shards of splintered wood exploded from the impact, showering the dumbfounded sailors below. The group scattered, the crowd disbanding as swiftly as they had gathered; leaving a handful of wounded men screaming in pain behind.

Tristram’s brow narrowed. A tide of raging fury flooded the Captain’s face. He shifted his shoulder forward, pulling a chunk of wood from his arm and tossing it aside as a stream. A stream of blood gushed from the wound, the trickle of liquid climbing up his coat and flowing down his arm before pooling at the base of his wrist. Tristram bit back the pain. He lifted the blood stained bottle to his lips, taking a hearty swig before tossing the bottle to his feet. His lips curled to a scowl as he wiped his lips with the arm of his clean sleeve; the blood-stained fingers of its pair reaching for his cutlass.