![[Pirate.png]] ![[Pirate-turnaround.gif|200]] ### Pirate – King of the Lost Boys In the shadows of Alexandria’s streets, there was a boy who called himself Pirate—not because he had a ship, nor a crew, but because the city was his ocean, and the orphans who roamed it were his crew. He had no last name, no home, no past that anyone knew. Just a sharp grin, quick hands, and a heart that refused to break no matter how hard the world tried. He wore tattered coats two sizes too big, stole bread like it was an art, and led the city's forgotten children like a king of gutters and alleyways. and to them, he was everything. If Pirate was the king of the lost boys, then Qwimby was a legend. Pirate watched him from the rooftops, from the markets, from the dark corners where children aren’t meant to be. A rogue who moved like the wind, who took what he wanted and laughed in the face of the city’s so-called order. To Pirate, Qwimby was proof that orphans could be more than just ghosts in the streets. That a life of hunger and struggle wasn’t the only path. So he mimicked him. Learned from afar. Dreamed of the day when Qwimby might see him, truly see him, and recognize a kindred spirit. And in time, he did. The two weren’t friends in the traditional sense—Qwimby was older, sharper, always moving too fast for someone like Pirate to keep up. But he saw the kid. Tossed him a few tricks, a few words of wisdom. And for Pirate, that was enough. It meant everything. Pirate was smart. Too smart for his own good. When the mist rolled in, when the nightmares of Barovia became real, he knew something was wrong. He didn’t trust the whispers, the promises, the way the world felt off—like a story being rewritten while he was still in it. But it didn’t matter. Because Qwimby was in danger. And Pirate would follow Qwimby anywhere. He never saw the trap coming. Strahd had taken Pirate first, stolen him away in the night like a ghost plucking a candle’s flame from the dark. When Pirate woke, he was bound, helpless, trapped in the nightmare that was Barovia. Strahd didn’t kill him outright. That would have been too easy. Instead, he made him a game. When Qwimby came, blade in hand, burning with fury, Strahd smiled. And then, with a flick of his fingers, the vampire’s form shifted. Where Strahd once stood, Pirate now knelt, tied and helpless. Where Pirate should have been, Strahd now grinned, his voice slipping through the darkness like a dagger. "Come, Qwimby," he whispered, stepping toward him, wearing Pirate’s face like a mask. "End me. Make it hurt." Qwimby didn’t hesitate. The fight was brutal, quick, fuelled by rage and the need for revenge. Strahd laughed, dodged, played the part perfectly. And then, when the moment was right, when Qwimby saw nothing but his enemy before him, Strahd let him strike. The dagger sank deep. A perfect kill. And then—the illusion faded. Pirate was no longer tied up. Pirate was on the blade. One moment, he was there, bound, confused. The next, he was bleeding in Qwimby’s arms. For a moment, Pirate didn’t even react. He just looked up at him. Not in fear. Not in anger. Just… confusion. "Qwimby?" The pain came after. The cold that started in his stomach and spread like ice. He stumbled. He fell. And Qwimby—the man he had idolized, the man he had wanted to be Was holding the blade. Pirate never blamed him. Even as the light faded from his eyes, he knew the truth. This wasn’t Qwimby’s fault. It was Strahd’s. But that didn’t make it hurt any less. His last breath wasn’t a curse, wasn’t a cry, wasn’t even a plea for help. It was just a soft, broken laugh. Because even in the end, he had never expected a happy ending. ![[The parting glass lyrics Assassins Creed_ Black Flag.mp4]]