Apeliotes Island, present day.
Old Tom, the barkeeper at The Rock, was right proud of his establishment. Sure, the uneven stone floor was so slippery underfoot that many an inebriated patron had broken an ankle or two going head over arse; it was an icebox in winter and a sweltering hole in summer; and the enclosed space had the permanent stench of sloshed alcohol and unwashed bodies. In fact, the entire bar was nothing more than a cavern in the labyrinth beneath the surface of the island, with recycled ship masts helping to hold up parts of the ceiling and barrels of ale and rum on tap. The ocean crashing outside, its water eddying into shallow pools near the cavern’s entrance, was both the sink and the toilet. But there was no place like home – and for the part of Shaman’s population who were born with the sea in their blood and a broken moral compass, this was one of the only places on land where it was safe for them. Either the Crown didn’t know of The Rock’s existence, or they’d been unable to locate it.

They all come through ’ere at one point or another, Old Tom was fond of telling the young whippersnappers, wobbling about on their land legs. The Eater, Feral, even the Warbird in her day.

The kids loved Old Tom, with his toothless grin and crooked nose. He was one of the only pirates around who actually had an eyepatch and a parrot. Marbles, his African Grey familiar, was the bar’s major attraction for children. No one cared that there were kids in an establishment which only served ale and rum; the clientele was varied, to say the least. The one thing everyone here had in common was a distaste for the laws of the land.

The Rock was doing a roaring trade that night, as it did most nights. Old Tom had collected another half dozen tankards from the saltwater rockpool he considered his sink and was just dumping them on the outstretch of rock which served as his counter when he spotted a rare sight: a person he’d never seen before. It was a woman, surprisingly young-looking (this life tended to beat the youth out of most folks early), with dark red hair curled over her shoulders and dark blue eyes which reminded Old Tom of a stormy sea night. She had a ragged, hooded one-piece thrown over her clothes, which wasn’t unusual for the folks around here.

“And what for you, darlin’?” Old Tom gave his best approximation of a smile, which mostly just involved showing the inside of his grey-red mouth.

She ordered a rum, tossing a gold coin at him. By the time Old Tom had filled the tankard from the right tap and thumped the tankard onto the bartop, she’d already caught the attention of a few eagle-eyed young men who were jostling one another for the prime spot to chat her up.

“Look at you boys,” she smirked, lifting the tankard to her lips. “Who among you’ll protect me from the Omen, then?”

“What omen’s that, honey?” The winner of the jostling match asked, leering at her over the bar.

“Ain’t you heard?” The woman spoke in hushed tones which somehow managed to capture the attention of everyone along the bar within earshot. One or two turned their heads, sensing potential gossip. “The immortal Omen. The one what originated the word. He’s here, on this planet.”

In spite of himself, Old Tom ignored the wagging fingers of the waiting customers further up the bar. Half a dozen men surrounding the young women were gazing at her, transfixed. She took a swig of her tankard, sighed and rolled her eyes at them.

“Ain’t never heard o’ him, have ya?” She scoffed at them, spinning slightly on the bar stool so that her voice carried further along the bar. “None of you lot knows the legend.”

She only needed one person to take the bait, and that person came in the form of Simon. Poor Simple Simon, whom no one would ever call that to his face, really did fit the stereotype of big and dumb.

“What legend?” He towered over the woman from behind, hovering curiously. She patted him fearlessly on the thigh.

“The legend o’ Ruaidhri.” She said, breathing the name with the kind of reverence which made the eavesdroppers lean in closer to try and catch it. “He was an Immortal One. Came into the world not much after the gods themselves. You know who was stronger than the gods, back in them days?” She paused, her eyes flicking with satisfaction over the eavesdroppers who had given up all pretence that they weren’t listening. “The ones what protected the gods from each other. Their bodyguards. And Ruaidhri, he was the bodyguard to the most powerful god of ’em all.”

“Gwythr?” Simple Simon whispered, his deep tones carrying the name across the cavern. A few people further along the bar leaned over to listen.

“No, ya pillock.” The woman sighed, reaching up to flick him on the nose with her thumb and forefinger. “Aura, obviously. Ruaidhri was a bodyguard to Aura. Then when the gods united their personal security teams into the Alliance, he was one o’ the foundin’ members.”

She swivelled round fully on her chair, turning her back to the bar. The group of listeners was now large enough that they were attracting the attention of patrons further away, who were drifting closer to see what all the commotion was about.

“Ruaidhri lived a thousand lifetimes in the Alliance, masterin’ everythin’. And I mean, everythin’,” she leaned forward, and several listeners mimicked her actions. “Every type of fightin’. Every type of weapon. Every kinda school and every kinda experience, on the right and wrong sides o’ the law, he’d master one an’ move on to the next. Then, when Aura died, he decided his time in the Alliance was done. Upped and left, workin’ the dark side o’ the ancient laws since.”

Old Tom generally didn’t interrupt the ravings of his patrons, but he couldn’t help himself on this occasion. “So why’d you call ’im an omen?” He asked, squinting at the woman.

She spun back around on her bar stool and held out her empty tankard. A dozen patrons turned and stared at Old Tom until he squirmed, grabbed the tankard and went to fill it up from the tap, grumbling about freeloaders. The woman waited, keeping her audience on edge, until he returned and slapped it on the counter, sloshing the contents all over it. Then she waited a moment longer while she took a sip, aware of all the eyes resting on her.

“They call ’im the Omen, because of his special kind of magic.” She turned slowly back to the audience, which now numbered nearly twenty. Even a few of the kids had stopped poking poor Marbles to listen. “A magic not even the gods have. The magic of future sight.” She took another sip from the tankard. Outside, thunder rolled ominously, even though it had been a clear evening when Old Tom had opened up the bar only an hour ago. “They say he knows,” she waggled her fingers mysteriously at Simple Simon. “He knows when big stuff is about to go down. Moments what change history. Outbreaks of war, disease, discoveries. When Ruaidhri appears, it’s an omen for somethin’ big happenin’. He was there when the Alliance fell to Gwythr.” She winked at Old Tom. “In the very buildin’, he was.”

“How come he didn’t stop it, then?” A brazen-mouthed woman yelled from the back of the cavern, capturing the attention of more people. Nearly everyone in The Rock was listening in now.

“Who knows?” The young woman asked back mysteriously. “Maybe he don’t care. Maybe he wanted the Alliance to fall. Maybe,” she leaned across and pinched the cheek of the man sat beside her who had won the jostling match earlier, “maybe he’s waitin’ to see which way the cards stack when the dust is settled.”

There were a few nods. This was something the pirates understood.

Outside, thunder grumbled again. A couple of children squeaked and buried themselves among the crowd, who were beginning to turn to one another and grin in appreciation. It had been a good story, but a story nonetheless. No one present believed that ‘the Omen’ really existed.

“How’d you know he’s here?” The same brazen woman from earlier called, her tone cocky to the point of aggressive. She made an exaggerated show of listening to the answer, leaning against the rocky wall.

The storyteller stood up slowly, setting her tankard down on the bartop with a gentle tap. Somehow, that little sound rang throughout the cavern, stilling the faces of those who had started to turn away when they thought the story was over. Now they turned back, eagerly awaiting what everyone sensed was the coming climax.

“He’s here,” the hooded woman confirmed, her eyes boring straight into her bold doubter’s eyes. “He’s already struck. I seen it. I seen the body.”

She took another step forward so that she was in the centre of the cavern, commanding the attention of everyone inside it. Even the waves outside seemed to quieten, as though pausing to listen.

“Ruaidhri killed the Warbird.” The woman announced with bloodthirsty flourish, her storm-dark eyes glittering callously. “The Warbird is dead.”

Silence, for a moment; then the storyteller would surely have been satisfied with the eruption that followed. She was hounded for details, which she spun with delight, paying little attention to what she said. It wouldn’t matter anyway. By the time the story had passed from mouth to mouth and reached the ears of its true target audience, it would be so convoluted and fantastical that it would be beyond recognition. Only two facts would remain consistent: The Warbird is dead. Ruaidhri was the killer.

It was another two hours before the woman could slip out, sighing in relief to finally be out of that cesspool of stenches. A small smile twitched at the corner of her lips. The game was on.

Fair warning, Kroneon, she ran a hand through her red hair under the hood, feeling rather than seeing it return to its natural blonde colour. I’m coming for you.

She paused at a ragged hole in the rock wall, revealing the night air and the ocean below. The storm she’d conjured to add a dramatic soundtrack to her story was still roiling the water, the mist blending sky and sea.

Not that it’ll do you any good.

RUAIDHRI