Theirs was a mad race.

All around them boats were struggling to reach Djokole's ship, with paddles flashing wild into the water, sometimes turning the boat sideways in their zeal to propel it forward. Skandra and Leir were using even strokes, cutting through the water quickly, keeping themselves just ahead of those with more steady nerves. It was not a race they wanted to lose, yet even if they reached the ship, their battle was far from over. Leir seemed keenly aware of that - every ounce of his body was seized with the hot blood of the moment, and Skandra felt little different. A race to what could be their own deaths. What could be more exciting? Skandra stretched out with the paddle, caught the edge of the boat closest to them, and heaved down with all his might. The boat rocked once, more viciously that he could have imagined, before it capsized. The pirates cried out in rage as they disappeared beneath the boat. Lucky. Story of his life, that. Lucky to the extreme.

( How much farther could it take him? )

The spot had been picked by Leironuoth. Among the trees, in the early morning, sliver-thin wisps of child mist slipped about. Carelessly cavorting he would have said. And how odd that he was a prisoner of no one, free to follow his own whims. But it was the mist that was dancing before his eyes. Trapped by the leaves of the forest, fearing for its life against the stabbing rays of the sun. For his part Skandra was amazed at what they'd been able to accomplish in the roughly two hours they'd had before the pirates set out from the beach. That was the event that led him here. Stripped to the waist, covered in mud caked thick upon his face and chest, drenched in black and brown that hid him against the trunk of the tree. Nestled in the open space of a branch that forked like a snake's tongue he wasn't comfortable. But he was concealed from view. Somewhere out there, Leir was lurking, though Skandra did not know where. That seemed the perfect arrangement for now.

( He'd done what he could. )

In the roaring fire, half-delirious from all the drink he'd taken in that day and all the heat that had rained down on his shoulders, Skandra could see a great many things. First, no one told you that nights were so gods-damned cold on a jungle island. He preferred the cold to the hot, but his face was red as an apple, and cracked besides. Water. At least his throat was burning like sand at the temperature. Aches and pains acquired in the fight were less pained now that it was cold out, but only because he was certain parts of him were numb. All in all it could have been worse. He was chewing jerky and smoking one of those fine cloves at the same time - damn propriety. If his companion cared he gave no sign. He just sat there, staring without staring at that sword. It was a pretty piece of work, but Skandra didn't know why it was worth the trouble.

( Had to get it. )

"They look pretty ugly from here."

Skandra was kneeling behind a tree, half of his face hanging into open view. Enough for one eye to see what they were up against. The first man was something out of a story. The sword on his back, as wide as Skandra's torso. As tall as the pirate himself, with no dull edges and a rounded point. So you weren't going to be winning any contests by running a man through, but Skandra was fairly certain if you hit someone with a weapon like that, they were done. No matter how small the hit was. That fellow, whom Skandra affectionately dubbed Brickhead, was surrounded by a group of four other pirates. They were strapped from head to toe with knives. All of them had crossbows. They were throwers, then, range experts to his melee. Skandra grimaced as he twisted on one heel, shoulders coming to rest against the bark of the tree. Sweat was rolling down his face in waves. Even with his hat back on, the jungle heat was taking its toll.

( Why had he agreed to come out there? )

It had been but a few short years since bein stripped of his title. Little over three, if he remembered correctly. A paltry amount of time in the eyes of the average elf. Yet the humiliation of defeat, the agony of exile, cast a gloom over each and every one of Leironuoth's hours. And so, by the time any of this happened, he felt as though it had already been a thousand years.

He wandered many great miles from his home, from the songs and fires of his people, and he inflicted his rage upon the wickedness of the outside world. Far and wide he roamed, carving a name for himself with the Champion's blade. He killed brigands and slavers, marauding orcs and ogres. When his path crossed that of the tyrant and the thief he destroyed them with a fury unmatched in the lands of humans: ( this is how he became a privateer of Trone. )