The murky air was thick enough to cut as eighteen-year-old Loslin walked into the tavern. He crossed the room, not so much as glancing at the other patrons. It'd been a long week, longer month, and the years? He didn't even want to mention those. He felt... old. That couldn't be right for a kid his age to feel so tired.

He crossed the room and sat down at the bar, looking over it in exhaustion.

"What can I get for ya?" a bartender asked as she stopped in front of him.

"A refund..." he muttered.

"Oh sorry we don't g—"

"No, I mean on life. I'd like a refund," he huffed out a sigh and shrugged, trying for a smile.

The young woman snorted and shook her head. "Yeah, so would I. But whoever made life ain't givin' those out. Now is there anything I can get you?" she asked.

Loslin nodded. "Water, please."

She looked skeptical. "You're gonna drown your sorrows in water?"

Loslin smiled half-heartedly. "Yes, last I checked, everything else drowns in water—may as well try it before I turn into them..." He pointed to a bunch of old, bewhiskered, pot-bellied old men in the corner. Not only were they rather ugly, but they looked miserable, and all of them were drinking something stronger than water. "It hasn't done much for them, has it?"

The bartender laughed and snorted at the end, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder and rolling her eyes. "Okay, water it is then."

Loslin watched her walk away. His eyes followed her movements sluggishly. He was tired. This was one of the days he wanted to go home, curl up under the covers, and pretend he didn't have to be in charge for once. Home—to him—was made of wood, tied to a dock, and more-often-than-not, was quite a pain to deal with. Ships were temperamental and hard to handle... but again, it was home.

The bartender returned with a glass of water. She set it down in front of him. "It's on the house," she stated.

"Thank you," he muttered as he pulled the glass toward himself and stared into it, looking at his reflection. He didn't look like Loslin Kelser anymore. Loslin Kelser was a nine-year-old boy with no worries except watching out for his little brother. No... whoever was staring back at him from the water in the glass... he wasn't Loslin Kelser. He was Loslin—Pirate Captain of "The Revenge." He was tired, angry, and hateful. He was what Loslin Kelser had become. He was the side of Loslin that did what had to be done—the bad, ugly, awful things that Loslin Kelser couldn't do.

"You gonna drink that?" the bartender asked.

"Getting to that," Loslin said with a smile that never reached his eyes. After he said it, he picked up the glass, put it to his lips and drank, simply because she expected him to. She nodded and he smiled; again, the smile was more fake than a wooden anchor. He didn't smile—or at least, very rarely, and when he did, it felt out of place and fake. Smiling—an act of happiness—was... for the most part, done for the sake of other people when he was the one doing it.

"Cap'm!" Treelor's voice called from the edge of the pub.

He set the glass back down and turned, looking back at the other teen. He waited for him to speak.

"Dat guy you was talkin' 'bout findin'? He's at da inn nex' door."

Loslin stood up, nodded to the bartender, and walked out. He had other things to do. He preferred it when he had a job—so he didn't think about giving up, or feeling weighed down... he just thought about revenge—for his family, and for West. It was easier that way. That's who he was now—Loslin... just Loslin.

2