Darragh Griffin, born on December 7th, 1601, from the Irish, on the first Cahan harvest, was a man of ruthless calibre, the feared captain of the Cahan Pirates. His massive build placed him amongst ogres, a coarse grey beard itching at his jaw, and the stench of old liquor clinging to every word that left his lips.
To the slaves of Cahan, he was more than cruel—he was perverse. At the mere sight of a woman, his loins stirred, and though many feared his gaze, it was Damaris who held his attention. Unlike the others, she never bowed her head at his command. He knew this, yet his eyes lingered on her all the more.
Griffin's tastes leaned toward the very young, yet Damaris—though twenty-seven, twelve long years since her father sold her into chains—remained the one who drew his eye. He watched her every day as she dragged heavy machinery across the mud.
But on this day of the harvest, he lashed out, his boot striking her down into the earth.
"Move it, ya lazy whore!" he barked, anger spilling through his voice, sick of her defiance.
The pirates laughed at the cruelty, their amusement cutting through the cold air like a knife. The slaves, filled with silent pity, dared not move—bound by the unspoken law of Cahan: oblige or starve.
Damaris, refusing obedience, often paid the price, her nights spent hungry in iron cages. The rations given to the others were meagre, barely enough to fuel three ridges of labour in the fields, yet she was denied even that. And she was not the first to suffer such punishment.
One winter, a shepherd slave had lost grip of the flock, letting a single sheep wander astray. A wolf claimed it that night—and the punishment had been swift.
His name was Finlay Seamus, though most called him Son of Wool—a title earned from years in the sheep trade across the European seas. His crime, at least the one spoken aloud, was grave: he had been accused of lying with his master's wife and being the cause of her pregnancy. Though Finlay swore it false, no plea could save him.
The truth whispered among those who knew him differently. He had never touched another woman but his wife, who, in cruel irony, shared the same name as Damaris. His master's wife had confessed her longing for him, but he had spurned her, choosing the harder path of loyalty. Yet in a world where the tongues of the wealthy spun lies as easily as smoke, the poor bore the punishment. His vows to the gods fell on deaf ears, drowned beneath the laughter of the rich.
So he was caged, left to rot in filth. Starvation hollowed his body, disease blackened his veins, and at last his story ended where no man deserved: forgotten, broken, betrayed.
August 3rd, 1655. Three years had passed since that first death was counted, and a single year since the tale of tragedy first reached the ears of slaves. On this day—the day her cheek lay pressed into the cold mud—Damaris knew her hour had come.
With trembling hands, lungs burning, she rose. Her eyes locked on Darragh, swelling with a hatred that threatened to consume her. Her fist clenched, every nerve urging her to strike. But the man only strode away, laughter thundering from his lips, mocking her pain.
Before she could move, her fury was stayed. A gentle hand pressed her arm—her dearest companion, Agatha, the woman she trusted as a mother.
"This is not the time, my child," Agatha whispered, her wrinkled face softening in a faint smile. "Come now, it is time to feast. I will share my meal with you."
Agatha was unlike the others. A woman of unknown origin, radiant even in hard times, her subtle cheers survived where others' hope had crumbled. She had been the first to show Damaris kindness, the first to understand her despite her silence. To Damaris, she became more than a friend—she was the mother she was never given the luxury to know.
"Someday, Agatha," Damaris often whispered with a strong accent, "I will be de one to free you from this suffering."
And Agatha would smile, her voice warm as she answered: "Do not fret, child. That day will surely come."
Her wrinkled grin, her unwavering presence, had rooted itself deep in Damaris' heart—not just comfort, but a promise etched into her very soul. And now, with fire stirring within her chest, Damaris vowed to fulfil it.
The last day of the Cahan Harvest loomed, dragging with it the pirates' traditions. Darragh Griffin prepared his men. Two hundred pirates lived on the island, yet only fifty would depart on this voyage—fifty chosen men, leaving behind wives, homes, and the little tenderness their lives held. The journey would last weeks, perhaps months. Fifty barrels of liquor were set aside, fuel for their hunger and sin.
And so, on the eve of their departure, as the sun set and crows blackened the sky with their cries, Damaris moved. Her steps were quiet, her resolve unyielding. She slipped into the shadows, past the guards, past the drunken eyes of authority.
One time, she had crept to feasts forbidden by her father; she now crept across docks. Bare feet kissed the planks, heart hammering until she reached the ship's belly—where the barrels loomed.
With trembling hands, she did the unthinkable: lowered herself into a barrel of sour red booze. The stench burned her nose, the liquid clawed her throat, but still she sealed the lid.
The fear of drowning or being discovered gnawed; if she was caught, the punishment would be dire. She wanted to turn back. But then she saw their faces in her mind—the slaves, hollow-eyed and broken—and she remembered her vow.
By the time the forty-seventh pirate stomped aboard, she was hidden, her body submerged in the vile drink. The ship groaned, the sea roared, and the barrels shook as the voyage began.
Damaris gritted her teeth, stiff as iron, every breath a war against nausea and fear of being caught. The Cahan Sea stretched before her—merciless and infinite.
There was no turning back from this, and even she knew of this.
—
With minutes stretching on like rippling waves, guided by the steady breath of the wind, the drink inside the barrels began to warm, its stench thick and suffocating. Damaris clenched her jaw, every nerve on edge, her body tense as she bathed in the sour liquor. The discomfort gnawed at her resolve, but she held fast.
Then came the voices.
"Hey, you there?" one pirate called, his rough voice splitting the silence. "The rest of da crew's takin' a nap. Cap'n says you take the wheel—don't let this ship fall outta place."
"Aye, o'course," came the other's reply.
At that, Damaris jerked slightly, her heart leaping into her throat. Yet, against all odds, a sly smirk curved her lips. Her plan was unfolding in a way she hadn't dared to hope. The hours of the voyage had dragged mercilessly, and by now she knew the pirates back on the island would have discovered her absence. The thought alone tightened her chest—but it was a risk she had already embraced.
It was now or never.
She whispered the thought in her mind like a prayer, holding her breath as the footsteps echoed and then faded into silence. Only one pirate remained awake, and with that knowledge burning like fire in her chest, Damaris steeled herself. Her escape was no longer a dream—it was a certainty waiting to be seized.
Slowly, she rose from the heavy pool of booze, her body weakened by the stench of the vile drink that clung to her skin. Damaris moved with cautious determination, every step betraying her with the wet slap of bare feet against the wooden floor. Emerging from the room where the barrels were kept, she was met by the sting of rain, the waves outside rolling rough yet still manageable.
The ship looked deserted—silent but for the one pirate at the helm, steering through the storm. Her frantic gaze swept the deck, her movements deliberate, silent, desperate not to alert the man above. And then—she saw it. An island, just meters away, close enough that she was certain her swimming skills could carry her there.
Hope surged through her chest like fire in her veins.
At least, that was what she thought.
"Hey, slave! Stop right there!"
Her heart lurched. Damaris snapped her head toward the far side of the ship. A group of pirates emerged—wide awake, weapons of melee class in their hands, stepping out of the shadows. Panic stole her breath. There was no time left to think, no time left to plan.
Climbing onto the ship's edge, she readied herself to leap into the dark waters below, hesitant, but the thought of escaping crossed her mind. But before she could dive—before the sea could swallow her in freedom or death—the pirate at the wheel lunged. His hand clamped around her arm, dragging her back from the brink.
"Ya think you're going to escape, whore?!" the pirate spat, his voice like venom.
Damaris thrashed, her frail, drunken body no match against his brutal strength. Her arms burned, her lungs screamed, yet she fought, because surrender meant worse than death. From the corner of her eye, the shadows of other pirates loomed closer—boots pounding, weapons gleaming. If they reached her, the plan, the hope, her freedom, would be over.
With one desperate breath, she jerked back, smashing the back of her skull into the pirate's face. The crack of bone against bone split the air—he reeled, stumbling, blood spurting. But the others were already upon her, blades lifted, curses rolling from their tongues.
She had only a heartbeat to choose. Survival was no longer a thought—it was instinct. With a final burst, she threw herself over the edge of the ship. A blade kissed her flesh in passing, slashing her back wide open, shredding cloth and skin alike. Pain roared through her, but gravity claimed her faster.
The sea took her. She fell like a stone into the black waves, her blood blossoming red around her before being taken by the tide.
Above, the pirates froze, staring down at the boiling water where she had vanished. Not a ripple returned. Not a hand broke the surface. She was gone.
"Oh, Darragh is gonna kill us," muttered one of the commanding pirates, his face pale in the storm light.
Beneath the waves, Damaris drifted, her body slack, her wounds weeping into the sea. The ocean cradled her like a coffin. Her golden hair—once neatly braided by Agatha's careful hands—now unravelled, strands twisting free in the current, carried away by salt and silence.
She sank deeper, heavier, fated to die in shallow waters that would not mourn her.
As her breath stiffened, memories began to linger like stubborn shadows—the stories Agatha told ran endlessly through her mind.
To the world, the old woman was a mystery without a past to look back to, a vagabond without a history to keep. But Damaris knew the truth. She recalled the night Agatha wept, he voice breaking as she confessed the tale of her origin: she and her daughter were separated before she was sold into slavery by the Irish government, a treachery orchestrated by none other than Darragh Griffin, who later seized control of the British to line his coffers with the blood-money of the slave trade.
That seed of hatred was planted in Damaris' heart, growing with every word she heard of Darragh's other deeds. All of them—vile, merciless, dripping with cruelty, much harsher than his attempts to lie with her. Her vengeance against Darragh and her Chatzis Makro was the only fire that kept her alive in the cold clutch of the sea. If justice was to be claimed, if blood was to answer for blood, then she needed to live.