Spike the Bloody

Letter after letter. He'd received nothing but letters. The survivors of the slaughter at Opassa Beach and the devastation at Arni village had sent him nothing but request after request, begging that he come to save them. People from his past wrote to the man he was then. People who knew only of his reputation wrote to the man word of mouth had built up beyond reasonable expectations. All wanted the same thing, for him to swoop in with his crew and rescue them from the fierce dragon. Spike spit at the floor of his Captain's Cabin. Frustration built up inside his chest as he read each pitiful letter. Men he'd respected were bowing on hands and knees to a filthy pirate for help. Had they lost so much pride that they'd stoop to this level? At least, that is what he told himself he was bothered by. In reality it could have been that he'd just become lazy and didn't want to bother himself with pitiful people who were too stupid to fix their own problems. More likely, his heart was bleeding for the people who'd been hurt and he was fighting to smother the compassion before it surfaced. No matter the actual reason, or combined reasons, for his frustration. The fact was, it was growing, and fast. Spike didn't even get through the letter he was holding before he snapped, crumpled up the paper and hurled it at the door. His head fell into his hands, his elbows setting on the fine burgundy desk he'd taken from a Spanish navy ship he'd defended his own crew from several years ago. It fit in nicely with the rest of his decorated office. Spike had always had a taste for the expensive, that was no secret. His cabin was well furnished, with beautifully hand-carved pieces including the bed, the desk, the chairs, and the lock box where he kept his maps and other important documents. Rugs covered every inch of the floor and curtains draped over the windows. It was a beautiful room and one that few ever got to see. But why shouldn't it be a private spectacle? This was his home, after all. He deserved to enjoy it as much as the next man, whether his living was less honestly made or not. 

Spike sighed. A headache was coming on fast, he could feel it. This didn't help his attempts at calming the annoyance and the irrational anger that stirred in his belly. And then there was the matter of catching glimpses of the rest of the letters strewed across the desk every time he opened his eyes. 

"Arrrrgh!" he ran his arm across the whole of the desk, sliding off every paper, pen, inkpot, and knife that was pilled on the wood surface. Everything clattered to the floor with a crash and shatter. He didn't care. What were they but things easily replaced? What mattered most right now was getting the affairs of this dragon sorted, and getting a little alcohol in his belly. Alcohol always took the edge off these headaches. "Isolde!" he shouted for his First Mate, knowing she'd be the one with the answers he was obviously lacking. Several seconds went by, though, with no sign of the trusted woman. Spike could be a patient man when he wanted to be, but that happened only ever on rare occasions. Desperate for her input to alleviate the frustration, and even more deeply desperate for his rum, he slammed his fists on the desk. He wanted her here now. Why was she not here already? His first mate, his trusted advisor, should be with him at all times, especially when he was forced to go through all these damned letters! "Isolde!!!" he shouted again, standing so suddenly from his chair that it was flung backward into the bed. "Damn it, woman! Where are you?!" He was about ready to go on one of his famous rampages across his own deck if she didn't show her face within the next several seconds; preferably with a nice, friendly bottle of rum in her hands.