The ships always instilled fear into those who saw them. When minuscule sails dotted your shoreline it was too late. They had begun their battle. The banshee call that emanated from their decks could send the most hardened warrior sobbing to his mother, praying that he could hide far enough inland. Some people braved the coasts regardless. Stupidity, dumb luck, bravery, perhaps all of them, contributed to the people's resistance to the ship's whims. After all, they were only gangs of teeny boats going viking, right?
Teeny boats with blood lust and an intense rivalry.
Mother had told me to come home if I saw the sails on the horizon and that it meant impending death if you stayed. "They can see you," she would say in a whisper, her eyes darting to the windows before she pushed the chair to the side and drew the curtains closed. I listened, of course, I'm not foolish. Curiosity ached throughout my bones, but I ran home. My first words to her were that of excitement, sa