Legends of Fae'Gir

VIRIDIAN
Race:	Elf
Age:	?
Height:	180cm
Faction:	Naos
Occupation:	Trader, smuggler. Pirate.
Significant other:	Lyrei
Connections:	The Seascourge Pirates

Viridian, the Seascourge

He didn't care for vengeance. He wasn't looking to save anyone. The traditions, the purity, and the gilded cage that Naos was, didn't matter to him. He wanted the seas. Its endless horizons, its untouched places, its promise of a world without chains.

They saw him as a shame.

Viridian had always been drawn to the open sea. Naos was a gilded cage, ruled by tradition, purity, and isolation, none of which he cared for. He wanted more. More than smuggling. More than playing merchant to self-important elves. More than being looked down upon for wanting the world beyond the waves.
So when Murtagh's offer came, a hefty pouch of coin and a simple task, he took it. Smuggling a group of Zenithians in and out of the island? Fine. That's all he knew. A task to be carried out on an Eclipsed night. He picked them up on distant shores, sailed them into Naos. He saw the white-haired knight disembark, and he waited for their return.

But when they returned, he saw the princess—pulled, struggling, by Zenithian hands. A cold knot tightened in his stomach. What have I gotten myself into? he thought, the image of Lyrei's gentle smile flashing through his mind. He never had the chance to find out.

The Eclipse was dangerous, and it proved it. The ship was torn apart by a force unseen, by a creature that seemed to relish the pain of broken ships, broken bodies, lost souls. The sea swallowed him. Dragged him under. His lungs burned. His vision blurred. Then, silence. Then, in the vast darkness of the depths... a voice. A presence. A claiming.

He should have died. Either by Murtagh's hand, who wouldn't leave any loose ends, or by the cold embrace of the ocean's depths.

Instead, he woke somewhere else.

When he awoke, the world smelled of salt and storms. Thick, gray clouds choked the sky, promising rain. Seagulls wheeled overhead, their cries sharp against the rumble of an approaching storm. He lay on black sands, the ruins of shipwrecks jutting from the tide like the ribs of dead beasts. And there, half-buried in the jagged coral, was a sword.
It pulsed, not with magic, not with fire, but with motion. Like the rushing tide. Like something that never stops moving, never stops seeking, never stops taking.

When he reached for it, his mind flooded with visions. A warlord, betrayed and drowned, his wrath forging a blade that would never sink, that would always wash ashore. A hundred hands before him, all lost to the waves, all consumed by the same hunger. A voice whispered, not words, but a feeling: Rise, drift, take, surge.

The moment he lifted Eversurge, the ocean shifted, as if it had been waiting. As if it had just found its new storm.

He had nothing to go back to. Naos would never welcome him again. They already thought him a disgrace; now he was a ghost, a rogue, a man who had drowned and refused to stay dead. Lyrei was gone. The elf who once played the lyre, the one person who saw him beyond his ambitions, was lost to him. Did she think him dead? Did she mourn him? Or had she moved on? He remembered the way her laughter used to fill the small tavern where they'd hang, the quiet understanding in her eyes when he spoke of the sea. Yet freedom came at a cost. The sea had claimed him, and in return, it made him unstoppable. But with Eversurge in his grip, he wasn’t sure if he was sailing toward his future or being dragged toward a fate he couldn’t escape.

Within months, he carved his name into the waves. Shipwrecked and armed with a blade that pulsed like the tide, he took to the seas: stealing a ship, gathering a crew of outcasts, each with their own reasons for fleeing dry land. There was Klaus, a one-eyed giant of a man with a booming laugh and a haunted past; Gilda, a navigator with tattoos that mapped the stars; and Finn, the quiet, wiry first mate, whose loyalty to Viridian was absolute. He was no longer a smuggler. No longer a trader. He raided, he plundered, he took. And the sea always called him forward.
Yet the Eversurge was not just a weapon. It is a current. It does not rest, does not cease, does not forgive. And Viridian, whether he knows it or not, is on a path that only leads deeper into the storm.

Every battle, every drop of blood spilled, makes it harder to stop. The tide always pulls him back in, but Lyrei still lingered in his mind, her face a fleeting image in the chaos of battle. He told himself she was part of his past, but when the sea was still and the wind died, his thoughts drifted back to her.

It had been weeks. A couple of months.

Yet the question remained...

Did Viridian claim Eversurge? Or did Eversurge claim him?