Stiff and dead as something dragged in by a barn cat. Old Hard-Scales, covered in glistening black serpent blood, and behind him, the bobbing length of a massive Maormer serpent. Wouldn't you know it, as Mighty Flicka boomed warnings to the Silver Arrow from atop the mainmast and the Wereshark rallied every sailor capable of swinging a sword, something surfaced on the frothing sea. That crazy Argonian has had a death wish since the day he signed on. That's when that old lizard Hard-Scales grabbed his poison daggers and leapt into the sea, shouting something about Sithis. Arrows peppered the slimy beast as it dragged the Cliff Racer to her grave, yet no shaft could penetrate the beast's thick scales.
Never one for half measures, the Wereshark shouted for every archer on the boat to loose arrows. We were just in time to see the Cliff Racer's broken hull sinking below the waves, wrapped in the scaled coils of an enormous snake. The sound of snapping wood and screaming men drifted across the sea as the Wereshark, myself, and every armed sailor rushed to the Pale Spirit's deck. Our first encounter came shortly after we first sighted a jungle isle common to Sea Elves, in the distance cloaked by a dense fog. Those Maormer sea serpents? They aren't just legends. As with all our expeditions, things went just fine until they didn't. Aside the war galleons Cliff Racer and Silver Arrow (hired from Beldros Hlaalu for a decent fee and percentage of the booty) we sailed with a wind at our backs and enough supplies to feed an army of ravenous Nords for months. Our stated purpose was to do what we could to open permanent trade relations with the Sea Elves, but the Wereshark, as always, intended merely to plunder all we could. Wearing a new red feather from Lucette in his crown, the Wereshark returned us to sea. He purchased many of our Nordic relics and, impressed by my captain's legendary charisma (and, more importantly, the urging of his oldest daughter, Lucette) my captain suckered the old man into funding the Pale Spirit's next expedition to the Maormer islands of Pyandonea. We reached the port in Wayrest, and it took only a few days before Captain Wereshark made the acquaintance of Duke Gignac, the aging Breton adventurer.
Unknown to us, our next expedition would be our most dangerous yet. The Pale Spirit was so laden with Nordic booty she plowed through the sea like a harbor seal, but we made port without so much as a sailor overboard. With our debts settled, we bid goodbye to Gnarlnose and Steggofins, left the frozen shores of Skyrim, and set sail laden with treasures twice as heavy as all the brave sailors we lost.
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