"I could really use some grog right now," groaned the Skirmisher, as the blood slowly seeped through his tattered clothing and gathered in a pool near his legs on the sand. His cutlass -a fine weapon in its prime- lay bent a few feet from him. His trusty flintlock pistol lay bobbing in the water nearby. Somehow, they managed to catch him. The damned Vikings caught him as he was having a drink at Hubb Jubb's Island branch. He was too slow. The ale was stronger this time around, his reflexes were dulled. The last thing he saw as he desperately looked over his shoulder was the Berserker, grinning as he held his axe over his head.
He knew he had little time left. He, the fastest man on the earth, was beaten. The Skirmisher enjoyed taunting his enemies, more so than the strange and new Man-At-Arms that recently arrived from France. Damned croissants he thought to himself, as his memory hazily shifted between recent events.
"Just.... how?!" he cried out to the sea. He managed to crawl away to the shore outside of the bar, clutching his chest as the Vikings rumbled away. They could see he would pushing up daisies, they would rather leave him to die and then plunder his team's booty. He managed to make it far enough so that his feet splashed in the water, then he crumpled and lay on his back, staring into the sun. So this is how it ends. Hmph.
He had known that he would die someday. His enemies always filled with rage whenever they saw him. They could never catch him, how could they? He always nicked their armor and gleefully ran away as his Captain brought the true terror of the seas. The Skirmisher would often regale the Sharpshooter with his newest schemes to annoy the Vikings. The Knights, though easy to annoy as well, were stoic, thanks to their Christian faith. The Vikings, except perhaps the learned Gestir, always fell for his tricks. Valhalla be unto them, and rage be unto Valhalla.
He coughed. Blood flew from his mouth and landed on the sand in front of him. The food was too far away. He didn't have enough energy. Surely, without his help, his Captain and the Sharpshooter were dead. He tasted blood, then he blacked out.