Captain Bane's Arc

Chapter 1 of 4

Captain Bane stood at the harbor's edge, his transparent fingers gripping the wooden rail. The water stretched out before him, dark and still. Somewhere across those waves sailed his ship, the one stolen by that backstabbing cur from his old crew. He'd get it back. Every ghost needed a purpose, and his was clear—reclaim what was rightfully his. He needed a better view. The harbor was too flat, too low. Ships could slip past in the fog and he'd never know. Bane turned from the rail and walked toward the weathered lookout tower that rose above the docks. Its gray brick walls showed years of salt and wind. The iron railing at the top had rusted orange. Perfect. From up there, he could watch every vessel that entered the harbor. He could spot the rival captain's fleet before they spotted him. Bane climbed the narrow stairs inside the tower. His ghostly boots made no sound on the stone steps. At the top, he gripped the rusted railing and stared out across the water. From here, he could see for miles. Any ship flying the colors of his enemy would appear on that horizon eventually. He just had to wait and watch. His ship was out there somewhere, and he would find it. No backstabbing cur would keep what belonged to Captain Bane. The tower would be his post until the day his vessel returned to these waters. But watching wasn't enough. He needed a base, somewhere to plan and gather information. Bane descended the tower and walked along the harbor until he spotted it—a gray brick lighthouse wrapped in heavy chains at its base. The dark lamp room stood silent at the top. The chains bothered him. Who would chain a lighthouse? Still, the building would serve his purpose. Inside, he could map the harbor, track ship movements, and find others willing to join his cause. A captain needed a crew, even a ghost captain. The lighthouse would be his headquarters while he prepared to take back what was his. As he approached the chained lighthouse, something bobbed in the water near the dock. A buoy marked with a faded skull symbol. Bane stopped and stared at the weathered wood. A warning. Someone wanted sailors to know about undead pirates in these waters. His jaw tightened beneath his black beard. The rival captain was already claiming this territory, marking it like a dog. That backstabbing cur thought he owned everything now—the ship, the waters, even the right to post warnings. Bane's transparent hand passed through the buoy's chain. He couldn't touch it, couldn't tear it down. But he could use what it told him. His enemy sailed these waters often enough to need markers. That meant the fleet would return. And when it did, Captain Bane would be ready.