Harold Svenson had all the personality of a slimy mushroom. His lank, grey hair covered small black beady eyes and his demeanor was reminiscent of a habitual lemon biter. It wasn’t a stretch to call him the vilest man in all of Copenhagen. Except no one would say that. Not with him being the captain of the esteemed Harpoon League.

It’s commonly thought that after the majority of the civilized world learned where the Vikings hailed from that their influence and fear diminished permanently.

That would be a mistake. Certain members of exalted lineages took it upon themselves to create a league of fearsome reavers. Dedicated to honoring their bellicose past, albeit, under the guise of a successful trading company. Not that many were fooled by the subterfuge.

The Harpoon League was known for supplying the majority of the Western world’s whale fat. Before the introduction of electricity, those who dealt in whale fat possessed an unrivaled wealth. And married to wealth, is power. Marking those men as leaders; Harold being the foremost.

It was after the passing of Sir Francis Drake that the Harpoon League was able to finally surpass both English and Spanish privateers & pirates. They was said to be a special medallion that Harold wore that ensured safe passage through battle and flights of fancy.

Though the medallion marked him for safety, it transformed him into a tempting target. One that the most talented and foolhardy young buccaneers found themselves drawn to. Even among his own crew, Harold kept a cautious distance.

Even cautious men sleep. When night arrived during a passage across the English Channel, Harold woke to a cold blade pressed against his neck.

“Slow, or I’ll gut you like a pig,” A harsh voice said. Harold didn’t dare to move. The man above him took slow, heavy breaths. The darkened room felt heavy and Harold felt a rage build within him.

“You’ll be taking that knife from my throat, or I’ll lash you to the keel myself and let you brave my mercy,” Harold said.

The man gave a low chuckle and pricked Harold’s stubbled neck. A small stream of blood accompanied the pain.

“I think I’ll be keeping it here until you give me that medallion.”

“I’ll dangle it over your body once I pull that blade from your ass.” Harold said as he jerked away from the blade, braving a thin slash across his throat. He grabbed his own dagger from beneath his pillow and drove it into the man’s thigh.

The man screamed and stabbed at Harold, who twisted out of the way before retrieving his sword that lay upon the desk. “Last chance before I make you scream for Freya.”

The man let loose a bellow and dove at Harold, who let a contemptuous swing of his blade separate the man’s head from his body. Both landed with heavy thuds on the floor, quickly staining the dark wood.

Harold stared at the man in distaste, “Just fucking cleaned this floor.”

The news traveled quick of Harold’s assassination survival. The crew kept their eyes down as he viewed each one of them complicit in his ordeal. The next two days were spent in a grueling slog as he ordered them to the nearest port at double speed. Secret prayers were made for mercy, even by the ignorant amongst the crew. Especially by them. When the ship arrived at port, a reckoning would be upon them all.