No time for games. He released the Blade from his mouth and caught it with his now-free hand, then turned and sent an arc of blade-wind through the grappling ropes, severing them at once. Pirates rushed at him, men in hauberks of dark plate wreathed in shadow, but he launched a second cleaving strike down into the ship itself, carving a great abscess in the hull to impede their movement.
Ignoring them, he turned to the ballista and began to saw away at the string of its bow. It was curiously resilient, thread the color of gold that bounced sprightily away from the edge of his sword, but he pinned it in place with a foot and it yielded swiftly enough.
By the time he had carved his way through, a number of pirates had crossed the gap. He grabbed a group of ballista bolts and hurled them, catching two in the stomach; they groaned piteously when skewered, golden lightning discharging through their forms. His work done, he kicked the remaining bolts overboard and dropped down the side of the ship, breaking his fall by jamming his blade into its hull, and made his way over to the earlier cut. A few dozen blows and he could split the ship in twain; such was the power of ruin embedded within the Forebear's Blade.
He spared a glance for Gisena. Armed with Letrizia's sidearm she was holding her own against the nullified beasts, and Verschlengorge did its best to sweep the largest creatures aside. But focused on immediate battle she couldn't spare the attention to close the largest Rift, and they could well be overwhelmed in time.
He hoisted himself back up to ship's deck, snatching a grappling hook from the corpse of a crewman, when he was intercepted by a foreboding figure armored in black. This was no hauberk but full plate, heavy enough to leave impressions in the wood where it tread. Darkness billowed in vast, eerie plumes from that armor, spilling upwards in streamers: the night sky's incursion against sun and blue.
In its left hand was a shield, in its right a great curving blade, alive with dark-violet flame.
As the Tyrant's had been, the day he became a widower.
Interesting times indeed. He felt his gorge begin to rise. With an effort of will he held himself back, but the instant he loosed the world would narrow into a single, inescapable dot of red.
The figure spoke, confident but wary. "Halt, friend. A... misunderstanding. Clearly we mistook you for something else! Parlay?"