The Name of the North

An orphan and a ship that would not die.

Vellik

Folks on the outside don’t understand Captain Helis the way we do. Outsiders see the scar, the blade, the stare that could quiet thunder. They think he’s carved from stone or saltwater—immovable, untouchable. But we know. Better yet, I know. I was there when he found me. Broken. Caged. Forgotten. A ghost in a box no one even knew existed. He didn’t say much, just handed me water and looked at me like I was real. Like I mattered. That look rewired my bones.

He never raised his voice, never asked for loyalty—he just... led. Quietly. Steadily. Like the tide pulling everything in its wake. And I followed. I still do. Because there’s something in him that won’t break, even when everything else has. When the storms roll in and the sails tear and the gods seem to turn their eyes away—Helis stands. And maybe, just maybe, if I stand close enough... I won’t break either.

Reginald

But no one says that name anymore.

It used to belong to a small thin-legged boy who slept on dirty floorboards in a crowded orphanage, who tried to keep his things and his head down and his fists closed around crumbs. A boy who ran errands during the war because every hand was needed, even the smallest ones. A boy who one day delivered a message to a general’s tent and never left. General Kelvin Sarets —old, tired, and far too sentimental for a man with stars on his shoulders—took to Reginald like he was a stray pup. “Sharp eyes,” he said the first day, barely glancing up from his maps. “Quiet feet. That’ll do.” And just like that, the boy had a place. Not a warm one, but a place all the same.

He gave him too big boots and a coat that dragged in the mud when he ran, but Reginald didn’t care. He had purpose now. He became the general’s shadow. He poured water during negotiations, fetched quills and orders and fresh bandages. He learned to stand still behind the general during briefings, listening without being noticed, taking in the shape of war without understanding its weight. At night, when the tents fell quiet, he scrubbed the blood off the canvas flaps and tried not to look too closely at the color. And maybe—just maybe—the general looked after him too. Tossed him scraps when the officers weren’t watching. Put a hand on his shoulder once, when Reginald shook during the shelling. Called him “son” exactly one time, in a whisper he probably thought the boy hadn’t heard.

Then the general died. No fanfare. No heroic blaze. Just a cough that wouldn’t stop, a fever that burned too hot, and a stillness that didn’t breathe. They buried the general at dawn in a hole too shallow, under a stone that simply read COMMANDER, as if that title meant anything to the wind. Reginald didn’t cry. Not because he wasn’t sad—he was. But this was the kind of grief that doesn’t come out as tears. It sinks into your bones and makes you move slower, heavier, like the world’s pressing down on your shoulders just to see if you’ll bend or break. He stayed by the grave until the sun came up. No one told him to leave. No one told him to stay. No one really saw him at all. Not even the mud remembered his name. So he left. He wandered for a while—just a kid with too-big boots, a name that no longer fit, and nothing in his belly but road dust. He slept under awnings and alley stairs. Picked pockets when he had to. Cleaned chamber pots when he didn’t. Days blurred. Nights blurred more. Then, one morning, he caught the scent of salt and tar on the wind and followed it down to the docks, where gulls screamed and ropes snapped and the air was thick with shouting and sweat. 

The docks were chaos—but a useful kind. Everyone was doing something, yelling something, moving something. That meant there was work. Reginald joined the line of day-hire boys and kept his head down. When it came to hauling crates, he hauled. When it came to getting kicked, he ducked. When it came to keeping his mouth shut, he was already the best at it. The dockmasters didn’t ask his name and he didn’t bother to give it, they just grunted and pointed. But he watched the ships. The crews. The captains. He studied which ones yelled too much and which ones didn’t need to. He liked those better.

And then, one foggy cold morning, a tall man in a long black leather coat with shiny brass buttons came down the gangplank of a beautiful ship flying no flag at all. His boots were polished and his eyes were steel. And he was missing a thumb on his left hand. As he rested it on the gleaming sword at his hip, he looked at Reginald. “You,” the man said, Reginald straightened, not sure if he was being picked or accused, “What’s your name, boy?” the man asked. Reginald paused. That name—Reginald—felt like a coat that didn’t fit anymore. It had belonged to someone who believed the world would keep him. That boy was gone.

Helis

Captain Helion Argrove raised an eyebrow when I gave him the name. Then he grunted, turned without a word of welcome, and said, “Alright then, Helis. Grab a line.” And that was it. Nothing special. Just a name that fit like a second skin and the first weight of salt-stiffened rope burning into my palms. That’s how I became part of the crew. Not chosen—absorbed. Like rain into old wood. The Pretenho Lintor wasn’t a kind ship, but it was honest. Everything had a name. Everything had a place. Under Argrove, I didn’t just learn the sea—I was unmade and remade by it. I bled on those planks. I puked over the side more times than I’ll admit. I woke up to lashes from a snapped line, salt in every cut, the sting of failure on my neck. Argrove didn’t teach with words. He taught with silence and expectation. You either figured it out, or you didn’t. If you did, you became part of the ship. If you didn’t… well, the ocean doesn’t keep records of the ones it swallows.

I earned my places and I rose in ranks, rightfully, even if the others disagreed. From swab to sailor, from sailor to bosun. The crew started nodding when I walked by. They stopped looking through me. I could tie a reef knot blindfolded, mend canvas in a gale, patch a hull with my teeth, if I had to. I learned to read the stars when the compass failed. I learned to fight dirty and end it quick. And I learned that killing a man wasn’t the hardest part—it was trying to sleep after. It wasn't all hard or bad, there was laughter too. Jokes so bad it made Mogrum cry. A storm so wild it blew a man’s boots clean off—both feet, both boots, gone to the wind. We sang in the rain, drank when we should’ve been bailing, danced on decks slick with seawater and moonlight. It wasn’t a good life. But it was a life, one where I belonged.

On a particularly dark night I was jostled from my sleep when I heard the great crack of the sky, just another storm I thought, so I adjusted and went back to sleep. But it continued. There were concussive cannon bursts like thunder punched through with lightning. The sails tore like paper. The smell of powder was so thick it clogged your throat and burned your eyes. The Widow’s Mercy crew hit us like they'd been born for it—vengeance in their bones, madness in their eyes. The Pretenho Lintor was torn to shreds in minutes. The thing I remember most was the screams. The sounds people make when splinters stab through muscle and when you have nothing left but this moment. My crew, those I called friends torn apart beside me. I gripped a sword meant for someone twice my size with both hands, teeth clenched, swung, and kept swinging. I wasn’t being brave—just fighting to be alive and desperate to stay that way.

When it was over, there were only three of us left. Mogrum, dazed and mumbling recipes to a dented saucepan like it was a holy relic. Garlaethe, the old quartermaster, bleeding from a dozen places and still trying to command what wasn’t there. And me. Standing in a pool of blood, the blade heavy in my hands, the salty mist settling on the corpses.

We buried the dead at sea. No markers. No words. Just the water and the weight. Then we drifted—more hoping than sailing—until the sun rose. By some small miracle, we hadn’t sunk. We limped toward a distant shore, battered and hollow. Docked. Rebuilt. Hunted for crew. We had nothing, so we took what we could get. Within a month, we were back at sea. Garlaethe took the helm. No vote—just default. He was the only one who could. I served beside him. First mate in title, ballast in truth. He was never the same. Quieter. Meaner. He started forgetting things. Names. Orders. Sometimes his own. I learned more from his unraveling than I ever did from his command. And when he died—peacefully, if you can believe it—I didn’t hesitate. I took the wheel. I renamed the ship The Impolite North—a name no one understood. Which was the point because it meant something to me. Something born from ash and blood and second chances. Because when I name a thing–it lives.

*take note that these are AI generated images.

The Impolite North's Crew Evolution

Helis takes command after Garlaethe’s death. Salty Mogrum remains as cook. 

The initial skeleton crew is assembled:

Orrin Blightshore (Human) – First Mate / Quartermaster / Bosun

Marla Knotsleeve (Halfling) – Helms/Navigator

Yirk (Lizardfolk) – Lookout

Drezik Forgebark (Firbolg) – Gunner

Jaska “Skipknife” Thorne (Changeling) – Swashbuckler

Borro Wick (Dwarf) – Carpenter

Ennis Crowbloom (Elf) – Field Medic

Pudge (Half-Orc) – Deckhand

Sikka (Tabaxi) – Deckhand

Orrin is lost overboard in a storm.

Jaska is promoted to First Mate / Quartermaster.

Sikka rises to Bosun.

Sikka is killed in a raid.

Theralii is hired on as Bosun.

Jaska is accused of theft and buried at sea.

Theralii is promoted to First Mate.

Pudge is promoted to Bosun.

Yirk leaves to pursue a romantic partner ashore.

Nym “Dancer” is hired as lookout but is soon replaced by Kreeg “Perch” (Kenku).

Nym transitions into swordwork and raiding duties.

A disastrous raid results in the loss of Borro, Pudge, Ennis, Drezik, and Marla—either killed, captured, or lost at sea. The remaining crew is reduced to Helis (Captain), Theralii (First Mate), Salty (Cook), and Perch (Lookout).

Nirelle Greenglare (Half-Orc) is hired as Bosun.

Olathe “Iron-Hand” (Human) is brought on as Helms/Navigator.

Tovel “Boomstick” (Dwarf) joins as Master Gunner.

Shelley Nosseleve (Half-Elf) becomes Field Medic, bringing her quiet bodyguard Dreth

Shelley dies of a fever.

Dreth begins to unravel in grief.

Nym helps steady him, and the two form a deadly raiding duo.

Doctor Herrik joins during a raid, sees the need, and decides to stay.

Brottok “Nail-Biter” (Human) is recruited as ship’s Carpenter.

Selene Tideshadow (Triton) mysteriously appears on board and is never questioned or asked to leave.

Kordek “The Chain” (Goliath) and Ravika “Red-Eye” (Hobgoblin) are poached from a rival ship. Theralii grows increasingly controlling and untrustworthy.

Theralii launches a mutiny and is killed by Helis in brutal fashion.

Herrik is punished for aiding the mutiny.

Doctor Graves (Drow) is hired.

Vellik is discovered aboard, beginning a new chapter aboard The Impolite North.

The crew when Vellik is introduced:

Helis (Human) – Captain

Nirelle Greenglare (Half-Orc) – First Mate (recently promoted after Theralii's death)

Ravika “Red-Eye” (Hobgoblin) – Quartermaster

Salty Mogrum (Goblin) – Cook

Kreeg “Perch” (Kenku) – Lookout

Kordek Dathrum (Goliath) – Bosun

Selene Tideshadow (Triton) – Navigator

Olathe “Iron-Hand” (Human) – Helmsman

Tovel "Boomstick” (Dwarf) – Master Gunner

Dreth “Black Fin” (Lizardfolk) – Boarding Leader

Nym “Dancer” (Elf) – Swashbuckler

Brottok “Nail-Biter” (Human) – Carpenter

Doctor Graves (Drow) – Surgeon

Captain Helis

L to R - first Row: Ravika, Nirelle, Kordek; second row: Selene, Olathe, Perch; third row: Tovel, Dreth, Nym; forth row: Salty, Brottok, Doctor Graves

*take note that these are AI generated images.