As the last of the Majesty’s line ships slowly inched forward across the battle bathed sea, the smell of the burning tar and its victims wafted over the side of the ship in an almost tangible sense, making the crew’s eyes water, and their throats weak with bile. So they stood there, adding to muffled movements and suppressed whispers, with even the often silent creak of the ship’s bow now echoing through the mist. So in suspense you lean forward, the early morning few dampening everything you touch, your hair hanging down, you hear the Lieutenant whisper to the Captain, “What are we waiting for, Sir? We have already sunk the last of the Spanish ships? Haven’t we, Sir?”

In a hushed, and scarred voice the captain replies, “We’ve but barely begun this battle, for this only is sure, when there is spilled Spanish blood, the Lady Elizabeth is not far behind…”

You mind races. Could this be true? She’s a myth, a relic, a ship lost to words of men! Your heart beats like a brigade of battle drums, and you see the captains old, worn hands grip the main stays even tighter as he leans into mist, “Aye.” He said at last, “She is an old tale… but not any less true because of it… look there.”

At his command you follow the trajectory of his finger out past the ships railing, and you see, to your terror, the pitch black silhouette of a line ship so vast, it’s like has never before been seen. It had 6 masts and was at its widest, the length of your ship. Then everything froze, the waves, the fog, the sounds, everything except that ship was stopped in time. But not everyone… the captain, as you tried focusing on him with out being able to shift your eyes, had about him a faint golden aura, and he was reaching for his scabbard.

The second he had in his hands a free sword the spell broke. You could breath, you could see, you could hear.

You could hear the sounds of a spell, an ancient spell, almost being chanted from the depths. And then you realize something, from those legends long ago, of a rogue sea elf. A man who through chance or choice, was whispered about, in every single historic event since the dawn of the Irish people.

It can’t be, you thought, but you knew, with out a doubt, that for some reason you wouldn’t lose this battle, even against the famed Lady Elizabeth.

The captain then turned to you, and with a smile, quoted what was said to him before the death of the serpent witch, “It’s not fear I smell, but future.” And with that the ships made contact.