Forty years of blood, sweat, and boredom. He could have been miserable, that was easy enough, but when you had spent as many years on the earth as he, forty years was but a tiny fraction of his life. That said, forty years slaving away on a galley bench would get to anyone after a while. The wood seat was never comfortable, the food was always terrible, and the water brackish. In short, it was a piss poor way to live the last four decades. At least he had plenty of fresh air and exercise.

The breeze was fresh and strong on his face as he leaned a shoulder against the warm wood of the hull and stared out at the passing waves. The shackles around his ankles clinked and clacked with the roll of the hull as they pushed through the gentle summer swells under full sail. The remainder of the galley slaves snored around him, slumped over their oars, shackled much as he was. A few troublesome slaves, a bit moutheir than was probably wise, also wore metal collars about their necks with a flat metal hook forced between their teeth so they could not talk.

Even the Oar Master and his attendants seemed to be a good mood, joking about something as they stood around a small overturned barrel and idly rolled dice. He might have told them he shared their good mood, but for a very different reason. 

For the past year he had began to feel the pull of the stone once again. It had vanished, almost gone to nothing and he feared it might be lost forever. Then the vessel master, a self proclaimed Prince of Merchants, had ordered them south with a cargo of enchanted Elven arrows prized by the adventurers of the deep south. At first it had meant nothing to him, just another journey on his wooden bench, but then he felt the surge of power again.

It had grown stronger as they travelled south, the feeling, there was no other way to describe it. Perhaps the best he could do was compare it to the feeling one had when they were walking into a bedroom with a sexual partner, the increase in pulse, the tremendous flush of excitement, the knowledge that good times were coming. That was how he felt.

Another bark of laughter came from the Oar Master and he shot the big man a glance under his bangs. The man was immensely fat, and immensely strong. Tattoos covered his arms, legs, and neck, short cropped black hair made him look tougher than he probably was. That bastard would be the first to die when he got free.

He turned his attention back to the waves, cleared his throat and spat into the scuppers. To his delight the liquid struck the wood and gave a soft hiss. The smell of burnt wood drifted up to him for a moment and then faded away into nothing as water sloshed over the small charred spot. Yes, he was vengeful.