LORD OF WRATH AND BONE

Fill the cup and mind your tongue,

The sea don’t sleep, the sea don’t sung—

But she remembers every groan…

So sing of Wrath and Bone.

⸻

In a gutter-town where the tide comes in like thieves,

Where the docks are made of splinters and the hungry don’t leave,

A child was born with storm in him and salt across his lungs—

No silver spoon, no holy song, just fists and rotten rungs.

They fed him scraps and curses, taught him fear with boot and chain,

Called him “nothing,” called him “broken,” called him “born for pain,”

But the boy didn’t learn to beg, and he didn’t learn to pray—

He learned the world is teeth and rope, and he would not be prey.

He grew like a mast in winter—too fast, too hard, too tall,

Shoulders broad as a ship’s main beam, back like a fortress wall,

And when the older boys came laughing, thinking hunger makes you weak,

They learned the sound of mercy is the sound you do not speak.

⸻

Oh hail the Lord of Wrath and Bone,

A crown of scars, a heart of stone—

He laughs at chains, he spits at throne,

He takes what’s his and takes it alone.

Raise your glass, lads—let it be known:

No man’s ever broken Wrath and Bone.

First blood came cheap and early—over bread and broken pride,

A knife that meant to teach him place, and a hand that meant to guide,

But the boy turned like a cornered shark, and the alley learned his name,

Not spoken like a blessing… spoken like a spark to flame.

A boatswain saw that violence—saw that look that doesn’t bend,

Said, “Come earn your meat at sea, boy—either drown or learn to mend.”

So he signed with ink and saltwater, boarded low with empty hands,

And the ocean took one stare at him and muttered, “That one stands.”

The sea don’t care for childhoods, she only cares for weight,

For whether you can haul a line when the sky turns black with hate.

He bled across a hundred decks, he swallowed storm and smoke,

And every time the world said “die,” the boy said, “No.” and broke.

⸻

Oh hail the Lord of Wrath and Bone,

A crown of scars, a heart of stone—

He laughs at chains, he spits at throne,

He takes what’s his and takes it alone.

Raise your glass, lads—let it be known:

No man’s ever broken Wrath and Bone.

By sixteen he was barrel-chested, by twenty he was dread,

A giant man with ocean-madness living in his head.

Scars like maps of old disasters—slashes, burns, and bites—

And ink like dark scripture crawling up his arms at night.

Those tattoos weren’t pretty sailor swirls or lovesick maiden names,

They were bone-white runes and war marks, oath-lines cut in flame,

Each mark a debt he paid in blood, each line a promise sworn—

That if the world demanded monsters… then monsters would be born.

They called him “brute” and “butcher,” called him “devil on a mast,”

Said he hit like falling cannon, said his temper never passed.

But the older men who’d seen storms said it quieter, with tone:

“Don’t rattle him. Don’t mock him.

That’s Wrath… and that’s Bone.”

⸻

First time he fought a captain, it was over stolen pay—

The kind of petty, greasy theft that makes a crew decay.

The captain had a polished sword and rich-man training too,

But training don’t mean a damn when rage decides it’s through.

The giant took the first cut, let it open, let it run,

Like blood was just a weather change beneath a cruel red sun.

Then he grabbed the man’s fine collar like you’d grab a rag to wring—

And tossed him into deck-boards hard enough to crack the ring.

No cheering. Just silence.

That awful, sober kind—

When men remember they’re not watching sport, but watching fate unwind.

And when the captain crawled away with terror in his groan,

The crew began to whisper: “Lord of Wrath and Bone.”

Oh hail the Lord of Wrath and Bone,

A crown of scars, a heart of stone—

He laughs at chains, he spits at throne,

He takes what’s his and takes it alone.

Raise your glass, lads—let it be known:

No man’s ever broken Wrath and Bone.

⸻

He fought in ports where law is rumor and the gallows sway for show,

He fought in taverns thick with smoke where cheap men go to crow.

A challenger would swagger up, all muscle, mouth, and grin—

And leave with fewer teeth to boast and less belief within.

He fought with fists like shipyard hammers, elbows sharp as spar,

He fought like hunger fights for breath, like wildfire fights for char.

Not graceful—no.

Just certain—like a wave that’s found your boat,

And no matter what you bargain, it will drag you by the throat.

He never bragged of victory—no speeches, no parade—

He simply cleaned his knuckles off and paid for what he ate.

And that’s what made it worse, lads—because pride can be outgrown,

But quiet wrath sits patient…

And it learns to turn to bone.

⸻

Then came the night of black flag fire—three ships to take one prize,

A fat-bellied goldman galleon with lanterns like bright eyes.

They boarded hard at midnight, grapnels screaming, rigging tight,

And every man who climbed that rail climbed straight into a fight.

A blade went through his shoulder.

He didn’t even slow.

A pike took him along the ribs.

He spat and kept to go.

A pistol barked at close range, smoke blooming like a flower—

He grabbed the shooter by the hair and taught him what is power.

He tore a mastman off the ropes and swung him like a club,

He drove a sergeant into planks and stamped him into mud.

The sea went mad beneath them, the moon went pale and thin,

And even the waves looked away from the thing he had within.

⸻

Oh hail the Lord of Wrath and Bone,

A crown of scars, a heart of stone—

He laughs at chains, he spits at throne,

He takes what’s his and takes it alone.

Raise your glass, lads—let it be known:

No man’s ever broken Wrath and Bone.

⸻

When dawn came up all copper, the deck was painted dark,

And the goldman captain trembled like a rabbit before shark.

“Name your price,” he stuttered out, “and take the ship—be gone.”

The giant leaned in close enough to make him feel the wrong.

He didn’t ask for ransom.

He didn’t ask for gold.

He asked for every ounce of fear the captain tried to hold.

“Remember me,” he growled at him, “when you think you’re safe at home—

‘Cause safety is a bedtime lie

for Wrath… and Bone.”

Now every port has rumors like barnacles on hull:

A giant man, ink-armored, eyes like embers, merciless and dull—

Not dulled by drink, but dulled by war, by all he’s lived alone,

By every time the world said “kneel” and he answered back with stone.

So if you’re smart, you buy him space and let his shadow pass,

You don’t laugh loud behind his back, you don’t reach for his glass.

Because some men fight to win, lads—some fight for coin and tone,

But he fights like a storm fights:

to leave nothing but bone.

⸻

Oh hail the Lord of Wrath and Bone,

A crown of scars, a heart of stone—

He laughs at chains, he spits at throne,

He takes what’s his and takes it alone.

Raise your glass, lads—let it be known:

No man’s ever broken Wrath and Bone.

⸻

So drink to the boy the world tried to drown,

Drink to the man who swallowed the sound—

And if you hear heavy footsteps where the lanterns don’t shine,

Keep your hands off trouble…

And keep your soul off his line.