Seat: One of the Seven Prows (contested, but upheld)
Faction: Buccaneers (by recognition, not ideology)
Prow Title: Wayward Pin
Pearl Specialty: Meito (Kinetic/Impact) + Giant-Pearl Grade Sword
Status: The least established fleet, the most persistent problem
Threat Rating: Admiral-class in single-combat disruption (not in logistics)
Flexor Timmins is a fifteen-year-old pirate who should not exist as a geopolitical reality. He holds a Prow Title without a fleet, commands a “crew” without permanence, and sails a flagship he does not care about. Yet the Seven Prows do not revoke his seat—because doing so would require making him stop, and nobody has managed that.
Flexor’s only consistent ambition is to fight Hakuyune again and again. He has challenged the Sword God roughly a dozen times and survived every encounter. In Flexor’s mind, that means he is undefeated.
Not because he wins.
Because he is still alive.
And to him, a duel only ends when one fighter can no longer return.
Flexor’s early history is a trail of half-burned ports, stolen hulls, and witnesses who describe the same impossible image:
A boy moving like a ricochet—slamming into railings, masts, walls, and cannon housings as if the world itself were a dueling arena—while a sword built for giants spins through the air like a thrown knife.
He does not raid for wealth. He does not conquer for territory. He does not recruit for power. Flexor appears, steals whatever gets him to the next fight, and leaves behind only two things:
A wrecked sense of what “possible” means.
A growing stack of grudges from people he never bothered to remember.
Despite this, the Buccaneers tolerate him—sometimes even shelter him—because his existence humiliates the established order. Privateers cannot “handle” him cleanly. Bounty hunters cannot “price” him reliably. Flexor is a moving exception.
Known Vessel: an unremarkable stolen frigate, commonly recorded as a standard Privateer-pattern hull stripped of insignia.
Condition: maintained only enough to float; often anchored or abandoned for weeks at a time.
Flexor’s so-called ship is famous specifically because it is unimpressive. It has no mythical silhouette, no dread engine, no legendary figurehead, no decorated prow. It was stolen, used, and then effectively parked like a discarded tool.
When asked why, Flexor reportedly answered:
“Ships are shoes. I don’t name shoes.”
Flexor does not need a permanent vessel. He uses a cycle that has become predictable in concept but impossible in practice:
He steals a ship that is already prepared for travel (merchant, pirate, or patrol craft).
He forces, bribes, or improvises enough hands to move it.
He rides it until he gets bored or reaches his next destination.
He abandons it somewhere inconvenient—shoals, hidden coves, half-safe harbors—then disappears again.
This makes him hard to track. Ships are traceable. Flexor is not.
Flexor does not maintain a crew because no one has impressed him long enough to become permanent.
He will temporarily accept whoever is necessary to make a ship function:
a helmsman who can keep wind
a navigator who can read pearl turbulence
a cook who can keep bodies moving
a shipwright to patch holes
occasionally a pearlwright if the vessel is pearl-driven and unstable
But these are not “his people.” They are tools he borrows from the world, then discards.
He cannot hold territory. He doesn’t care to.
He cannot run logistics. He avoids them like chains.
He cannot be negotiated with long-term. He forgets promises if something more interesting appears.
He can still collapse an entire operation because he only needs minutes of chaos to ruin months of planning.
Flexor is not a fleet threat. He is a disruption threat—the kind that makes admirals look foolish and makes captains lose sleep.
Flexor’s defining myth is his sword: a Giant-Pearl Grade Broadsword built for a Colossian or a true giant frame.
It should be impossible for a fifteen-year-old to lift. Flexor does not lift it like a normal swordsman.
He treats it like a spinning world-object:
he accelerates it
he redirects it
he throws it
he collides with the environment to change angle and momentum
he catches it again in motion, never “settling” into a stance
Witnesses describe his style as a pinball run: the boy is the ball, the ship is the table, the sword is the bright flashing strike that ends each bounce.
The sword carries a single pearl-core, as all Grade Swords do. Flexor’s is recorded as a Giant pearl with a Meito-leaning kinetic signature—impact, force, pressure release. It does not roar like fire or sing like lightning. It thuds through reality, as if space itself flinches.
This makes his thrown strikes uniquely terrifying:
the blade can strike like a cannonball
the impact can burst rigging, crack rails, and snap shields
the return is not magical—Flexor simply moves fast enough to reclaim it before the world can breathe
Flexor’s swordplay is dynamic and high-skill, but it is not monastic. It is not refined. It is not ceremonial.
It is play sharpened into murder.
Core tendencies:
Uses terrain and ship architecture as part of footwork
Refuses stationary exchanges
Values momentum over guard
Forces opponents to react to geometry, not technique
Treats “disadvantage” as an invitation to do something stupider
Flexor does not fight like a duelist trying to win.
He fights like a boy trying to see what happens if he hits the world harder.
Flexor’s seat among the Seven Prows is the most debated.
Traditionalists argue: A Prow Captain must command ships.
Reality answers: Then go remove him.
Flexor remains a Prow because:
He cannot be quietly killed.
He humiliates the Western Ocean’s authority by existing.
He has personally survived Hakuyune repeatedly—an impossible feat in itself.
No other captain wants the burden of being the one to “discipline” him.
In practice, Flexor is treated like a dangerous younger storm:
not respected as a ruler—
but respected as a problem nobody can ignore.
Flexor’s rivalry with Hakuyune is not hatred. It is obsession.
He has fought Hakuyune many times. He has lost every time by conventional standards. But Flexor measures victory by a different rule:
“If I can come back, the fight is still going.”
To Flexor, each clash is a “break” in the same endless duel. They separate, heal, travel, grow stronger, then collide again—continuing a single long fight stretched across years.
Hakuyune treats Flexor like a living contradiction:
a boy with no discipline who somehow produces genius through refusal. Hakuyune does not hunt him down. He does not finish him. Some believe this is mercy.
Others believe Hakuyune is curious—because Flexor may be the only swordsman alive who is not trying to become a god, but is still approaching godhood by accident.
Flexor is most often sighted:
near dueling schools and blade monasteries
around ports with rumors of unusual swords
wherever Hakuyune was last reported
along routes where Privateers gather prestige targets
near pearl turbulence that produces strange “bounce currents” (his favorite terrain)
He leaves behind stolen ships, confused survivors, and occasionally a written note that is somehow both childish and terrifying.
Flexor Timmins is not a stable political actor. He cannot be bargained with reliably. He cannot be threatened in ways that matter. He cannot be predicted by normal naval logic.
He should be treated as a roaming Great Pearl Beast in human form:
not because he is mindless—
but because he is governed by instinct, play, and momentum rather than structure.
If the sea is a board, Flexor is the piece that refuses to stop moving.