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The calm before the storm.
Off in the distance, thunderclouds, black as night, flash with lightning and rumble with thunder. A storm is brewing.
”Looks like the Eye sends her love to Port Peril tonight, eh Zair?” A small, bronze creature, that looks cross between a tiny dragon and a lobster, chirps cheerfully in agreement. The creature, whose bright blue eyes look in the direction of the storm, rests on the padded shoulder of a man who looks to be in his late fifties. His medium length gray hair is well combed and nearly reaches his shoulders, and he has a magnificent tricorne hat, colored a deep blue with golden trim, in which rests a feather from an exotic bird. The hat matches his similarly colored velvet vest worn over a white cotton tunic, worn with light-brown breeches.
”Best we be getting inside before she hits port. We might be singing the whole bloody hymn tonight! I know just the place!” With that, the man walks away from the pier he was standing on and heads along the docks to a building whose sign reads, 'The Formidably Maid'. Zair chirps fearfully at the building's rough, ramshackle exterior and the noises of rowdy sailors within, just before the two enter.
Immediately they are greeted with the smell of sweaty sailors, alcohol, cheap perfume, and a variety of spiced foods in addition to the laughter and yelling of a large crowd of drunken pirates. Exactly as they had remembered this place. ”Oye, Kroop! A bottle of your finest wine, and tell your father to get his fat, wrinkly, old hide down here! I haven't seen the old salt in ages!” The man's voice is like a cannon going off, easily audible even over the crowd's noise.
At his yelling, the tavern goes quiet, and the bartender, a pudgy half-orc with more hair than a gorilla, lets out a toothy grin. ”Haha! Robint'n, still alive, eh? Figur'd ye'd be croak'd by now, th' way yer always chasin' them adventures! One bottle o' wine, an' then I'll see if'n I can' git me father pry'd out o' that bed o' his.”
Robinton nods, and then notices a good portion of the tavern, still quiet from his yelling, staring at him. Most of the patrons look to be keenly interested, as if they are anticipating his next move. ”What? Ah, of course, you all want me to bust into song, or perhaps play some music, is that it? No.. not on this stormy night! Instead, I've got a tale for you sods!”
About the same time as Robinton finds a seat amongst the eager crowds, one of the serving wenches brings him a fine bottle of wine marked with the symbol of Andoran. ”Ah, some of Andoran's Finest, eh? A good year, too! 4713.. what a coincidence, at that! This is the very same year the story takes place in. Kroop! Drinks on the house for my listeners!”
A cheer of applause drowns out any sort of reply from Kroop, as the tavern rejoices for free booze.
”Alright lads, take a seat and listen up. This is my favorite story.. in fact, it is my own story. It all started thirty-five years ago.. in this very city. In this very tavern, in fact! It's a tale of blood and booty. A tale of plunder and infamy. A tale of betrayal.. and of adventure. A tale of pirates! And a tale.. of a Skull and Shackles. This is..”
S K U L L A N D S H A C K L E S
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The creaking of wood and sloshing of waves – and the sound of someone emptying the contents of their stomach – are the noises that greet five of the six occupants of the dark hold of some unknown ship. Each can vaguely remember the previous night – the ringing laughter of a wild night, the heady joy of excess, the scents of rich stewed meat and perfume linger in their nostrils. Now, however, all that is left is a pounding headache, the sickly taste of cheap wine, the hard floor, and a feeling of the room swaying, as if they were still inebriated.
All but one of them are bound by the hands with hemp rope – the sixth is bound in manacles. The manacle-bound woman is short and thin, but well toned with alabaster skin. What is most odd about her is not the metal scales on her arms and legs, but the barbed chain-like tail that seems to be protruding from her backside. The second bound occupant is a large, dark skinned man bristling with muscles. A third occupant, similarly bound, is another well-endowed man covered in tattoos, with a long bright-red beard. The fourth person is a thin, slightly disheveled man whose face is covered in burns on the right side. The fifth prisoner – and the last of them who are not currently retching on the floor, is a tall, slender man with a chalky complexion and white-streaked black hair.
The poor sod who is vomiting in a conveniently placed backpack is a well-tanned man with medium-length pitch black hair. He's a bit pale from the apparent hangover, but his face is obscured, as it is currently buried in the backpack he's using as a disposal for last night's dinner.
Before they are even able to sit up, however, they hear the sound of heavy footfalls headed their way from up top.
It seems as if their new 'employer' is on his way.
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Sareivat groans as he wakes, headache and greeting him like a morning rooster screeching in his ear. "Lovely," he rasps as his vision clears. "Don't know what I had to drink last evening, but I'm guessing that its not something that I made a good choice in imbibing." He goes to put his hands out to sit up, but suddenly discovers that they're bound. He jerks at them for a few moments, looking down to stare at the rope with a look of surprise and confusion on his face. "Well, now I'm certain that it wasn't a good choice."
Thoughts come rolling in with the pulses of dull pain that make it difficult to focus. Stumbling from the tavern, The Formidably Maid, Sareivat paused for a moment to steady himself. It seems that he'd had a bit too much to drink. "Well, 'bout time to find a bed, I suppose," he grinned slightly to himself and headed down the road, glancing to the sides for a suitable inn. Sudden voices from behind surprise him and as he begins to turn around, his vision explodes with light and color before falling black.
He rolls over and pushes himself into a sitting position, his tail lashing about. His hands pull up for a moment to try and touch the place where he was struck the night before, but with them bound, it's difficult or impossible to reach. As he sits up, he pauses for a moment to take in the room. The footfalls draw his attention and he looks up to the direction they're coming from.
Scooting over to the nearest prisoner, Sareivat nudges the tattooed, red-bearded man. "Hey, wake up! I've no clue who you are, but we've been taken prisoner!" He glances up again at the footfalls with a worried look on his face. S~$*... What have I gotten myself into?
Runolf came to, with his head ringing and the floor that he rested his face on seemingly swaying. Was he still drunk? How many hours had passed since he first arrived at The Formidably Maid? His head throbbed and as he tried to bring his arms up to raise himself he felt an ache in his muscles and something unexpected on his wrists. His eyes went wide with shock, and then immediately reeled from the effort. His nose picked up the familiar scent of the inner-belly of a ship. His keen ears couldn't help but take note of the slosh of water against the hull of the ship. He wasn't on land, that was for sure.
He feels himself nudged and he springs up to a sitting position instinctively with a bit of grunt. He stares the thin ram-horned man in the face with a look of concern as he listens to his words. Runolf glances down at the ropes binding him and shakes his head " Tsk, Tsk, Tsk. Looks like you're right pale devil." He begins shifting in the rope, and turns his attention towards the approaching footsteps." Name's Red Beard. Not the most favorable place to meet. Keep your wit's about you, Look's like they're about to give us the welcome speech."
He finishes and stands to his feet, puffing out his chest and placing a thin smile on his lips defiantly, he awaits what comes next.
A stream of curse words echo through their deck that would make a sober pirate take pause ending with, ”not again!” The fifth prisoner, the tall, slender man with a chalky complexion and white-streaked black hair, pushes to a more comfortable sitting position against a bulkhead. ”Been waiting in that bloody dive Formidably Maid for two weeks looking for a new crew. Can’t they just bloody ask?”
He tests his rope shackles and concludes, ”At least we’ve left that stinkin’ port and ar’ back aboard a stable deck with fresh air. I wonder who the captain is.” He appraises the new recruits as would a slaver.
A quick sputtering of curses in one of the varied Polyglot languages poured from his mouth in rapid succession. Bright green eyes stared out from his dark complexion, before narrowing to near slits as he looked about the dark hold at his fellow prisoners. He did not spare them glances long however, as he raised his bound hands to his face, inspecting what he was bound with. When he first heard the heavy footfalls approaching he thought it part of the incestant pounding in his head, but soon realized one of the men responsible for his current unfortunate situation was the cause of the sound.
"Pellinor?" Was the one word that escaped his mouth following the previous curses. Even as he spoke he positioned his feet so they were properly under him. While he did not currently stand, he wanted to be in position to do so quickly if need be, trying to get a feel for the swaying of the vessel.
Caerlei's eyes flatly regard her new surroundings, then probes those that share her current quarters. She tests the manacles that are clapped about her wrists and soon realizes they are her own. An unusually large smile spreads across her face as this becomes apparent, and a mirthful laugh just short of a cackle follows shortly thereafter. "I wonder if it makes me a prisoner if they're my own cuffs, then?" Laughter fades soon, and the grin that had split her face turns into a faint smirk. Her eyes roam once more to the faces of the other prisoners. Looks like it's a regular freakshow down here. Have I been taken by a seafaring circus? Tigers and sharks not cuttin' it any more?
"I've shared rooms with some uglies in my day, but I think this is a new low... or is it high? Any one remember who pressed us? I'd like to know whose throat I should be unzipping." Caerlei looks on with anticipation at the approaching thump of boots. If they think slapping my manacles on me is gonna make me any less a handful. . .
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In short time, the owners of the footsteps appear coming down the stairwell on the other side of the room. Seven figures appear, along with the bright, harsh light of a lantern. The first figure, presumably the leader of the bunch, is a tall, thin man wearing a long, black waxed coat and heavy boots. Behind him are six other figures, all dressed in various pirate garbs; An older dwarf with a freakishly long nose, a well-muscled man of orcish descent, a large, portly human with a pig-like nose, a dark-skinned Rahadoumi man with a scowl, a female elf who is missing an ear, and a.. simian-looking goblin. All of the men following the bearded-man are wielding saps except the goblin; The bearded man carries a well-made and well-used whip, and a masterfully made handaxe hangs from his belt.
As they enter the room, they take positions behind the bearded-man, whose face is bruised with a sad attempt at a smile. His mouth is shown to be filled with gold teeth, although the rest of his teeth are almost just as yellow.
"Still abed with the sun over the yardarm? On your feet, ye filthy swabs!" The man yells with a voice that seems to be used to it, "Get up on deck and report for duty before Cap'n Harrigan flays your flesh into sausage skins and has Fishguts fry ye up for breakfast!" He lets out a crack of his whip, not aiming at anyone in particular, but signaling his intent.
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Mabelrode stands up at the crack of the whip. Captain Harrigan? Hope he's profitable. And that bearded monkey with the whip will pay for not asking me nicely. He heads to the deck if the way is obvious.
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As Mabelode gets up and heads up the stairs, one of the man's cronies heads up with him: the fat, pig-faced man. Mabelode is lead up through another deck - a rather empty cargo hold, it looks like - and past a large, burly man covered in tar and feathers leashed by chain to foremast who looks to be busy eating small live crabs as he sits on the stairs. The man seems slow of mind as he sees Mabelode, and begins to giggle like a little child - a very odd sight, considering his size.
The dhampir is lead past the man and up through another room, one with a small number of hammocks and chests that are of considerably better quality than the ones down below. He is finally shoved out of a door into the bright daylight, where he is momentarily blinded by the sudden change from darkness to daylight.
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The situation was certainly not ideal. Clearly he had been ambushed, beaten and press-ganged into service aboard some unknown vessel with a rag-tag and rather wretched looking crew judging from the company gold teeth kept. A glance to his left and a glance to his right allowed him to take note of the bindings of those also huddled together in the hold. It seemed they had suffered similar fates, though by a quick judgement based solely on outward appearences some of them clearly deserved to be here.
Captain Harrigan. Harrigan.He let the name roll around his thoughts for a moment as he got to his feet. He'd traveled for many years on the waves and tried to recall any mention of such a name before. Even as his mind worked he began walking behind the tall, chalk skinned miscreant. He knew enough to know he did not want to be the last of the prisoners on his feet. The sea's could get to be a maddeningly repetitive and all forms of abuse were common distractions to the lack of entertainment.
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As Osir gets himself off the ground and heads up deck, he too is followed by another crony, the half-orc, just as Osir is following Mabelode. The half-orc seems to be surprisingly well armored for a sailor - a short, but reinforced armored coat is worn over his shirt. Such armor is generally far heavier than the simple leather that most men onboard a ship wear.
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" Aye Aye Cap'n, Thanks agin' fer that drink." He remarks, and spits to the floor in a futile attempt to dispose of the nutmeg taste. He trudges forward. He'd pull his weight for now, that was no trouble to him, but he'd repay the captain in kind when the opportunity arose. He sauntered up the stairs and through the empty cargo hold. He whistled sharply and chuckled slightly." Looks like she's seen richer days aye ?" He asks to no one in particular, stepping into the bright light of the deck behind the pale stranger in front of him.
Caerlei rises wordless, her eyes staring daggers through their captors—an ill suited companion to the wicked grin that spreads across her face. Captain Harrigan, huh? If he's so fond of sausages, maybe I'll carve that off first. The pale girl's hands clench as she saunters quietly across the room and towards the deck. I will not be another twit's tool.
Oh god... Press ganged... I hope. Sareivat sighs deeply as he stands up straight and heads for the stairs. There's no real drive behind his steps, but fear of repercussions drive him onward anyways. Better than being a slave... Oh god... A perpetually worried look stays on his face the entire time. As he reaches the door and makes it onto deck, the blinding light blinds him. He pulls one hand up to shield his eyes, but the other arm comes along for the ride in an awkward movement.
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As each of the prisoners falls in line behind each other and are escorted by a member of the crew, all that remains left is the goblin, the bearded man with the whip, and the bound man still struggling to get his face out of the backpack his head was in and to get up on his feet.
"Get your sorry ass up, bilge rat!" the man yells, cracking his whip and hitting the black-haired man on the back. The goblin cackles with glee at the scene, before running over, his monkey-like tail waving back and forth, and shoving the man's head down into the bag deeper. A wet splurch is heard, signaling that his face is now deep in the contents of the bag. The goblin then grabs two large fist-fulls of the man's black hair and forcefully pulls him up out of the bag onto his knees. His face is covered in his own vomit.
"Ack! I'm trying, I'm trying!" The man gets up on his feet shakily, before turning and heading upstairs, wiping his face off with his sleeves as he does so. "Damn.. these were some of my best clothes, too.. now look at them.."
As the two head up deck, the goblin waits a moment, before gleefully plunging head first into the backpack. Slurrping sounds can be heard, as apparently to the goblin, one man's vomit is another goblin's breakfast.
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On deck, as the momentary blindless of the bright sun fades, the new recruits can see finally see the ship they're on. The ship is a three-masted-sailing ship, about 100 feet long from stern to stern, and 30 feet wide amidships. The ship is currently flying a black sail with crossbones and a dragon's skull; the design is similar to the Jolly Roger used by many pirates, and is probably the captain's personal flag. On the bow of the ship is a bowsprit shaped like a rearing dragon, made of what looks to be of red-tinted bronze. The ship itself is far out to sea - Port Peril and the Mainland are just an ochre haze many miles astern.
Standing amidst the deck or up in the rigging is the rest of the crew; a motley crew at best, made up of many different races. Caerlei's thoughts of a freakshow circus have proven to be truer than even she expected; some of the various races present include a catfolk, a ratfolk, a tengu, a hobgoblin, a gnome, a halfing, and the previously met dwarf, half-orc, elf, and monkey goblin. Most of the rest seem to be human. With this kind of crew, a few tieflings, a dhampir, and an aasimar will have no problem blending in. Four of the figures, the tengu, halfing, and two humans, one of which is a red-headed female, look set apart from the rest of the crew, mainly due to their relatively clean clothes. They look to be new recruits as well.
On the poop deck stands two other figures; One of them is a broad, muscular Garundi man with a shaven head, a long beard bound with gold and platinum rings, numerous ears on his belt, and a black reinforced leather eye patch with a skull-shaped blood-red ruby set in it - clearly, the captain. The other figure is a younger, balding man of Chelish descent with a long black ponytail and a nearly equally long narrow beard, wearing a immaculate coat with pearl buttons, leaving his chest bare to the elements. He carries a well-used cat-o'-nine-tails and on his hip is a cutlass bearing a skull motiph on the handle.
Once the six are up on deck and get a quick look around, the captain speaks with a booming voice, "Glad you could join us at last! Welcome to the Wormwood! My thanks for 'volunteering' to join my crew. I'm Barnabas Harrigan. Thats Captain Barnabas Harrigan to you, not that you'll ever need to address me. I have only one rule: Don't speak to me. I like talk, but I don't like your talk. Follow that rule, and we'll all get along just fine." Harrigan pauses for a moment, before speaking again, "Oh, and one more thing. Even with you new recruits, we're still short-handed, and I aim to keep what crew I have. There'll be a keelhaulin' for anyone caught killin' anyone. Mister Plugg! If you'd be so kind so as to make pirates out of these landlubbers, it'll save me having to put them in the sweatbox for a year and a day before I make pies out of 'em." Harrigan grins at that last bit of his speech, before clapping the younger man on the shoulder and walking away.
At that, the younger man looks down at the newcomers and smiles unpleasantly with a mouth full of grey and yellow teeth.
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The blinding sun and his position on deck prevents Mabelode from having a clue where they are sailing. 'No matter.'
He watches the captain depart thinking, 'he certainly looks like a pirate captain. Hopefully, he's a profitable one.' Then, he starts assessing the rest of the crew as would a slaver. He shifts his weight from one side to another casually waiting for the first mate to speak.
Seems like a nice enough scurvy-infested, bilge-drinkin' swab. He thought to himself as the Captain finished. He tapped his foot impatiently awaiting his orders.
The distant land crushes the tiefling's hope. Too far out. I don't think I could swim that, even if I wasn't bound like this. He surveys the ship, taking stock of the layout and the composition of those standing on deck. They've taken our gear, but the others seem to have possessions amongst them. I wonder how or if I can go about reacquiring my belongings. Some of those chemicals are difficult to synthesize...
Sareivat's thoughts begin to drift off about alchemical formulae when the Garundi man begins to speak. He breathes a sigh of relief as he hears the captain speak. Press-ganged, thank Besmara. He refixes his gaze on those standing on the poop deck, wincing slightly when the younger man smiles. I've not got a good feeling about this still. He fidgets a bit at the thought, but the rope rub and chafe a bit. He looks down at his binding. Still, it'll be good to get these off.
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Osir scowled. That simple facial expression seemed to convey all his displeasure at being abducted, bound, and stripped of his belongings. He looked to his new crew, letting his coral green eyes land and leave each in turn before coming to rest on the Cheliaxian with obvious distaste.
Rather than let his gaze linger on the balding fellow with the pearl button coat and perhaps bring that man's own displeasure down upon him, the large Caldaru man tilted his head back and looked into the heavens, gazing upon the clouds and the birds which soared across the blue sky.
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"Master Scourge!" Plugg says, his voice deep but raspy, "Unbind these sods! The sooner we can get 'em to work, the better!" Plugg motions for the bearded man with the whip to untie the group, and then walks down from the poop deck onto the main deck towards them.
As Scourge and his cronies untie, or in one case unmanacle, each person, Plugg examines each one, as if he is a rancher examining his cattle, walking close to them and looking them in the eye. His breath stinks of alcohol and tobacco, and despite his well-kept clothing, he reeks of body odor. He looks to be both angry and miserable at the same time, and one might guess that just a small spark could send him into a rage.
"Alright, you bilge rats! You heard the cap'n! Now, first off, I needs me a new rigger. The last one fell short on his duties. You'll see his fate tonight. So, the first one of you landlubbers to the crow's nest gets the job!" He yells at point-blank range in the group's faces, his voice painful in their ears, and he points above him to the crow's nest, sixty feet up on the main mast.
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Mabelode continues his casual stance through the pep talk. He avoids overtly antagonizing Plugg or Scourge, but he is clearly not intimidated. With the race to the crow's nest, he does not want to be a rigger. However, he starts climbing as ordered.
Runolf silently sets about the task, popping his knuckles and rolling his shoulders before he leaped out to a head-start towards the crow's nest. He'd do any job on a ship, if this is the one he'd be asked to do then so be it. Besides he could keep an eye on things from up there.
Osir wasn't going to b%@*& about his situation at the moment, such things were meant to be done over drinks and dice. Right now what he needed to do was prove himself to be valuable and make the best of a crap situation. He had wanted to adventure and while this was not the ideal setting, few things in life proved to be ideal.
Following after the other human (Osir being a Scion of humanity and both appearing like and identifying with humanity) he sprinted across the deck to the rigging. He started slowly, trying to make certain that he was not too close to any of the other crew members, as he didn't trust them not to try something underhanded.
When next he looked up the red bearded man had already surged into the lead. With a grunt of frustration, Osir picked up the pace, grabbing at the rigging and surged upward, abandoning care to put himself in at least equal standing with the other man.
When he got to the crows nest, he paused and let the other man get in a second or two before he did, rather than try to jostle over the position. His powerful muscles stood out as he clung to the rigging at the top of the mast. "Name's Osir."The dark skinned warrior normally would have held out his hand in greeting, but he wasn't too keen on letting go from so far up. "You want to be the rigger, you can have it so long as you watch my back from up here. Deal?"
His brilliant green eyes left the other man and searched the sky, then he gave a sharp, high pitched whistle. All the while his eyes kept searching.
Runolf reaches the top without breaking a sweat and gives the man a firm handshake, clasping his forearm. "Aye, the name is Red Beard. I'll keep an eye out for you if you do the same mate."
It was never too early to make an ally. If the crew was anything like the Captain seemed, he would need eyes in the back of his head, and Osir would make that easier.
Sareivat looks up at the crow's nest high above and sighs. I was never that great in the rigging. Climbing's never been a strong point of mine. He strides over to the ropes with purpose, but little heart in it and begins to methodically pick his way up. He chooses poorly on the first rope and quickly flips out of the rigging, landing on the deck with a solid *THUMP*.
Standing again, rubbing his tail where he fell on it, Sareivat again starts to climb the rigging, but by the time that he's made much headway, a look up shows that two of the others have already reached the top.
Mabelode gets to crow's nest several seconds after the two humans and sits on the yardarm next to it, because there's no more room in the nest. He looks to the horizon to orientate himself in the Shackles.
He enjoys the view and relative freedom for several seconds with several deep breaths of the salt-tainted air. He expects to be ordered to the deck shortly, so he makes a point to enjoy the moment. "Love the view from here, but I prefer the deck."
Rolling her eyes, Caerlei casually saunters over to the main mast, waiting for the others to scramble up before she begins trying her luck.
Much to everyone's dismay, the ivory skinned tiefling makes no further attempts to progress towards the crow's nest. Instead, she finds a comfortable tangle in the rigging and reclines leisurely, allowing the wind to kiss her skin coolly as the ship lurches ahead through the endless expanse of blue. Shooting an appreciative look to the men competing for the nest above, Caerlei's fingers begin working through brief but elaborate gestures as she whispers a plea to her sadistic forebears. The slivers of metal that creep along her forearms shimmer with a faint incandescence, then return to their usual silvery sheen.
The spell complete, Caerlei rolls over on her side upon the rigging into a position that accentuates her feminine assets. She fixes her sight on Scourge before calling down in as sultry a voice as she can muster, "I prefer to leave the climbing to the monkeys. I've found that my... expertise tends towards other labors."
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As Plugg yells at the group to get to climbing, Robinton immediately sets off to climb, as he doesn't wish to piss off his new employers - He's already pissed off one of them, and he doesn't wish another lashing like he had earlier. His back still smarts horribly from it, and he wishes now his shirt wasn't covered in his own vomit. The day's already been starting off fantastic. Hopefully it can't get any worse.
When the exotic metal-scaled woman began to tease Scourge, Robinton thought to himself, Well, that woman's got balls of the same metal that tail of hers is made of. I wouldn't want to risk pissing off those two.. hopefully the lash doesn't hurt her as much as it hurts me. Best just to keep a low profile..
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"Your other labors, eh?" Plugg steps in and speaks in behalf of the for-once currently tongue-tied Scourge, "Your expertise, eh? Considering that in the time it took you to tangle yourself in the rigging and confuse this poor sod here," He jerks his head towards Scourge, "the other new crew are already well on their way to the crows nest. Yes, I've a job for your skills. Scourge! Put yourself back together and lead this wretch to Fishguts. He'll find a use for her talents," he says with a sneer.
Meanwhile, the rest of the crew, some of who were at first busy cheering or egging on the climbers, began to listen to the conversation down below between Plugg and the exotic woman. A few cat-calls were thrown out, and many of the sailors were snickering at Scourge's embarassment of the situation. The victory of Runolf, having first reached the crow's nest, was all but missed by everyone except Plugg, whose keen eye caught the winner.
"You! Red! Looks like you're the new rigger. The rest of you sods get down here! You're all swabs! I've your first day's tasks ready, and Grok'll be up shortly with your morning biscuit. The rest of you! He waves his hand at the rest of the crew, "You already know your jobs, so get your sorry asses to work and stop gawking!
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Mabelode gets grouped with an elf and half-orc to scour the deck. Having lived aboard ship most of his life, he knows the tricks to be efficient and effective. He uses the time to ask the half-orc his name and how things work on the Wormwood. He enhances his diplomacy throughout the day.
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The half-orc, currently scrubbing the deck with apparently little difficulty, despite the size of the holystone he's using, stops and looks at Mabelode when he is spoken to. He grunts and opens his mouth wide, showing the stump of what used to be his tongue, along with what few of his teeth he has left, all rotten and yellow from decay. His breath can be easily smelled, even feet away. He then grunts and goes back to his work, unimpressed by Mabelode's attempt at communication.
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What might be a giggle bursts from her lips, Caerlei raising her left forehand to her lips to stifle the response before it costs her a head. Sensing that no one shares her sense of humor, she clicks her tongue very audibly before rolling her eyse once more and lets loose an exasperated sigh. "Gods, are you sods going to be this dull the entire trip?" Caerlei scrambles back down out of the rigging and more glides than walks back over to where Scourge yet stands. She hooks her right arm around the man's left forearm and leans slightly against him, the familiar grin now firmly attached to her face again. "Come on then. Let's not keep Master Fishguts waiting."
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Scourge, recollecting himself at Caerlei's touch, throws off her arm and gives her a glare, easily recognizable as part seething hatred for embarassing him, and part lust and temptation. He immediately heads below decks, expecting Caerlei to follow him, through the officer's quarters and past the large chained man, whom Scourge kicks hard in the side to get him to move off of the stairs. The man yelps like a scared dog and sprawls onto the floor, out of Scourge's way. A handful of small crabs, some still alive, others half-eaten, tumble to the floor. It seems the large man was eating them raw and alive. A few small pigs have escaped their holdings and run amok in this room as well.
Scourge continues walking, a loud crunch being heard as he steps on a live crab, splattering its innards, and heads to a door on the other side of the hold. As he opens it, the smell of alcohol and other substances can easily be smelled, and he holds it open for Caerlei while yelling at someone inside.
"Oye, Fishguts! Ye better not still be asleep, ye lazy sod.. got ye a new b$~#~ to help ye cook!" He looks at Caerlei, his eyes still glaring at her, "Ye be the new cook's mate. A woman like ye should know her way around the galley!" He laughs, then spits at Caerlei's feet as she enters the galley - or what should be the galley. However, the room is filled with so much clutter, it can barely be called one. Pots and pans litter the counters, knives are all over the place, some stuck in the wood, others laying around haphazardly, along with a frightening array of meat cleavers and nearly every utensil imaginable. Barrels of food and spices crowd the walls, and the mingling smells of spices and rum is nearly overwhelming. The stone stoves are lit, and cauldrons of liquid of a rather disgusting color and odor sit bubbling. On one wall hangs numerous harpoons and a well-made grappling hook, still tied to a length of silk rope. Sounds can be heard of a large body moving around in a room adjacent, like grunts of someone trying to get out of bed.
Scourge does not linger around, and leaves after closing the door behind Caerlei, heading back up deck. Moments later, a short, rotund, middle aged man with a black chicken on his shoulder enters the room. He exudes an air of neglect, perhaps even despair, from the bushy tufts of black hair behind his ears, to his rotting teeth, to the filthy stains on his apron; those of sweat, stew, and other substances. He walks with a wallowing waddle, and looks to be already drunk.
"Why 'ello lass, who be ye now ag'n? I 'eard Scourge yellin' somefin' about 'elp with me cookin'?"
Rat catcher. It was far from a glorious task and he instantly began to regret giving up his chance at being a rigger. Had he been provided with a terrier or his companion Pellinor, the task would have been an easy one, but Osir was a trained trainer of animals, not a killer of them. Though he grumbled through some of the worst parts of the task, he went about the work easily enough.
While catching rats the large man kept his distance from the foul goblin creature as best he could, focusing on different areas of the ship. He tried to work alongside the Mwangi man with the many daggers, thinking him a good person to know. After they were working near each other for a time, eventually Osir offered friendly words to the man in his dialect of Polyglot.
"Name's Osir. You'd be? Not trying to pry or nothing, but you end up pressganged into this crew as well or did you join willin? Osir said with a toothy grin even as he bashed a squirming rat against the railing and tossed it dead into his bucket. It was as good a start to a conversation as any.
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The tall Mwangi man snorts when Osir begins talking to him, and continues his work as he speaks.
"Mah name be Shiv, mon. I joined willin'ly, Harrigan's a good cap'n. Now ya best be gettin' back ta work before one of dese dagga's be found in ya back, I don' like when people bother meh when I be workin', especially not ya kind." He throws a squeaking rat overboard as he says that, almost as if he was throwing a knife out to sea. The poor thing flips end over end until it finally hits the water a little ways out.
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"What do you mean by 'my' kind? You best watch who you are threatening, Shiv. I'm Osir Korzar, yeah, you heard me right... Korzar." The large Caldaru man said with a sudden snear. Quickly realizing that he'd never make a friend of Shiv and not being one to back down easily, he figured even a fight was better than continuing to catch rats.
Crossing his powerfully corded arms over his chest, with the pitiful rags his clothing had become, he could not hide the strength of his body even if he wanted to. A hard, challenging stare from his intense green eyes followed his words with the weight of intimidation.
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"You be one of dem 'Caldaru', ya? Tha's what I be meanin' by ya kind. I used ta work in ta slave trade with mah own kind.. could smell tha Caldaru from a mile away, ya kind be strange ones. But I be seein' ya not the type ta be messed wit, so I be leavin' ya alone now."
Although little impressed by Osir's attempt at flexing in his shirt, Shiv does get the hint that Osir is up for a fight, something Shiv seems to be not interested in getting into, despite his previous statement with the daggers. Even though he looks to be avoiding a fight now by going back to work, he occasionally peers back at Osir, keeping a wary eye on him. He also does not seem to have taken any recognition to the name Korzar, showing he either cares little or does not know the name, despite the name's fame.
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Caerlei eyes the pudgy man flatly, though her gaze is eventually drawn to the chicken perched atop the man's shoulders. "I'm Caerlei. And they are brave indeed if they are trusting me with the cooking." An empty smile crosses her face as she tilts her head to take in their surroundings more fully. "Well, at least I won't be starved to death. Bored to death seems more likely, from the looks of this place. Lead on, Master chef!" Caerlei offers a mocking curtsy to the rotund fellow.
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Following Caerlei's eyes to his chicken, Fishguts beams with pride. "Ye like 'er? This is me priz'd bird, Black-'eart'd Bezbel. She talks to meh, she does. What is that, me love?" He looks at the chicken, and seems as if he is.. listening.. to it for a moment, before taking what looks to be a piece of fish out from his pocket and feeding the large chicken. "She likes ye too, lass. Ah, right, ye be me new ass'snt, aye? Well, best ye be learnin' the ropes, then." Waddling around the galley, Fishguts describes the duties of the cook and cook's assistant, everything from fishing almost daily, to cooking the evening's meals, consisting mostly of fish stew. He seems to know his way around the kitchen like an expert, despite its mess.
Part way through the tour, a muscular half-orc woman with a nasty scar along her neck comes into the galley from the same room Fishguts was in earlier. "Kroop! Why haven't you given the crew the morning biscuit yet? And what the blazes is that damn hawk.. thing doing in our quarters? Its going nuts in that cage, trying to get out. Either kill the damn thing or free it, before I kill it myself." She speaks with a very rough and deep voice, and then realizes theres a new person she does not recognize in the galley. "Ah, the new recruits eh? This one your new assistant, then? Well, since you're showing her the ropes, I'll give the sods their breakfast before they start cannibalising each other up there." She eyes Caerlei a moment, noticing the tail and other oddities about the woman, before getting a basket and filling it with biscuits, then heading updeck.
After she's gone, Fishguts begins talking about the ship itself, rather than the cook's duties. "It's poison, this ship, but don' let anyone 'ear ye say it aloud. The 'ull listens, see, and the cap'n 'ears it all. Poison the Wormwood is, though, rott'n to the core. Ye'll not meet a more nasty, sour piece o' work than Cap'n 'Arrigan in all your days at sea, and 'is crew's the same, 'specially the first mate, Mr. Plugg. Viscious little sod, 'e is. 'E'd take 'is own mother's liver to the butcher to make pies with, 'e would. But they leave me alone, mostly. They know I can't 'arm 'em."
With that, Fishguts gives Caerlei her day's job: Catching fish for the night's supper.
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Runner? Great.. well, at least its a good way for me to get to know the layout of the ship better, and learn who everyone is.
Throughout the day, Robinton runs around the Wormwood, passing messages and orders to and from Plugg and the other officers. He's basically Plugg's personal b%*#$, as the first mate gets to yell at him constantly all day. Then again, Plugg yells at everyone, so Robinton's only taking the brunt of it due to his proximity to Plugg. By the end of the day, the constant running, climbing up and down stairs and occasionally the rigging, and passing orders to and from people takes its toll on Robinton, who ends up being thoroughly fatigued.
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Sareivat heads for the first of the coils of rope he's to move. I'd better work hard for the time being. Use the time to get an appraisal of the ship and not look like a failure while doing it. He hefts the coils and drags it to the other side of the ship, where he's presented with a large knot to work out of another line. It's going to be a long day... He sighs and sets to work on the knot.
By evening time, he's done an admirable job of working the lines on deck, but despite the hard work, only feels mildly fatigued. Good to work out the kinks after our arrival. He grins to himself and stretches out the muscles in his arms and back. I'm going to need to find out what happened to my gear, though. Tomorrow. He shakes his head and stretches it side to side, working out the kinks in his neck.
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Runolf breezed through completing the repairs in the upper rigging. He trusted his instincts to complete the task. This wasn't the first time he had went about these sort of inspections, and it wouldn't be the last. He seized the opportunity to poke around a bit with his free time. As he understood it he was unarmed aboard a ship full of marauders. He would need any advantage he could obtain if he planned to survive.
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Runolf, checking the doors to the Captain's Cabin quickly and discretely, finds that all of the doors into the cabin are locked with Superior locks; In addition, the door to the middle hold seems to be trapped, even. Unsurprising that the captain would need to lock and trap his doors from his own crew on this sort of ship.
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Noticeably put off by the task of spending the day tending to nets and fish, Caerlei nevertheless makes no vocal complaint about the assignment given her. Instead, she slaps her heels together and gives a greatly exaggerated salute to the chicken on Fishgut's shoulder. Her voice drops several octaves in an attempt to imitate a gruffer, male pirate as she half-bellows, "Aye-aye, Black Hearted Bezebel! I'll fish 'er empty, I will!" She then bounds through the ship and sets to doing her work.
Though at first she seems content to apply herself to the task assigned, her wanderlust takes hold quickly, and she ends up spending the majority of the day teasing Fishguts. Though harmless at first, as she continues pressing the man's buttons her overtures turn from toying to vicious, Caerlei attempting to assert herself into a position of dominance in the kitchen. Subtle threats turn overt as she recounts the myriad tortures she is well versed in, punctuating each painful scenario with a flick of her barbed "tail" across the man's leg or adding more superficial cuts to the plethora of scars that already score her body. That she groans in ecstasy as she describes the more brutal of methods (one of which being the Ulfen favorite: the Blood Eagle) only multiplies the palpable terror of hearing these unspeakable acts described in excruciating detail. The cold stare accompanying her taunts lends credence to any question of whether she would carry out said maimings.
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Throughout the day, as Caerlei teases and torments Fishguts, she finds that he seems to be relatively unphased by most of it. She gets the impression that he's already quite used to such treatment, and he takes it in stride. Her attempts to flick her tail across his leg are met with no reaction, not even a twitch, despite the scratches she leaves. Her attempt to assert herself into a position of dominance in the kitchen, however, is assured, as Fishguts seems to be a relatively laid back individual and actually seems used to the treatment.
During her description of the more brutal methods of torture and maiming, Fishguts mentions that Captain Harrigan's quite well known for his brutal methods as well, and has been known to prefer the capital punishment known as 'Keelhauling', a common, but brutal, method of execution in the Shackles, where the person in question is brutally maimed by being drag across the barnacles underneath the ship, until they are shredded into ribbons. He mentions it might be best not to mention the 'Blood Eagle' in earshot of the captain, as Harrigan might just decide to try it on her, to see how much he likes it.
Overall throughout the day, Fishguts focuses on his work combined with drinking, with occasional comments back to Caerlei.
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As dusk approaches after a long day's work, the ship's bell rings, signaling everyone onto the main deck. Throughout the day, something called "The Bloody Hour" has been mentioned numerous times; This time of day, right before the evening's supper and leisure time, is where all punishments are to be met out. That time is now.
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"Hurry up you lazy sods, lets get this done!" Plugg's voice can be heard yelling as usual as he waits for the crew to assemble around the deck. Harrigan, and numerous other crew members not seen working as swabs or riggers throughout the day, stand on the Poop Deck. One, a slightly older, though still beautiful, red-headed woman covered in tattoos, stands the closest to Harrigan; She seems to be the sort to stay indoors quite often, and doesn't look the part of a rugged pirate. To the side and rear of her is another woman who is nearly her opposite; darker skinned, muscular, with rugged and unattractive facial features, and a peg leg; Her perpetual scowl makes her that much more unattractive. On the other side of Harrigan, an extremely young girl, no more than 15 at most, stands and watches the newcomers curiously. The other standing about the poopdeck seem to be more afraid of Harrigan, and stand further away from him; These include a wild-eyed man who bears numerous burn scars, a slightly older man with only patches of hair left; and a man wearing an apron covered in what looks to be blood and sawdust. These are the officers of the Wormwood.
As the crew finally gets in place, Plugg steps up and addresses the crew, "Let the Bloody Hour commence! Scourge, go get the filth from the bilges." Scourge, followed by two of his cronies, head below deck and return a minutes later dragging along a scrawny, weasely looking man soaked nearly to the bone from spending the night in the bilges.
"Jakes Magpie!" Plugg says, "Yesterday you were caught stealing from the Quartermaster's store, aye?"
The man, still sopping wet and being held fast by Scourge's cronies, look Plugg in the eye and simply says, "Aye."
A wicked sneer appears on Plugg's face before he speaks again, "Stealing from the Quartermaster's store is a grave offense here on the Wormwood! For that, your punishment is to be keelhauled!"
At that, Magpie's face turns to a look of object horror, while some of the crew cheer excitely. His eyes widen considerably and he opens his mouth to protest, but before he can, Scourge comes up from behind and gags him with a dirty cloth. Although Scourge's two cronies keep him held, Plugg himself ties Magpie up and forcibly drags him to the edge, where they've already looped a rope underneath the ship. While Scourge's men set him up on that end, both Scourge and Plugg go to the other side the ship and prepare to pull their end of the rope.
Magpie's muffled scream can be heard for the short distance it takes him to fall into the water. As soon as they hear the splash, Plugg and Scourge pull slowly on the rope. All of the crew remain deathly silent, and the faint sound of something dragging against the underside of the hull can be heard.
Just over a minute later, Scourge and Plugg finally fish up the remnants of Magpie; What's left of him can barely be called humanoid, let alone human. His clothes are all but ripped off along with much of his skin, salt water thoroughly soaking the wounds; Both of his eyes have been sliced open by the sharp barnacles, and blood flows in streams down his entire body. Even the most inobservant person can recognize that this man did not survive.
His body isn't shown to the crew for long before Plugg and Scourge throw the man overboard to feed the sharks. Plugg then wipes his bloody hands on Scourge, who gives him a confused look, before speaking, "Well, now that's taken care of, Scourge, Krigger and Chumlette are due for a rope bash for slacking off at their duties! See to that, then supper!"
The next two punishments are far less exciting than the keelhauling of Jakes Magpie; Two men, one of which was one of the men who helped hold Magpie, the other being the tall blond man, are both hit in the back once with the large, blunt end of a rope; Barely a slap on the wrist compared to even the whip, though each leaves a large red mark on the mens' backs.
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(Fail)
(Succeed)
(Fail)
(Fail)
(Succeed)
(Fail)
(Fail)
(Succeed)