.
"Rule the Razor you say? A fool’s ambition.
Here land and sea murder at the whim of ancient gods and
men’s smiles hide a thousand knives. Those deceived into
believing that the Kraken’s tentacles are more fearsome
than its schemes soon find themselves cruelly enlightened.
The Razor is too vast and its terrors too countless for
even the bravest adventurer to conquer. It won’t stop them
from trying though, and that means good business for
me. I thank the gods daily for sending so many fools into
this world."
— Saldrin Seaheart, local guide and
purveyor of “adventuring supplies”
Razor Coast, a devil’s paradise, where a man’s fortune can bleed out quicker than a spitted pig, and where the dawn sky blazes across endless oceans. Oceans that for centuries hid a lost people of whom legend whisper were born into these wild reaches as the sons of sharks. Here, within in the kraken’s clutches, law means little while gold breaks all boundaries and blood, pearls, and rum pay for all sin.
Islands poke their toothy ridges up from the depths, angry and defiant, like the maw of a great leviathan intent on rending and devouring ships. Indeed, beneath the rolling waters stretch miles of jagged shoals and empires of coral reef that cut down vessels like wheat before a scythe. Over the years, these hazards have claimed the ships of hundreds of explorers and freebooters, and throughout the Razor, there are many tales of missing ships and the lost treasures hidden within sunken hulks.
Then there are those places that the colonists call “civilized.” Filthy boom ports, their shorelines lined with shantytowns crammed with eager profiteers who come quickly, take what they can, and leave behind ruin in their careless wake — convicts, preachers, and those seeking freedom, new identities, or new lives. Depending on one’s morals, there is work aplenty for these newcomers. Rum, whaling, and slavery are all big business, while merchants who deal in the supplies needed to keep these businesses running make cool profits, especially when supplies run low.
Few of these ports stay open for more than a few decades, thus their inhabitants invest little in their structures or maintenance. Those with wealth usually live on their ships, traveling from port to port, while those without cobble together wooden shacks sealed with whale fat or tarred paper. When the trade routes change or an island’s resources wink out, the shacks are abandoned and the populations venture off to the next boom port to seek fortunes anew. Conversely, thriving ports are hotbeds of excitement. Ships of all kinds crowd slipshod docks. Oozing with the wretched stench of blubber and blood, merchants hawk their wares to passing sailors, anything from ropes, harpoons, and foodstuffs to more questionable items such as poisons, drugs, or treasure maps.
Ashore, a boom port’s crowded alleys swim with drunks, vagrants, and others come to make whatever coin they can before the port goes bust. Street pugilists hold brutal matches run by shady managers who hedge bets, beggar bards promise to make legends of incoming freebooters for the coast of a few coins, and painted whores keep their nimble fingers poised to pleasure customers or slit their throats, whichever looses the most gold. Thickly scarred slaves pilfered from all ends of the world walk in heavy irons beneath the yoke of their masters, eagerly awaiting the opportunity to rise up against the cruelness of their fate. Indeed, today’s slave is often master upon the ‘morrow while near as easily, a master can wake to find himself in leg irons.
Outside of the boom ports, life is far different. The islands of the Razor remain untamed. These are lands where violent monsoons and lush steaming jungles blanket frothing volcanic isles surrounded by beaches of deep black sand that spill into a crystalline blue sea. They strike a chord both peaceful and ominous, for here beauty and
wonder often walk arm in arm with danger and death. Human settlements are few, consisting almost entirely of small tribes of indigenous Tulita. Ongoing struggles between these original heirs of the Razor Coast and foreign colonists keep most them wary, if not entirely hostile. In other regions lurk foul beasts, agents of the mysterious powers of the deeps and wild, feral addicts who chew upon the noxious Maht Root and fly into frenzied hallucinations during which they drink entrails of their foes.
These are the lands in which you live, where you try to eek out your existence. While opportunities have proven rather slimmer than you had hoped for, fate it seems has other things in mind. This is where your story begins in earnest, where you will either be one of the intrepid souls that cut the Razor or you will add yourself to the long list of it's victims.
The enchanted chandelier glows with a soft light above the exquisite dining table. A handsome male Elf with long, ghostly blonde hair sits at the table, gingerly eating a plate of food that looks to have been prepared by some premier chef. He speaks to the shadowy figure standing propped up against the wall, his voice smooth, calm, and mellifluous, "Yes, Caeden, I believe outside help is still the best course of action. We need discreet, dependable people, as I do not want this to devolve into a scene. Preferably people who are not as well known who would benefit from our patronage. Have you knowledge of any who fit this criteria?"
The shadowy figure nods as the Elven man sips from a crystal wine class full of deep red wine, then speaks in a baritone, yet oddly quiet voice, "Yes Viscount, my contacts know of people who fit just the bill. Here is the dossiers that my people have compiled on them."
Caeden steps forward from the shadows, revealing himself as a Human with deeply tanned skin, immaculately groomed black hair, and a deep collection of scars running down the left side of his face. He reaches into his fine black privateer's coat and produces a sheaf of papers, handing them to the Viscount, who does not look up from drinking his wine. The Viscount looks over the papers as he eats and drinks, "Yes, I believe these will do nicely. They seem capable, honest, and capable of being discreet. Have your people contact them, if you would be so kind."
Caeden nods in approval, "It shall be done, Viscount. Give me a day to make the preparations."
The Viscount nods and eats another bite of seasoned roast as Caeden opens an ornate set of rosewood doors with golden handles and walks out, closing the doors as he goes. The Elf then wipes his mouth with a white silk napkin and looks at the papers again with his ocean colored eyes, speaking quietly to himself, "Yes, I do believe that you have found some good people here, Caeden. Now let us see if we are correct in our initial judgements of them."
In the Tide district, Orsal stumbles downstairs of the Mad Clam needing his first coffee of the day. He stands a bit over six feet tall with broad-shoulders and large, strong hands. Typical of half-orcs, he has green skin, beady eyes, and a mouth of over-sized teeth that jut from his bottom lip when clenching his jaw. A bandana covering a shaved head, long coat, and clothes virtually scream his preferred occupation as a pirate with a darkwood buckler in the shape of a skull on his left forearm. On a weapon’s belt, he wears a long sword, shortsword, and scorpion whip. A few links of a chain shirt can be seen beneath his tunic. Despite stereotypes, he is very well-groomed and hygienic with clothes that lack stains or rips.
Tanner was almost done swabbing the deck that was illuminated by streaks of sunlight passing through the planks of the windows and some of the walls. The young boy had probably been cleaning since dawn having been forced to bed before the revelries got too crazy last night. The floor was clean except for the four sleeping bodies that he had mopped around.
Orsal traded nods with Maud who placed a cup of coffee on the bar. After his detour to roll over the bodies, so Tanner could clean the "beds," Orsal sat on a stool to enjoy his coffee. After two swigs, "how did we do last night?"
Maud shrugged, "better than usual. No rain today to wash the floors, so I put Tanner to work early."
Orsal nodded, "good job, boy. That pool of blood over there must have taken you awhile. You going to make him holystone the deck?" he asked Maud. She shrugged again continuing to organize the bar. Orsal stared out the window to the ships docked and moored. One day closer, he thought to himself about getting back to sea.
After he drained his cup, he pushed it closer to Maud and turned back toward the unconscious boarders. He walked over to each of the sleepers in turn and not so gently woke them with a boot to a shoulder. "Get up, and tip well for being alive this morning."
Last Night
Ten gold to the watchman and the group was left to their own devices. The grave was in the Colonist's section of the cemetery, and befitting the family's wealth, the headstone was imported marble, finely chiseled into an obelisk and topped by an angelic depiction of young girl, just on the cusp of womanhood - no doubt an idealized depiction of the body now moldering beneath it.
Taty's laborers removed the pick axes and shovels from their bags, and began overturning the hard red clay of the gravesite. Tatienne, and her Hounsis, Emeko themselves carried no tools - just a footstool each and their prayer satchels. Placing the footstools under a nearby cork tree, the two women sat and waited quietly for the laborers to finish their digging, while Tatienne's familiar, Longnose, flapped his wings and retired to the branches of the cork tree, to keep an eye out for guardsmen.
Tatienne's posture was rigid, her hands placed on her knees, her legs pressed closely together under her long skirt. Closing her eyes, the Hounsis unconsciously reached up and wrapped her silk scarf one more time around her neck. Letting the scarf's end trail down her back, Taty adjusted the sleeves of her lacy white blouse and once again rested her hands on her knees. The mamba seemed almost to be at repose herself, almond-shaped eyes closed, her angular face slack and absent of worry lines - the face of a woman at peace.
The Hounsis, Emeko shifted uncomfortably next to Tatienne. Taller and more muscular than her mentor, the apprentice did not fit so easily onto the little footstool, especially when trying to mimic Taty's posture. It was also the girl's first time grave robbing - it was natural for her to be jittery and nervous, Tatienne thought.
Taty inhaled a deep breath and enjoyed the smells of the Razor - or this little part of it, anyways. The grave that the laborers tumbled and dug was wet with a recent rain - heavy, earthy clay that tickled the Mambo's senses. Even this far from the docks, like the rest of Port Shaw, the wind carried the scent of the sea with it, all salt and decay and sunken, murky secrets. Lastly, there was the smell of the workers themselves. This was the smell of the desperate masses of Port Shaw - sweat and musk and dirt, and like the scent of the sea, it was everywhere in Port Shaw.
With a shout and a scrape, the coffin was struck, and a few minutes later it had been lifted out of the grave. Tatienne stood now, and removed a prybar from the workers' bags. Handing it to Emeko, she said simply, "Open it." The coffin was surprisingly small and of inferior wood. The family had spent much on the headstone and had to scrimp on everything else. No doubt the girl's body would be folded upon itself to fit in the box, Tatienne thought, shaking her head in silent disapproval.
The moldering lid was pried off the coffin easily enough, and beneath lie the girl's corpse - or what was left of it, as bodies returned quickly to the earth in the Razor. A skeleton, a few patches of skin, and long, wispy hair. Rather than folded, the corpse had been cut in half to fit into the coffin - severed at the midsection. The girl's pelvis rested next to her head. "This girl died in the last outbreak," Tatienne said, to herself as much as to anyone else. "We'll only need a little of her now, but the rest of the girl can be used later."
----------------------
Now
Back at Taty's shop and home, Ti Bon Ange on the edge of the Silk District and the Outskirts, the Hounsis and the Mambo wash their hands in the courtyard fountain, and then douse their hands and arms with rum, the women rubbing the alcohol vigorously into their skin. Emeko takes a saw and chisel to the skeleton's jaw bone and third vertebrae, and slowly grates the bone into a pestle, where it is then crushed with the liver of a fermented coral snake.
Meanwhile, Tatienne boils some thistle and adds that to the pestle, along with some mangrove bark. Intoning the blessing of Damballa Wedo, Sky Father and Great Serpent, the women then mix into the pestle a little bit of rum to create a paste.
The next morning, the Houngan and the Hounsis will make their way to the House of the Sick, near the plantations, where the victims of the latest cholera outbreak are being quarantined. They will rub the paste on the faces of the sick, and place a choral snake's scale onto the forehead of each bedridden soul, to guide Damballa Wedo to the diseased, so that the Sky Father may aid their recovery. Tatienne's laborers will bring well-water in great wooden barrels to the Sick House, and the women will bathe each the bodies of each sick man, woman and child, and implore them to open their hearts to the Loa, and if they do, truly do, the Sky Father would guide them back to health.
And if the sick don't open their hearts to the Loa, they will die, and their bodies can be used the next time that cholera comes to Port Shaw. And it will come back, Tatienne is sure of it.
|
The Water Ghost stepped onto the shore, just past the end of the beach to the west of Port Shaw. It was still a good thirty minuted before the sun would rise. As she had done many times before, Meherio carefully wrapped her hair in a long scarf. She did not really care, but her bluish hair always stood out, and she saw no reason to advertise her unusual circumstances. She waited until just before the sun rose, and then began to make her way along the beach. It was a good hour before she made it to the western shoreline guard post. There, she spoke with the guard as she had many times before. After paying the toll, and a few additional silver to keep the guards on her good side, Meherio proceeded toward the main market in the Tide District to sell the items she had "collected" along the shoreline.
Meherio thought back: Not long ago, it was along the shoreline that I collected these items. Now, it was so much easier to simply sneak aboard a ship anchored well out in the water. The crews never watched to approach from the ocean side of the ship, so most starless nights made easy plundering.
Mohair never took valuable items. Simply enough to support her, and eventually to help her gain her revenge.
In the market square, she reached into her magical sack and pulled out a large brightly colored blanket which showed a scene of invaders ransacking and plundering the Tulita. She hated the blanket, but it gained her some favor of the locals, and since it did not harm her, the ability to make a few extra gold never hurt.
Once the blanket was spread across the booth, she began to pull out the wares she hoped to sell. Several bottles of fine wine from the mainland, a bottle of aged scotch, several rings and necklaces, and many different pieces of coral and shells, each different and beautiful in its own right. The coral and shells rarely fetched much, but simply having them there tended to dissuade further investigation into the other higher quality goods she sold.
As the first customers began to appear in the market, she smiled and stood up, and the many other vendors did. It was going to be another warm day. Perhaps she would use magic to keep herself cool, it really all depended upon how the day's sales went.