The man blinks rapidly as he focuses on Sicarius.
"Called Owlbear," he says, seeming surprised you're talking to him. "Who are you?"
Sicarius shrugs. "Most call me 'Brood'." He gestures to the man's artificial plumage, "This how pirates dole out punishment?"
He looks confused for a second.
"Is funny joke, yes? Haha?" the man replies.
Sicarius shakes his head and shrugs, "No."
"Oh. Sorry?" The man's face falls a bit as Brood doesn't seem amused by his circumstances.
"Why'd they do this to you?" The question is offered in a flat tone, not one of concern or compassion.
"I take your meaning well, Sandara Quinn. If I'm ever in a position to help you, consider it done. I believe most of my fellow press'd are decent sorts, as well. Though I'd not take everything the dwarf says to heart and I'm really not excited about eating his cooking. I'd best get back to work, but suffice it to say: I am your ally."
Fort save (bonus vs. poison) vs. DC 5 Addiction
Cargas drinks and works, quite happy to be doing some work and finding a place to fit in. He doesn't want to work down in the kitchens all the time, but there are worse jobs on the ship...like bilging.
He nods and grunts at Ambrose's stories, happy to have talk to pass the day. When he can get a word in edgewise, he relates his own (short) life history upon vessels and at sea.
"So you want to be a pirate?"
Cargas shrugs and begins to peel potatoes.
"I don't know that I want to be a pirate. I don't mind being on ships or on the water, but this is better than portering for coppers. Might be able to make enough coin to buy my own boat. Wouldn't that be keen? Har!"
"<Wurmwood> is poison?"
Wurmwood? That's the name of this boat? Huh...I missed that. They all look the same from the inside.
Cargas appreciates the man's words and listens intently to the warnings. He has endured his entire life and he would continue to endure. It was his nature. He would endure this pirate ship, not that he minded being here. He would live and enjoy and make the best of things...as long as he was on the sea.
""That ain't your monkey anymore, boy. That's the captain's now."
Ain't nobody's monkey, boys. Ain't a possession, just possessed.
Nim holds his tongue, and grimaces, and keeps walking.
...
"Monkeyboy, you're in the bilges. Probably nothing new for you, so you should be good at it."
Hearing Gezza acknowledge orders respectfully, the half-orc does the same.
"Oh, aye, sir. Elephant dung heaps, deer carcasses... the Bilge should prove no worse... what's the Bilge?" Getting to where he's gotta get, he gets to it, whatever it is.
Whether his supervisors keep him from interacting with Magilla before or after he bilges, Nim tries his best to show his mug to the glum ape every so often, throwing the universal gesture of 'wait', which always results in an almost-human return gesture of aggravation.
Nim is rudely directed to the lowest deck of the ship, where he discovers the bilges are a foul, damp place with thick cobwebs above and 1–2 feet of dark, brackish water that stinks abominably below. A ladder leads up to a trap door that opens in the lower hold and a single bilge pump rests near the stern.
Six sets of manacles are fixed to the bulkheads in the forward portion of the deck, and the half-orc discovers a dirty, draggled man with shaggy blond hair locked up in one of the sets. He looks up listlessly as Nim enters.
"Ho. Hu. This is just... no way to get the air down here up there, and vice versa..." Nim's already adapting eyes take in the shaggy man. He minds his distance, eyeballing the chains, and gauging the pull, should the man get hostile on him.
"Uh, sorry. I was the only one sent down here to work the Bilge. I'm likely to make some noise, so I'll just apologize now for my presence here. They toss you down here for something?"
The half-orc moves to the pump, and tries it out, incompetently. He works on it long enough to listen for his oppressors to retreat, before he stops trying on the pump. He inspects the quarters as thoroughly as he can.
"No, I'm here because I like the smell, you moron," the man snarls at Nim. "It's good for my health."
A number of discarded crates and boxes packed with straw lie in the bilges, and Nim can quickly spot a suit of leather armor, three heavy maces, and 12 sp. In addition, he notices what he thinks must be a tanglefoot bag. There may be more, but before he can get a chance to look he feels something brush his neck, and realizes a spider -- about the size of his first -- has dropped from the webs above!
Before he can react, he feels a sting as it bites him.
Nim spins in place, trying to edge off of the spider's proximity, while reaching down to grab a mace He hauls off on the spider, hoping to make an example of this one so the likely brethren think twice before descending...
He looks over at the shackled man. "Spiders, too, eh? Good for the health... sure..." Nim makes sure to give plenty of time to watch for further guerrilla tactics rendered by spiders.
His hands sweaty, and the bilge pump resisting his attempts at cooperation much like the shackled man, Nim gets bored, and tries to engage his fellow Bilger.
"How much longer they gonna keep you down here? Why aren't they making you do grunt work like the rest of us? You try and put up a fight with Plugg and his crew?"
You manage to shove it off you and it skitters away; you keep your eye out for more of the vermin as you work but no more seem interested in dive-bombing you.
The man seems no more amenable to Nimrod's later questions than his earlier ones.
"You don't shut up, do you?" he snarls. "Just let a man suffer in peace; I shouldn't have to have it made worse by your constant bloody yapping!"
He refuses to speak to you for the rest of the day.
Nim frowns, has plenty to say, but swallows it. Swallows it all, like his present, inescapable condition. 'Bloody yapping'?! A guy can't try and hold up his end of a conversation these days without gettin' chewed out... fine, then, I can keep my yaptrap shut...
The half-orc buckles down, and keeps beating on the pump, for what little good it does him. No more than two minutes later, Nim starts a low growl-hum to himself, pushing down on the pump with a low note, then pulling up as his pitch rises. Low, swoop high, swoop low, swoop high... he forgets the delinquent is in the same room as he, until his muscles give out, and he's forced to sit opposite, and stare around.
As the day winds down, a lean half-orc woman with a vicious scar across her neck enters the galley, nodding to Cargas as she moves through into what turns out to be the quartermaster's store.
"Fishguts," she greets the talkative cook, who nods back to her, "Cut-throat."
Moments later, a bell rings out, signaling the end of the first workday aboard the Wormwood and you see sailors stopping their tasks.
All of you are summoned to the deck, greeted by Plugg's scowl as you're shepherded to join the other sailors, his glare falling particularly hard on Budoz.
"I don't know what you thought you were doing up there, but that was a disaster. Do that piss-poor tomorrow and I'll have you on the whipping post!", he barks, gesturing to the mainmast and making clear the purpose of the thick ropes secured to the foot of the shaft.
Soon enough, though, his attention turns as Master Scourge and two of his ruffians emerge, then, a grime-streaked young man in between them, his wrists bound before him. Nimrod recognized the filthy sailor as the man chained up in the bilges earlier.
The beauty of a sunset over the open sea is soon lost as the reason for the gathering is seen. Mister Plugg moves to the foreward railing of the poop deck, his voice ringing out and quieting the din. " 'Ere we gather, as pirate law is enacted ba'fore us. For ya' new ones, this is the Bloody Hour, when all yer slouchin' durin' the day comes ta' call. No lashes tonight though, as we got another manner ta' attend to."
"This 'ere's Jakes Magpie, who we caught stealing from the quartermaster's store the night before, as any shipmate will tell you. Ain't that right, Jakes?"
The man doesn't say anything, until a meaty fist from Scourge lands in his gut, making him double over.
"It were my stuff!"{/b] he calls out. [b]"You bastards done stole it from me first, and I was just taking it back!"
Much of the crew watches on silently, but Plugg just gives an evil grin as Jakes admits his action.
"Once you're on this ship, what's yours is ours!" he growls back. "And you know the punishment for stealin', which will be carrying out forthwith!"
He is quickly tied to a thick rope that runs the length of the ship, from stem to stern. Within moments, Jakes is set up at the front of the ship, a look of utter horror on his face. Mister Plugg and a few of his lackeys hold the other end, which is fed under the keel of the ship.
You can see the relish with which Mr Plugg, in particular, tugs at the rope.
The moment is fleeting, but it's an image that will forever be burned into your memeory. The appearance of Jakes, bedraggled and beaten but still defiant at his fate, bound by ropes as thick as a forearm, shown in a clear sunset against the harsh angles of the ship as he is yanked forward and down along the keel. Mister Plugg and his fellows pull on the ropes to drag the man along the keel, as Master Scourge and a few sap-wielding pirates keep the others in line. Over a minute passes in pregnant silence, until the body of Jakes Magpie appears at the stern of the ship, hauled up by the rope.
The body only barely resembles the human that it had been before. It has been cut to shreds by the barnacles on the keel, and Jakes' pallor suggests that he also drowned while suffering his gaping abrasions. The shredded remains are thrown overboard for the sharks.
It looks like Jakes was nearly ripped apart , which probably would have been fatal even if he hadn't drowned.
A few observations are easy to see when looking at the reactions of those on deck, especially those who are also new to the Wormwood. A female halfling looks on in feigned indifference, but she has to look away with a gasp at the end. A tall man missing an ear (half hidden under a bandana) looks on in true indifference, his eyes glaring at Scourge and Plugg whenever he doesn't feel that they're looking. And, a gnomish man with a particularly foppish hat and an eyepatch sneer and turns away. He tries to console the halfling woman, but is pushed away.
"Gozreh's teats!" Gezza mutters as he sees the state of the man's corpse after he is hauled up. He tries to keep silent, but the curse escapes him before he can stop himself. He's seen worse; hell, he's been elbow deep in worse, but never something like this, never something someone did for simple theft.
His eyes seek elsewhere to look and he stops the halfling and gnome, the tall man with the missing ear. He notes them, remembering what Sandara said earlier about allies and friends.
Sicarius observes the ritual killing with a building anger, which he does little to hide as he watches Plugg and his cronies.
The sharks are going to be awfully fat when everyone who needs to die on this damned boat is dead.
The elf glances around then, obviously in thought.
He needs to die. Him too. And him. The four who were press ganged with me are ok. No, wait. The dwarf can definitely die. That one there needs to go too. Probably that red-head too.
A frown further deepens the look of disdain that clouds his face then.
Need to figure out how many are needed to run a crap-boat like this first. Don't want to kill too many and be stuck with a boat that doesn't move.
Nim makes the quick association of 'shackled man' and his fate, his face turning solemn as he realizes he brought no joy to the man in his last hours of life. I didn't have a chance with him, lifting his spirits... Well, that wasn't on me then...
He turns his gaze from Plugg and his thugs, and observes the others present on this deathwatch. This grand guignol. No whipping tonight, thanks to Jakes. At least he heard that before he was killed.
The half-orc waits for some sign that they are released to their rest for the night.
"Fishguts," she greets the talkative cook, who nods back to her, "Cut-throat."
Cargas notes the half-woman, then goes back to his 'cooking'.
"Who dat?" Cargas asks when the woman is gone. "Is she a decent sort or like them whippers above?"
* * *
Perception
Cargas watches with interest, watching the faces of the others more than that of poor Jakes.
"He was too dumb to survive, clearly," Cargas says, smelling of alcohol and galley work. "He fits in with the lot of us, I guess."
Cargas gives Jakes' body a middle finger salute as it is tossed to the sharks.
"That's Cut-Throat Grok, our quartermaster. She's a good lass, holds 'er drink well. She's tough, though; you don't wanna cross 'er."
With the Bloody Hour apparently concluded, dinner is brought up and Plugg moves back up to the poop deck, where the Captain presumably sits along with some of the other officers.
Fishguts emerges from below with dinner, which the pirates eagerly grab -- porridge flecked with chunks of ham that's satisfying fare after the long day -- and afterward Grok emerges, lugging a large bucket. The deepening sun casts her body's shadow over the main deck, giving an ominous appearance that looms over the gathered shipmates. Her grin, as she sets the barrel down, is hideous, although it appears genuine.
"Rum's topside, ya' dogs! Draw up yer strumpets and roll out yer best set a' fancy clothes, cause its rum ration time!" she calls out.
Grok pours herself a tin cup and takes a long pull before turning to head back down the stairs with Fishguts. Master Scourge and the other officers take their cups soon after, watching to make sure each of the sailors follows suit.
Sated, several of the pirates head below, to their several groups of pirates gather at various spots on the deck. You can see several people around Scourge: the fat human and big half-orc you encountered this morning, along with a male dwarf with a large, ugly nose, a big Rahadoumi man, and a couple human women.
Several others gather around what appears to be an impromptu arm wrestling bout, pulling out a barrel which they cover with broken glass. Sandara watches, along with a muscled halfling lass and the gnome in a foppish purple hat, an eye patch, and a white silk shirt,
who she rejected earlier, as an older half-elf woman whose gray hair is shaved into stripes gets in position with a tall Mwangi woman. Several exchange bets and all seem in high spirits thanks to the strong rum.
You appear to be free to do what you want, whether that's to join in the gambling/game; talk to your new crewmates (including each other); explore the ship; or go to bed.
Standing on one of his own personal principles, though none there could possibly know it, Sicarius dips a cup into the rum barrel then walks away. Taking a sniff of the rum, his face twists in disgust and he hands it off to the nearest person, making no attempt to be discreet.
Sicarius' intended recipient -- a woman with big ears -- scowls at him.
"Drink your own damn grog, long ears," she calls out in a voice loud enough to be heard and easily attracting Scourge's attention, who walks in the elf's direction.
"That's six lashes, you don't drink," he growls, fingering his whip to see Sicarius' reaction.
Cargas, already somewhat tipsy from his work in the kitchen, doesn't have a 2nd thought as he downs his grog.
Fort Save - con damage
Cargas watches the fight but feels he's seen enough for the day. He's survived. He's drunk some. He's alive. And that was good enough. He goes to bed.
Though he says nothing, Budos makes a promise to himself as Jake's body is hauled across the deck. The captain o' mean and his officers will pay for that!
His gaze adverted, the half orc looks for the reactions as his shipmates and is pleased to see the recently shanghaied elf and human share his disgust. Thems I can trust as much as any in this place
later...
Budos takes his cup of rum, but waits until attention is diverted and quickly dumps the contents.
His day has nearly exhausted him and Bud retires to his hammock without engaging in the evening's activities.
Sicarius meets Scourge's gaze then nods, apparently finding the deal acceptable. He pulls off his shirt to accept the lashes without argument or complaint, revealing the surprising bulk of his chest and shoulder once the loose clothing is free. Additionally, a skull and crossbones, Besmara's mark, is clear to see between his shoulder blades. Unaware that the birthmark has any significance, and even more unlikely that Scourge and his ilk would even care, Sicarius prepares for the bite of the whip.
"Well, boys, looks like it's back to the Bloody Hour," Scourge announces, gesturing for the big half-orc and shaved human to drag the elf to the whipping pole. One he's situated, the man let loose with his whip.
After three lashes, each stripping lengths of bloody flesh from Brood's back, the elf mercilessly falls unconscious. Looking frustrated, Scourge turns away.
"A little rum'll put hair on your chest. Don't drink and this's what you get! Someone tell him that next time it'll be worse and I won't stop when he falls over."
He spits on the prone elf's form and leaves him to the rest of the crew's tender mercy.
HP: 6/9 + 9 non-lethal
AC: 14 (14 T / 10 FF)
CMD: 15
F/R/W: +2/+3/+2 (+2 vs enchantment, immune sleep)
Arcane Pool used: 0/4
Besmara's Blessing (1/week): [ ]
Spells Prepared:
Cantrips (2) - acid splash, daze
Level 1 (0+1) - magic missile [ ]
Ongoing Effects
Gezza takes the rum and drains it in a long pull, wincing when he tastes the foul swill.
Gezza's face lights up after a moment. "Nine Hells, I could get used to that!" Feeling oddly friendly, he still winces when the red elf gets his lashes he moves forward when the elf falls and kneels over him, checking him for life and status. He'll try to lever the elf up as best he can and walk him belowdecks, finding a bunk for him where he can lay him face down. Using whatever items he can scrounge, he'll do his best to make a poultice for his wounds. and
Still feeling friendly, but falling back into his old role as caretaker, he'll take up a bunk where he can keep an eye on the elf and pull out the two books that Sandara gave him and see if he can figure out what the second book is.
As Sicarius comes to a little later, his eyes open but he doesn't move as he tries to mentally take stock of his injuries and determine his whereabouts. Feeling raw pain still radiating through his bare back, he slowly levers himself up to a sitting position, realizing as he does so that his wounds have been lightly treated.
Seeing the human with the pinched face look up from a book at his movement, Sicarius asks gruffly, "My back's been treated. That you?"
Nim watches as the sailors cup up, and realizes the obligation in the situation. He lines up quickly enough, and takes up his own cup, downing it easily enough.
Idiots, the lot of them. Jakes, for getting caught, and now Pointy-Ears, for not sucking back some rum. It's like they're done with this life, and crave the hug of Pharasma Herself.
Fighting off his fatigue, he loses, as the rum seeps into his brain pan. Now exhausted, Nim considers socializing around the wrestling match.
He drags himself over, nodding politely to those gathered up. Head a little heady from the rum, he sidles up to one of the three watching the women wrestle.
"How're you this evenin', miss? Sea life looks like it suits you. Not sure about it for me, yet. Can't seem to get the bilgewater smell outta my mocassins. Name's Nim. I don't have yours... yet." Nim smiles, his eyes halfway to closing. "My bet's one the half-elf. Gotta stay true to the halves of the world. No really, I've still got 12 silver on me that they let me keep, and I'd be willing to throw that down on the Silver Fox."
He watches each of the three's facial expressions to categorize those who categorize him for his orc nature.
Gezza looks up from the book and notes the elf's condition automatically. "As much as I could, yes. If I had actual supplies I could help a bit more, but... We're in this together, elf. I figure my best chance of living through this berth is to make certain I have allies." He nods to the second book he's browsing. "I don't suppose you know which of our recent comrades this book belongs to, would you? The red-head, Sandara, managed to smuggle my spell book and this one from the Quartermaster. Best to keep them hidden, but having magic in my head again makes me feel a great deal less vulnerable."
The elf gives the human a curious look, his gaze intense. "Gezza, right? Thanks." He rolls his shoulders gingerly, testing the tenderness of his back, but stops after only an inch of motion. "Hurts more than I'd expected." He then waves at the other book in Gezza's hand, the gesture a request to pass the tome over. "Might be mine."
Gezza smiles and hands the book over. "Call me Redfingers. It's my nickname from the last ship I served on. On account of things like your back; I was carpenter and surgeon."
Cargas stops to watch Brood's reddening. He notes that the weak-backed elf only hangs around for 3 swings before his body sags limply.
Only 3 lashes of the 6 delivered. The man shows some mercy. Hmmm...
If Redfingers needs help dragging the elf below, Cargas will help. But otherwise he makes his way to his own bed and tries to sleep...if others weren't talking all around him.
"Do me a fav, Redfingers, and keep your damn voice down. You make sounds like a seagull being mated upon by a sealion," Cargas says, the weight of the day's work and drink coming over him.
Brood looks at the dwarf then back to Redfingers, a questioning arch to his eyebrow. "I think he said you sound like his mother." Turning back to the dwarf, he adds, "You want him to sing you a lullaby?"
"Aw, let the poor man be. I'm not sure what he put in the stew, but at least it was edible. And mostly unrecognizable as anyone I knew. And besides, he's just intimidated by our obvious beauty and charm. It happens." Gezza quips, smiling widely.
"You want him to sing you a lullaby?"
Cargas frowns, thinking of mum. He nods appreciatively to Gezza for the compliment.
"Nah, I don't need no more singing. The sounds of that whip hitting your back will put me right to sleep," Cargas answers, turning over. "Remember those lashes, Elf? Don't worry, I'm sure I'll get my own soon enough. But for now, that's all I need to hear."
Why the whips? I'll break them up their arses, I will.
The elf nods, "I'll likely taste the whip again tomorrow if that's the cost of not drinking that rum."
Budos picks up bits of the conversation from his hammock as he quietly observes the trio. Redfingers is a good chap, and the elf has courage. The dwarf has diarrhea of the mouth, which is likely to keep me alive longer as he'll get the brunt of punishment.
"Oye, lads" the half orc growls in a low voice, "Try not to get yerselves killed too quickly. Them other 'passengers' can't be none too happy with Captain Meanie and his little wienies. If we's play our cards right we'll have our opportunity to get off this cursed tub, and maybe with a few coins from their treasure chest." The big man grins, easily his largest smile since discovering there was no breakfast this morning.
"To that point, I had a visit from the redhead, Sandara Quinn. She's an ally, and I believe the halfling woman, fancy gnome and the tall man with the missing ear might be as well." He keeps his voice pitched low, so as not to carry too far. "I think it's a good idea to keep our heads down. So that means take the rum, elf and toss it overboard when no one's watching. Or give it to me, I'll drink the stuff. I'd had worse."
Brood shrugs, conceding the half-orc and human's point. He then frowns deeply and glances angrily over his shoulder, the gesture having awoken the stripes across his back once more. Shaking his head he looks over at the half-orc, "Most call me 'Brood'." He nods to the human and dwarf, "Redfingers and Awful's names I caught earlier. You're the one that wanted breakfast, right?"
As you haul the unconscious elf's form down, Gezza begins tending him only to be interrupted by the redheaded woman, Sandara Quinn.
She looks over the elf's wounds, eyes lingering on his skull-and-bones birthmark. She seems to hesitate for a few moments, then nudges Gezza aside with a well-shaped hip.
"Here, let me. This'll do the lot of you good, I guess."
She concentrates for a moment, clutching the ebony skull-and-crossbones at her neck and you feel a sudden surge of energy, healing away your aches and pains. The elf emerges from unconsciousness, the worst of the lash marks on his back suddenly gone.
"Redfingers is right," she says quietly to the collected group. "This is a dangerous place, and you've already made an enemy of that bilge-sucker Scourge. Worse, he may be able to get away with killing you in the line of duty. Besmara'll give us a chance eventually, but she won't smile on you if you get yourself killed for no reason."
The muscular halfling grins up at Nim.
"Rosie Cusswell," she responds.
"And that's Badger," she says with a smile, of the gray-haired woman. "And, sure, I'll take your shiny bits, once you show 'em to me. I doubt those scurvy bastards left you with two pieces of copper to rub together, much less silver, when they brought you on board. But if you do manage to get some, I'll be happy to take 'em off your hands then."
Nim, none of them seem to be paying that much attention to you, other than Rosie.
As he feels his flesh knit back together, the elf nods to the curvaceous woman and nods appreciatively, "Thanks." He then raises his spellbook to indicate it as well and adds, "For this too." He pauses for another moment then asks, "Who's Besmara?" Though his tone is gruff, it's also plain that his question is an honest one.
HP: 9/9 + 3 non-lethal
AC: 14 (14 T / 10 FF)
CMD: 15
F/R/W: +2/+3/+2 (+2 vs enchantment, immune sleep)
Arcane Pool used: 0/4
Besmara's Blessing (1/week): [ ]
Spells Prepared:
Cantrips (2) - acid splash, daze
Level 1 (0+1) - magic missile [ ]
Ongoing Effects
Gezza nods as Sandara hip-checks him out of the way. "Your way is certainly quicker than mine, Miss Quinn. And involves less stitching afterwards."
"Never been much of a religious man, but I'll take whatever help I can get. Now, I'm to bed. I have some studying to do come first light."
While finishing his measly work in the Bilge, Nim collects the silver he tripped across, casually, while the shackled man's head is bowed. He marks the armor and maces for later use, should it ever come to that.
"And, sure, I'll take your shiny bits, once you show 'em to me."
Nim leans down to scratch at his moccasins, and when he rises, he flashes the Silver at Rosie, reasonably sure that the others aren't watching their quiet transaction.
"Like I said, on the half-elf. With a name like 'Badger', I think my bet's better than before."
Cargas rolls over to watch the halfling and her healing. He feels better, too, after his totally-unearned whipping with Scrouge's cat-o-nine tails.
Which one is named Sanders? I knew another halfling named Sanders. He married a pirate named Louly.
"Thankya Blessmara." Cargas whispers, his mind already again drifting off.
The redhead's eyes widen a moment at Brood's questions.
"Besmara's the Pirate Queen, the goddess of pirates and sea monsters. This symbol --" she rubs lightly calloused fingertips over Brood's birthmark -- "is hers. I'm surprised you didn't know."
Rosie grins at Nim.
"Impressive. I thought you were just talking s@+!, but sure, I'll take your bet."
Her grin only grows as after a little back and forth Shivikah slams Badger's arm down onto the sharp surface, drawing a curse from the now-bloody half-elf along with several other pirates who clearly bet against the Mwangi woman.
Rosie holds out her hand and takes the coins.
"Be worth a jig if I only had my fiddle," she laments for a moment, "but worth celebrating anyway. I could get used to betting with you, friend."
The merry-making goes on for another hour or two before the pirates eventually tire and start making for their hammocks below.
Nim shakes his head, a sheepish grin showing more tusk than he's used to. "Easy come, easy go." He shakes Rosie's hand, his palm greased with his, then her, silver. "Don't go spending it all in one place." He snorts, surprised that, for a moment, the silver bought him some ignorance of his circumstance. Genuine mirth...here? Smelling of bilgewater, smelling of rum... Then again, the saltwater doesn't offend, and neither does her smile. I could get used to betting with her. She's likely not to kill me in my sleep, if I keep proving a good source of income. She's one less I need to worry about... now who... who am I kidding? I need sleep.
Nim makes his way slowly down to the hammocks. He's about to take the next set of steps down, when the cage rattles. Hard. He forces himself to look over, then forces himself to walk over and settle the ape down.
He presses his palms down.
The ape spits at him. He pressed down again. The ape bares his teeth, and spits again. The ape then starts to bend the bars of his cage, making an easily passable opening in the stage-quality soft metal that makes up the bars of his 'cage'. Nim gestures frantically, miming the bars being pushed together again, as he looks over his shoulder for unwanted company.
Close Bad Kill Ape
Magilla looks through his easy opening, grunts, then bends the bars back to mostly straight. Big hands come away from the metal, then settle into his lap. Nim gestures 'pull apart', 'pull open', several times. Then he gestures a snapping of the bars, and shakes his head in frustration. The ape seems to understand, but is no happier for the caution. The half-orc reaches through the bars, patting the ape on the head firmly and slowly, then moves away and down the steps, finding the nearest hammock, and falling into it with a slow grace.
In no time, Nim is rattling lips 'round his tusks with sizeable snoring.