You can't take the sky from me
Aeru used to be a big place. Well, maybe it still is, but the way things keep changing … makes it hard for a freebooting aership captain to make a decent living. Used to be a hard-working crew could find good work easy enough. All you needed was your ship, some aerum, a decent reputation, and a few connections.
The War changed things, though. Sure, aership technology is way better. You see birds flying these days that are damn impressive. But there’s so damn many of them. And those that aren’t flying the colors of some Realm's military or another have the registry marks of some heavy-hitter fat cat business tycoon painted across their hull. Fleets numbered in the dozens … if not hundreds, all across the Realms. Who can compete with that?
Then again, there is the Celebration this coming month up in Raventon. Sure, dealing in a city that size always comes with its own difficulties. Taxes. Papers. Procedures. But with that many people flocking to a city that size to see Royal Family parade around the Crown Prince’s new fiancé … that’s a lot of cash in one place. And that always brings opportunity. Not to mention the military, commercial, and logistical needs of such opulence. And you can bet your best hat that the fat cats won’t compete for the … jobs of a less respectable nature.
Yep, Raventon might be just the place...
.
A simple job
Two moons hang high in the clear, cold fall night sky. One big. Full. Proud. The other hides, shy and distant—a thin crescent just above the darkened profiles of the low Ponts Range peaks. With no clouds and two moons, the rugged landscape was cast in a soft silver-blue light … a pilot’s dream and a pirate’s nightmare.
The Grey Kestrel’s engines thrum contentedly as she slides through the night, slipping easily along the outskirts of the higher ranges of these northern Lassaian mountains. Ambrose sits contentedly at the yolk. He swears this is her favorite altitude … something about the thickness of the air being just right for her. Thin enough for her to feel light. Thick enough for her props to pull her easily along.
Callum leans comfortably against the metal wall of her cozy bridge, feeling the Kestrel’s engines purr as she shifts in the air, watching the mountains slide quickly by to port. He was forced to admit that he couldn’t argue with the thick Dunman. The ship did seem to fly better on nights and altitudes like this. Most transports of her class and scale—not to mention the ungainly military ships he’d served aboard a few years back—were bulky things. This girl had always felt fast and quick by comparison. And tonight, she absolutely soared.
He pulls an oft-folded piece of paper from his pocket, reading it for the dozenth time.
SPENT SOME TIME IN BADGER LOPE STOP MUM SAYS HI STOP HAD A
PINT WITH GRAGE AT LOCAL JOINT STOP HE NEEDS A TRAVEL
SUITCASE STOP NOTHING FANCY JUST A SIMPLE JOB
It was from Rabbit. The man would drop a small fortune to buy a new hat (which usually looked like all his other hats), but he wouldn’t spend the coin to send a decently-worded wire. Well, it seemed straightforward enough. And, even if it was an illegal job (indicated by his eye-rollingly obvious "mum" reference), it was a simple job. Though ... it was Rabbit.
Across the small confines of the bridge, Dr. E. Evelyn Long looks up from a small book to run a critical eye over his navigator’s tools. Where Ambrose’s pilot’s seat is half-encircled with the yolk, dials, knobs, levers, and switches necessary for his job, Long’s chair has easy reach to a whole additional wall of charts, readouts, panels, and clipboards full of notes in his precise handwriting calculating their location, speed, and bearing … not to mention the maps of various sizes clamped to walls and a small table. He checks the hands of his onboard clock, then pulls his own pocket-watch to double-check. Whatever it was that needed checking, he seems to approve as he looks up and out the front glass expectantly.
As if on cue, Ambrose banks the Kestrel softly as they round a particularly large peak in the range… and their destination slides into view. Badger Lope.
You’d suspect with the big happenings over in Raventon, these local ‘lawmen’ are likely to be on full alert tonight and in the coming weeks.
The small town—really nothing more than a couple dozen homes and shacks clinging precariously to the side of the mountain, and at this time of night looking like little more than a shadow on the mountain pinpricked with little lights—had only a single landing pad of any size. Though by the looks, there isn’t only one deal happening here tonight. Being over a week's flight by freight-speed out of Raventon was one of the few things this tiny place had going for it. Small enough to be overlooked. Close enough to be convenient to make hand-offs. And yet far enough that Raventon authorities wouldn’t track just any rumor or lead out here.
With their destination only minutes away, the energy on-ship changes. It's time to see about a simple job.
Doc Long - often just called just 'Doc', 'Long', EE, or Eel (a bastardization of his initials) - stretches his back briefly then consults his watch one final time and gives it a wind. He snaps it shut and pushes it into the pocket built for the purpose in his slate grey waistcoat, only the fob and chain left showing. From beneath the navigation desk, he pulls Gladys and her holster free from their cubby hole. Doc half pulls the long-barreled pistol from the sheath and makes sure she is loaded before sliding her back into her holster and attaching the rig to the left-front of his belt. Because of her barrel length, Long found it easier to draw her across his body and had adopted the odd 'belly gun' carry position as most efficient.
Long pulls his dress coat from the back of his chair as he gets up. He throws the longish, dark grey woolen coat on, and straightens it so it sits properly... not that Raventon is the height of fashion. By long tradition, he touches his sleeve to confirm the weighty presence of Gladys' backup.
All things seeming right, Long pulls the scabbard of his rapier from the umbrella stand secured to the wall. He straps the thin blade at his right hip, brushing a bit of dust from the small dark crystal skull that sits on the end of the grip. Finally, the middle-aged professor runs a hand over his greying moustache and beard to smooth the hair, another of his pre-disembarcation rituals.
He gauges the ship's approach to the landing field, always impressed with the pilot's deft handling - far better than his own. "Touchdown in four minutes minus, Ambrose?" It was more a subtle compliment than a useful observation.
Zedd walks onto the bridge, wiping sweat from his brow with a grease-stained rag. The hulking man gives a quick nod to the Doc before addressing the Captain:
"Bingo's ready to roll in case we need her, sir. Not that we're gonna have any trouble on this job, though, right?"
He smiles his crooked, shark-like grin for a moment before it fades.
"Ambrose, how many times I gotta tell you to keep your damn dogs out of my docking bay? Whole place smells like piss and slobber. "
"Touchdown in four minutes minus, Ambrose?"
Sounds right, Doc. Cap'n, what'd you say this town was called? I think we're here, but here don't look like much.
Ambrose, one hand on the controls, pats Rowena's head absentmindedly. Standing poised at attention, she looks more focused on the task at hand than the rotund pilot. Elsie and Hester run around more freely, with the former crashing into Zedd as he approaches.
"Ambrose, how many times I gotta tell you to keep your damn dogs out of my docking bay? Whole place smells like piss and slobber. "
Ambrose watches the skies and the ever-approaching landing pad, not turning his gaze to the fighter pilot as he responds: See, now there you go again, being all territorial-like. The docking bay is inside the Kestrel, so Rowena didn't piss on your property, strictly speaking. And if you didn't try to act like the bay was yours to begin with, she wouldn't feel the need to relieve herself there. As for Elsie, well, stop feeding her or she'll never leave you alone. But don't worry, I'll just tell the girls to grow wings and fly formation next time they gotta go.
Doc smiles at the on-going banter between the pilots. But he warms to the subject of the town ahead, "It's called Badger Lope. It was a civilian town that supported a military base up-mountain. The base was abandoned some time ago and the town has been on its own ever since. Now, it serves smugglers, mercenaries, and various unsavory people. Yes, a wretched hive full of scum and villainy... you'll love it."
Doc's retort shakes Callum from his reverie. "I seem to recall it used to have a more respectable name, too. Good riddance."
Tucking the the missive into his vest pocket, he eyes the port, filling their view as they approach. "Looks like Rabbit's got another job lined up, so there won't be much time to sample the local culture, anyway."
Doc's retort shakes Callum from his reverie. "I seem to recall it used to have a more respectable name, too. Good riddance."
Tucking the the missive into his vest pocket, he eyes the port, filling their view as they approach. "Looks like Rabbit's got another job lined up, so there won't be much time to sample the local culture, anyway."
What about local food? Wouldn't mind a decent meal when we stretch our legs, no offense to Gizmo's cooking.
Ambrose throws his armored coat over his dog-hair covered shirt, then slings his shotgun over his shoulder into the holster.
Then, muttering to himself: Where'd I put my axe...
Doc lets out a mock-offended snort. "Gilly's cooking is... noteworthy. Engine grease as a condiment? Genius. And I thought her use of those duck-billed calipers as salad tongs was really quite inspired."
Ambrose lets out a hearty laugh, then replies: Improvisation is the mark of true genius, as they say. Say, Captain, doesn't look like anyone's here to greet us. You reckon any of these 'unsavories' Doc was talking about are waitin' for us, got designs on stealing themselves a bird? The thought makes me afraid to leave our girl alone.
"You reckon any of these 'unsavories' Doc was talking about are waitin' for us, got designs on stealing themselves a bird? The thought makes me afraid to leave our girl alone.
"I figure the dog hair alone would make them think twice."
Checking the straps on his low-slung hip holster, he seats his revolver in firmly and brushes imaginary dust from his boot, surreptitiously feeling for the holdout pistol hidden within - an act more of habit than paranoia. He pulls his silver pocket watch from his vest, flipping it open and closed in a habitual way, then tucks it into his lockbox near bridge hatch, counting out a handful of coins before shutting it with a metallic click.
"We'll meet up with Grage, and see what this 'simple job' is all about."
Zedd adjusts his bandoleer and tightens the holster holding his pistol.
"If anyone's dumb enough to try to take this here bird, I reckon Doc'll just wave his hands and say a few choice words and make 'em give it back. I'm not too concerned about her. What I am concerned about is if we are gonna have any time for pleasure, or if this is strictly a business trip. This place doesn't look like much, but I bet I could find some trouble to get into if I looked hard enough."
The pilot grins his and picks his teeth with a filthy finger.
"It's the stack of bills I sometimes wave - not my hands - that does the trick, Zedd. And my charm is generally 'assisted' by the hardware you gentlemen bring to the party." He glances appreciatively at the weapons every crewman carries, "Everything else is just smoke and mirrors."
Gizmo stomps onto the bridge with a gait outsized to her tiny figure. The little halfling is, as usual, dressed in heavy canvas overalls festooned with toolbelts and tools and a dozen bottles of probably-dangerous chemicals.
A pair of bulky goggles cover half her face. Gizmo pushes them up with grease-stained fingers and squints out the viewport. She wrinkles her nose. Place like this, prolly not even a chop-shop worthy of the name to pick up any of her ever-growing list of parts and tools she'd like.
'Course, not like she has the coin for it right now anyway.
"Well let's do it an' get done an' get paid an' get back to somewhere worth buyin' things with it. 'm almost outta smokes."
You're all just lucky she didn't hear you talking about her cooking.
Ambrose sets the Kestrel down gently on a dark corner of the landing pad. A half-dozen other ships ranging in size from a personal run-around to a couple of trader vessels up to nearly twice the size of your own aership .
As the team cracks jokes and prepares for the meet-up, a pair of men step out of the shadows across the pad. At this distance and in the dark, not much about them is discernible. One is tall and long-limbed, the other of a thicker build. As they wind their way purposefully around other ships and across the pad towards you, details begin to emerge … though nothing surprising.They look like locals. Nothing but their bearing and confidence mark them as any kind of authority, but they move with a habitual purpose. Both carry rifles on straps over their shoulder, though neither weapon looks remarkable in the darkness.
You watch them make their way to the aft-starboard section of the ship, stopping to wait for you to meet them with a bit of foot stomping and breathing into gloved hands to keep the chill away.
"...Are gonna have any time for pleasure, or if this is strictly a business trip. This place doesn't look like much, but I bet I could find some trouble to get into if I looked hard enough."
"I was gonna suggest a quick pick-up-and-go, but seeing as we've attracted the attention of what I assume passes for the law around here... let's see what they want. Ambrose, keep her running, for now. Giz,Tiny - let's go meet the welcome wagon."
"I'm with you cap. We wouldn't wanna be rude and keep em waiting. Heh."
Doc indicates a readiness to stretch his legs on the tarmac. "Be on your best behavior. The local 'law', as I recall, are the gang or gangs that run Badger Lope, now. So they may not bother with niceties like due process, warrants, or just cause."
"Be on your best behavior. The local 'law', as I recall, are the gang or gangs that run Badger Lope, now. So they may not bother with niceties like due process, warrants, or just cause."
"I hate paperwork, anyway." Callum flashes his smarmy crew a lopsided grin, and activates the switch for lowering the cargo ramp. Donning his leather-patched duster, he heads out to meet the shady pair with crew in tow.
Ambrose, keep her running, for now. Giz,Tiny - let's go meet the welcome wagon."[/b]
Will do, Captain,
Ambrose says, painting a comical sight as he crouches on all fours under the control panel, searching for something. A few moments and he dusts himself off, standing, as he hooks an axe onto his belt and straps a leather case around one leg.
Ah, there it is! Captain, do you mind if me and Rowena have a look at our gracious hosts, too? Somebody has to lend an air of dignity to this lot, and Rowe just might do it...
C'mere, girls. Ambrose says, in a quiet but firm tone. He points to the controls.
Elsie, GUARD. Hester, STAY. Rowena, c'mon girl, let's go meet the local authorities. She follows at his heels, ready, as Ambrose grabs a net hanging nearby and slings it over a shoulder.
The ramp slowly and loudly ratchets down into the waiting night, bathing the surrounding aerships and two locals in the orange, ruddy light of the cargo bay’s electric bulb. The two men shield their eyes and squint up at you. Revealed in the light of your ship, the two don’t look like much more than you expected.
They give each of you a quick look, noting the obvious weaponry, then the dog. The shorter man looks past you at Bingo, but doesn’t comment.
”Welcome to Badger Lope,” the taller man says in the rolling, mouth-full-of-marbles way of most Karstaan folk . ”Not many people arriving this time’a night. I’ll need your name, ship, and business here before I can let you come down.” He gives a shrug and blows into his hands one more time before finishing, ”Lots of business in town, you know. The boss likes to keep an eye out.”
Cal puts on his proudest grin, walking casually down the ramp and forcing a jovial tone and less-dignified drawl into his voice. "Sure, sure, we know the drill. I'm Callum Rhen, cap'n of the Grey Kestrel..." He gestures to the ship with a thumb. "Been out on a long haul, and my crew's been getting itchy. Figure I'd better give 'em some leave, before they go all sky-crazy and wreck my baby."
Leaning in to the pair with a wide grin, "They could see the lights from the 'Lope, and I knew if I didn't put down for some recreation, I'd prolly have a mutiny on my hands."
"Got a friend who told me to look up a guy named 'Grange,' next time I was around this way. You two wouldn't know where I could find him, would you?"
Gizmo lifts her little chin at the port staff, hands planted on her hips. She lets Cap'n do the talking though. She's told she can be... abrasive. Ha!
As Callum gives name and ship, the shorter man pulls out a pocket ledger and a charcoal pencil, jotting each down in a clumsy hand. The taller man, apparently the talker of the two, responds in a friendly-enough manner in that same marble-mouth accent. ”We got a few crews in-town doing the same, as you probably noticed, and I’ll give you the’same warning I did them. The boss doesn’t want any trouble, ‘kay? So you keep all those,” he points to the assortment of weapons in evidence on your crew, ”in holsters and be no problem.”
At mention of Grage, the shorter man looks back over his notes in the ledger, then holds it up to the taller man, tapping a page with a thumb. The taller man looks down and continues, not missing a beat.
”Looks like you’re in luck, captain. Your friend Grage is here.” He gives a knowing but friendly smile, showing off a set of terribly browned teeth, ”Probably not so much luck, though, no?” He’s not even finished speaking before he waves his joke off then taps his shorter friend on the shoulder. As they trudge back toward whatever dark shelter they use to watch the pad, the tall man looks back over his shoulder. ”If your friend knows you are coming tonight,” he hikes his chin up towards what looks to be the only street of any real size running through the center of town, ”he’ll probably be up at Shivers’ place. You can’t miss it.”
The locking sequence is punched in on the external pad, and the large bay door ratchets back up into place and booms to a close … leaving you all shivering in the cold light of the twin moons.
The walk is short, cold, and steep, though at least the wind is broken by the profiles of the small huts and houses on either side that cling to the steep, roughly cobbled road. In short time, the less athletic among you is winded, deep breaths immediately becoming a fine mist that is ripped away by the wind. The dim light of oil lanterns on tall street posts throw a grimy light along your path, adding their low hiss to the sound of the broken wind. Other than that, there is little sound or light coming from the small buildings you pass … unsurprising at this time of night.
True to the tall Karstaan’s thickly-accented words, however, finding Shivers’s place is fairly easy. It’s the only place that seems to have any activity. And from the outside … it looks like a dump.
A single-story building with a lonely, sputtering street lamp illuminating it’s front wood facade, Shivers’s Place must be made of sterner stuff than it looks because it doesn’t fall down in the face of the night wind. Three windows spill their light onto the cobblestones, and a set of ill-fitting double-doors hangs in the front entrance. The muted sounds of conversation and sporadic laughter mingle with a jaunty piano tune, though you’re unsure if the piano man is playing or stabbing the poor instrument. Well, maybe this is his first time to play.
The door grinds on the wooden rough stone floor as you push it open, and the noise hits you in full. The place’s interior is about what you expected … also a dump, if a lively one. There does seem to be a fair bit of business happening, and a dozen or so people sit at tables or hover at the bar. At one table, a threesome of halflings stand in their chairs and appear to be having a drinking contest with a pair of dark-haired dunmen. A few people that look like they could be locals sit around a couple of tables along one wall, watching their surroundings with a kind of tired curiosity. Traders and merchants sit at various tables, some in groups, some by themselves … it’s a strange juxtaposition to the quiet of the rest of the town.
An aging, balding, portly man stands behind the counter pouring drinks as a younger long-faced woman who looks like she could be the offspring of the barman and a horse waits tables. Other than the boy who clangs away on the shabby piano, nearly every pair of eyes in the joint at least gives you a passing glance as you enter, but the energy of the place doesn’t change.
Once again, Rabbit’s lack of detail in the wire reasserts itself. Any of these people could be Grage.
Doc notes the horse-faced woman, "Bet she's a nag."
Ah ha! Good one, Doc! Ambrose bellows, not one for stepping into a room meekly. He approaches the barman with a smile as Rowena follows him stoically.
Greetings, Mr. Shiver is it? I'll have a beer for me, and some water in a bowl for Rowena here. We'll take meat for both of us, if you have some. The name's Ambrose, and I'm looking for a fellow calls himself 'Grage'. Can you point me in his direction?
The barman leans against the back counter, jingling a few bottles. He looks at Rowena, then Ambrose’s weapons, then back up at Ambrose with a tired-but-friendly-enough look. ”Yep. I’m Shivers, this is my place, and it isn’t a kennel." He scowls as he looks back down at Rowena, "... but it does seem right cruel to send him back out there tonight. You keep him quiet and under control.” He pulls a mug from behind the bar and begins filling it. "And if I have to clean anything of his up, you better believe he'll be out in the cold before you can spell piss."
He hands Ambrose the mug as his eyes then scan the rest of you. He calls the woman over. ”Cinda, we got a man named Grange in tonight?” She gives you all a cursory look before pointing to a table near the eastern wall, near a fire stove. With a nod, Shivers continues, ”Get this fellow and his dog some of the lamb pie.” He returns his attention to the group, ”Anyone else eating? Drinks?”
Doc isn't shy, leaning companionably against the bar. "Two fingers of your best whiskey in whatever passes for a clean glass."
"Two fingers of your best whiskey in whatever passes for a clean glass."
Callum nods approvingly, and orders the same. "Hopefully this stuff is better than the last pub. That stuff tasted like shoe-leather, and burned like Aerum."
Once they have their drinks, he signals to Tiny, and heads over to the table at the eastern wall.
"Beer. Meat."
Zedd slams his money down as he grunts out his order. Then he waits for the word from his Captain to approach the client.
The barman leans against the back counter, jingling a few bottles. He looks at Rowena, then Ambrose’s weapons, then back up at Ambrose with a tired-but-friendly-enough look. ”Yep. I’m Shivers, this is my place, and it isn’t a kennel." He scowls as he looks back down at Rowena, "... but it does seem right cruel to send him back out there tonight. You keep him quiet and under control.” He pulls a mug from behind the bar and begins filling it. "And if I have to clean anything of his up, you better believe he'll be out in the cold before you can spell piss."
I thank you for the courtesy, and Rowena does too. And don't worry, she's well-trained and well-mannered, better behaved than most 'round here I suspect, Ambrose throws a sidelong glance in Tiny's direction as if to implicate him before continuing.
So, Shivers--that your real name, or you just adopt it to be a kindred spirit to all the freezing folks trying to find a warm place to sit? Anything interesting go on in this town, or do people usually keep to themselves?
Doc gives the Captain a tiny nod and continues to lean comfortably and silently with his back against the bar, watching the flow of the room and sipping his drink.
"Beer. Meat."
Zedd slams his money down as he grunts out his order. Then he waits for the word from his Captain to approach the client.
Giz stomps into the bar in her heavy steel-toed work boots, makes her way to the counter, and climbs pragmatically, hand-over-hand, up one of the bar stools.
It sucks, being two-foot-six in a world full of people who are six-foot-two, okay.
Once she's at a height to engage in things like 'addressing others', she watches the goings-on-- the three others of her species engaging in a drinking contest, seems about right-- the barkeep, the others...
"You got any baccy?" she asks Mr. Shivers, hopefully.
The barman begins serving up drinks with the efficiency common to old hands. Doc and Callum both get their drinks in small, thick glasses … the amber liquid smelling both smooth and fiery.
The thud of Zedd’s palm on the bar makes the barman retreat a half-step. After a second, he shakes his head and pours another beer. ”Cinda, one more lamb pie.” He slides the beer across the bar to Zedd, his bushy eyebrows rising to take in the fighter pilot’s height, ”You’re a big fella.”
At Gilly’s appearance and request, the man can’t help but scowl at the halfling-sized grease prints suddenly decorating the edge of his bar. ”I don’t, but Gimm might.” He looks across the room, raising his voice over the noise. "GIMM! You got any of that Karstaan leaf with you?”
The piano-stabbing stops and the boy looks over. He nods and grabs a huge pack from the floor, hurriedly weaving his way across the tavern. ”Uh,” the boy stammers when he stops to open the pack. His voice seems unable to choose between being a boy’s or a man’s. ”Yah, dad just got some off a pilot a few weeks back.” He gives a nervous grin to Gilly and offers her a few leaves to smell and stammers the price. The Karstaan leaf is small and tough, all that will grow in the northern temperatures.
The man looks back to Ambrose, ”Shivers is my pa’s name, but who knows how he got it. I guess I don’t think it’s a mystery why he chose to open up a joint with a hot stove, kitchen, and drinks. Folks around always need the chill washed away.” He looks up to answer the second question, seeming to consider the crowd before responding. ”I don’t know what your business is in the Lope, stranger, but most folks that come through this back-mountain hole aren’t interested in our beeyutiful scenery.” He can’t help but give a few unobtrusive wipes to the grease smudges on the periphery of Gizmo’s short reach. ”This place is only convenient for the type who want to be inconvenient for customs to get a good look at their cargo. I try not to poke my nose in the boss’s business, so long as he doesn’t put any demands on what I do with my place here. Seems to work out for everybody. Been pilots and crews moving through here pretty regularly over the last few weeks what with all the hubbub going on down in Raventon. I couldn’t tell you what the deals are … less I know the better, in general.”
He stops wiping as a thought strikes him, and he shakes his head as he leans closer, elbows on the counter and voice pitched low. ”Though damn me if I didn’t see something a week back or so. Big ugly cargo hauler came through. When the boys on the pad let the boss know about her check-in, he nearly made the captain leave right then. He made the captain pay a steep bill just to keep her struts down, and he wouldn’t let anyone near that ship. I’ve never seen the boss turn down a cut of any kind of business ‘round here. Guns. Drugs. Worse. But he wouldn’t even let that captain leave the pad, and he didn’t take his eyes off her or her ship until she made her hand-off. Both ships left immediately. Folks are still whispering about that. Nobody saw the handoff … boss wouldn’t let anyone near … but that just makes the whispers worse.” As he stands back up, he shakes his head. ”I heard there’s standing orders not to let either of those ships dock here again.”
Callum and Zedd make their way to the eastern wall. As you approach the man’s table, you can certainly appreciate his choice. The fire stove makes the table nice and warm, and it’s the closest to a corner table the place has … giving a decent view of the rest of the room as well as the front door.
As you near the table, the man looks up from reading a Raventon paper from the week before. Probably the most recent that’s available here in Badger Lope. He’s a small man with long limbs and quick, smart eyes that seem to dart between the two of you. He has a huge beak of a nose that would dominate your attention if it weren’t for an unfortunate boil perching near the end of it.
He sets the paper on the table and leans back, raising his eyebrows in expectation. ”And you are … ?”
Cal leans over, resting his hands on the back of the empty chair. In a low but conversational tone, he introduces himself. "I'm Captain Rhen - A man with a fondness for hats told me that you might be in the market for some new luggage."