In the brightening pre-dawn hour over the harbor town of Eraystor, the terminal end of the old imperial highway extending from Pala…
Louis Gardnyr pulled his oilskin cloak over his shoulders as he hobbled down the road, glancing over his path to make sure that the awfully constructed peg leg (Tasu’um! The damned thing works just fine shipboard, and tha’s enough of that!) wouldn’t trip him up as Garuda’s sorrow poured out of the sky, as it did just about every day in Osheaga. To an exquisitely artistic mind, perhaps the piddle-paddle of the raindrops in the nascent puddles scattered here and about on the dusky town’s street might have seemed appreciatively meaningful. Louis was not of that inclination, or any such thing in particular mind you unless it concerned drinkin’, whorin’ or sailin’. Oh, and then there was the will of the Captain to be considered, and that thought rekindled the bosun’s purpose, such as it presently was.
He gave a sigh of some resignation, having engaged in this chore too many times before and had it performed his fair share as well, but never quite able to escape the aura of embarrassment that always abounded. He scratched the isolated gray hairs that remained affixed to his head and came at last, drenched despite the best efforts of the well-stitched and constructed oilskin, to the tavern’s stark wooden door. Thunder seemed in time with his strong fist knocking onto the hatch before him. He folded his hands, the left of which was missing two fingers from an unfortunate gunnery incident some years agone, and waited. He was not kept in the position long but like any proper salty, he had reason enough to bitch to himself while the proprietor on the inside finally waddled his hungover arse to doorway and opened the gatekeeper’s window.
“Who goes dere at tis time of the morn?” The crusted, black haired and bearded tavern man demanded, his brow noticeably narrowing despite his noticeably dark skin creating a distinct lack of contrast, not that this was of any particular concern to Louis.
“It’s Louis, you Jackal halfwit,” the senior seaman, who had a voice that was well known among his fellows as one that could the fear of Garuda into a ship’s boy and give even a Kraken a few moments to consider its options, growled out. “I’m ‘ere for the Cap’n.”
“Ay? Which captin be that, now?” The man at the door, who in a clear light would become identifiable straightaway as a scion of Iram, unaffected by Louis’ clear insult, though a third generation Osheagan Irami probably would be, Louis thought.
“Just let me in. If Cap’n Ahrmahk finds out that you held me up from deliverin’ a Palan charter to him, the things I’ll do to you once I break down tha’ fuckin door are going to seem quite pleasant. Trust me, they won’t.”
“Oh, hush hush hush, hush your face now, I let cha in.” The Irami barkeep smirked, and backed away as the heavy door creaked on its hinges. “Your captain be over there, KO’d. Don’ be surprised, he got imself enough rum and nightbox last night for a real time.”
Louis sighed, but there would be no point in admonishing Cayleb yet again, and for whatever reason, once he was up and goin, the Captain never seemed to be affected by the usual longer-term consequences of that lifestyle. And Louis knew he would follow the man straight into the maelstrom even if that wasn’t the case. As had been indicated by the Irami, Cayleb was konked out against the far bulkhead of the tavern, seeming content with his hand still clasped around his mug and the fire opposite his table crackling. The man did know how to have a good time. The bosun took off his oilskin, strolled up to the table after briefly warming his hands in the fire, and took a seat opposite his Master after Garuda at Sea, damn it all. Louis paused for a moment, then reached out and prodded him. Softly, then harder.
“Cap’n. Cap’n!”
“Shshh’ou call that a lapdance? I’d have a fairer chance of gettin’ off swimmin’ in the maelstrom…” Cayleb Ahrmahk mumbled, clearly still living a dream, or his “experiences” from the night before. His eyes slowly opened.
Louis punched him in the shoulder. “Ay, Cap’n, get up!”
“Huh…?” Cayleb blinked, then suddenly, his sapphire eyes acquired a mysterious focus. “Oh. Louis.” He rose, stretching out his back. “Where’d you come from?”
Louis smiled with approval. He never failed to get up and moving, he did. It was those idiots who’d piss away all their cash and then need a week to sleep it off that were always a problem for any self-respecting band of Charisian “privateers.”
“G’mornin, sahr. I got something for us. They came right on the ship, but it shows real promise.”
“I’m listening.” And the bosun believed him. Even in this state, that gaze, that dagger black beard complemented the imposing chin, a posture honed through years of hard work at sea and Garuda only knew what else… and those eyes…
Louis cleared his throat. “Some noble wench from Pala, I think. I’m not entirely sure. Very careful, that one. Travelin’ alone aboard a privateer ship, perhaps she has a right to be. But the money’s good. Take a look.”
Just as the bosun was handing over the bag containing the advance payment, the door opened, this time without the assistance of the tavern’s proprietor. That seemed a little odd, given that the Irami had barred it behind the Bosun.
The woman who came through it was a bit more impressive.
Eraystor was one of the few settlements in Osheaga founded by settlers far north of the Maelstrom. Its heritage reflected its architecture quite efficiently - there were inns stacked with red brick from Iram and longhouses that mercenary companies called home after completing a contract. Economically the port town flourished, but it wasn't a prime location for vacationers. Eraystor was situated on a chain of archipelagos that were dangerously close to the Maelstrom, thus, it was constantly drummed by heavy rains and winds strong enough to snap a mast in two. Quite literally on the precipice of the Maelstrom's current, Eraystor was wont to have its advantages and disadvantages.
Early that morning, before the sun's pallid fingers could fan through the fog, an ornate Palan dhow was seen sailing into a cove some miles off of Eraystor's coast. Palan ships were renown for their structure and wine-red lateens, but this particular vessel sported two different color sails - one aqua, the other a rich and saturated coral; Garuda's colors.
When the villagers went to the cove to investigate, the dhow was gone and with it, its exotic crew. Fishmongers working the docks claimed that the crew had skin like polished bronze while others said they were ebony. The fishmongers - notably women - were known to embellish so their regular patrons paid them little to no mind when they came to purchase their wares. One of the wives beckoned a potential customer who happened to be venturing into the town. "Fresh clams!" she beckoned, "Mussels, oysters, prawns! First morning's catch!" The customer, a woman, advanced, quickly skimming over the kiosk. The fishmonger had hundreds of unshucked clams and mussels piled into a barrels; the smell was intrusive, cloying almost. She reached in and produced two oysters the size of a grown man's fist.
"Six pens a piece, m'luv," the fishmonger beamed. Her customer reached into her pockets and instead of producing the penances, she found a pink pearl and held it between her forefinger and thumb. The fishmonger's eyes widened; she licked her lips and reached out. As she had hoped, the pearl was her payment. "Where did you get this, m'luv? I'm afraid I don't have the pens to pay for this. In fact, I'm quite sure none of the barterers here can afford such a --" Her patron was gone.
She traipsed down the dockyard, hiding her face from the rain that lashed against it with her shawl. The droplets felt like thousands of tiny needles biting her skin while the waves drummed against the shores with thunderous fervor. Despite her convictions, hunger reigned supreme. She extended a finger and pried the oyster open with the claw on her pleated gauntlet. She lifted the shell to her lips and drew its meat into her mouth, gently pushing open a nearby inn door with her free hand as she did so. The door swung ajar and a heavy balm of must and fish wafted into her nostrils.
The woman finally removed her cowl. Underneath was a thick, black mane of hair pressed against pert cheekbones. She gazed at the spectators with her grey-green eyes, full lips pressed in a hard line. With little to no courtesy she advanced and intercepted the satchel of penances. She knew precisely who these men were and what they were conscripted to do. "That is a thing I have always found queer," she began, her voice an exotic fusion of Palan accents, "Men that forfeit their coin before their contract is completed. What is to stop you from gutting him? Cutting his throat?" She stabbed her second oyster's lip with her gauntlet's claw and cleaved it open with relative ease.
"Avarice is the folly of many men." She swallowed. "But I am not a man."
The Bosun rolled his shoulders, glancing at the woman who'd entered, before taking his seat by his Captain's side. For his part, Cayleb propped and elbow onto the plain wooden table, considering this mystery of a lady. She had bold features, but her expression was not one of warmth, and unless he missed his guess, Cayleb recognized the kind of disgust that only marks the face of someone who is being forced into something that one finds absolutely vile yet is powerless to avoid. A splendid start this was already coming to, and that was before she took the coins. With taunting felicity, the bag hopped off the table and flung itself into the newcomer's grasp. The Bosun leapt off his chair and prepared to draw his sword.
"Louis, you're free to throw your life away over a bag of coins, but I might just sit down and understand the lady's reasons for her theft first. Just a suggestion." The old salt ruefully complied, groaning, his sword clicking back into its sheath. The Captain considered his guest for a time, then relaxed. "Well, my Lady, while I'm sure your mysteries shall ever overwhelm a lowborn, waterlogged soul like myself, suppose you offer that back and we'll be on our way. My broker in Pala was quite clear, we do not sail without advance payment. I am quite content where I stand -- or sit, I suppose, if you want to get all technical -- and I have reputation to consider. Unless you can offer some other enticement?"
A mischievous cackle emanated from one of the women that formed part of his crew, as she sat in a separate corner opposite Cayleb's position by the fire. Despite his agreement with the sentiment, this traveler struck the Captain as someone to not Ever cross -- and his sense of these things was notable.
As she found herself being chastised, Omorose gently drew the string from the lip of the satchel and watched the material unfurl around a heap of coins. Genuine Gosammerian penances were forged from opal and gold, but after the Irami invaded Sigur Ros' mines, the materials used to produce the currency were left utterly depleted. If her escorts were comfortable with illegitimate payment then far be it for her to intervene. Disdainfully, she tossed the bag atop the table where it jingled like a melody of silverbells.
She cast her gaze on a woman snickering in the corner then back to her escort. "You life should be enticing enough," she said flatly, eyes aglow. As a Palan woman, Omorose was well versed in the terrors of the Maelstrom, but not all sailors were as educated. Some only learned the stories as young fishermen, others heard of them while in their cups at some arrant Yelapagosian inn. She felt these men were no different, just mislead souls about to be thrust into their worst nightmares.
After weighing the crew, Omorose chose to entreat the sailors with ruminations of the sea instead of her ambiguity. "I would strongly advise departing as soon as possible." Her voice was soft, reminiscent of her Palan ancestry but strong and established like that of a woman who had addressed hundreds if not thousands of people in a public setting. "The Maelstrom is ... stirring." And with it, terrors from the depths.
She stood and shrugged back into her cloak, hiding her womanly figure from the hungering eyes of the sailors. "Pray to your gods that we don't get drawn in by the Maelstrom's current when the moon rules the sky. The Maelstrom is a ... metaphysical place, a gateway to another plane. Reality is warped there." She could hear some of the inn's early morning patrons snickering at her through their blackened bass breakfasts. By now she had grown accustomed to the mockery, but hardened skin could only protect against so many lashes.
"And I s'ppose t'sea water could be a mug 'o ale if I batted me lashes twice and rubbed me belly!" howled a bandy-legged sailor as he noshed on his morning meal. Several of his companions snickered in response as he slapped his knee. "Lass, yer as full of it as those Rosian beurocrats. We've all been damn close to the Maelstrom, 'aye. Closer than you and we ain't seen no monsters. It's a whirlpool, notin' more. It ain't no 'gateway' or 'door' to another world, it's just a fuckin' torrent o' water that's taken more lives then the plague." Suddenly, the sailor pressed his lips in a hard line. Omorose smiled at him - it was a Cheshire Cat smile, mischievous, hateful, demonic.
"Perhaps you're right," she began, "Perhaps we could use someone with your experience."
"How much, lass?"
"A thousand penances when we disembark in Orlais, a thousand more upon return." The sailor chewed o his lip, deep in thought, but eventually came to agree. He shoveled the remainder of his breakfast down his throat and shuffled about the table.
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