Private Tales Through the Red Mist

A private roleplay only for those invited by the first writer
He waited, quite patiently, for Gal to do the 'negotiating' for them. And perhaps, in truth, it was better to let the woman do the talking. Flash some skin, maybe a smile, get your way sooner rather than later. Moving up alongside Gal, he clapped her on the back, watching the Warden's depart.

"We'll get onto a longboat, and get ashore. I'll need provisions a'fore yer mates arrive." Grinning like a wolf, he stopped on his way to the tender, turning to face her.

"Say, if you want a hand taking the ship back..." He grinned wider, "Come and find me. Shouldn't be too hard; ask where the Captain what looks like rotten meat is. I'll be drunk somewhere."

Hopping into the boat, he waited long enough to see if she was joining before letting the crew lower him into the surf. It would be a short row to the docks, and then he could get some proper swill.
 
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She grabbed hold of the top rung of the pilot ladder and swung herself down into the boat. Her catlike landing barely disturbed its balance on the water.

“A’ hunt alone,” Gal said as she settled down with an oar. For the pace they set between the two of them, Cerak might well have been in spitting distance.

“Tell me wot ye want in return.” She straightened after tying the boat to one of the rusting rings on the pier. Though ‘pier’ was giving it too much credit – the jetty was beaten together from driftwood planks and leaning to one side like a pirate after a keg of rum.

“Fo’ da ride.”

Gal was no fool. Staying indebted to spirits that sailed on ships like In Irons was an idea that rivalled the stupidity of attacking Alliria during midday in a dinghy, armed with nothing but a table knife and a profoundly misguided sense of tactics.
 
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He didn't row. In fact, he settled in and lit a lantern, hanging it from a makeshift pole set near the end of the tender. Smirking faintly, he settled in, leaning forward as she worked, eyes narrowing at her as the other crewmen took up the oars and began to go. They were thankful for her help, that much was sure.

But they were likely used to him being along for the ride. Captain n' all.

"I'll think a' somethin' I'm sure." He remarks blithely, his face falling for a moment.

"I went where Kiva was called, and so here I am. Maybe I'll just consider ye ta' owe me a favor. Promise it won't be anythin' too strenuous."

Into the fog they went, leaving behind the barnacle-ridden behemoth of the Irons. "But in all seriousness," he says, as they reached the lopsided pier and pulled in, Brandar standing to tie the tender in so it didn't float away, "...where's the best place to drink here?

First time I've made it into their bay without being shot at."
 
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“Bullshit,” she shook her head and sauntered off the wharf towards the ramshackle knot of cottages and huts. Cerak had a stink to it – fish, oil, cheap grog – but worse still was the stench that hid under that – human rot.

But then the Capo probably knew a thing or two about that.

“Ah tell ye were ta go – thro’ in a whore dat’ll fuck yer burnt mug – an’ we call et even.” She stopped short at the first buildings, one hand cocked on her hip. “Ferst tim ye’ve made et inta da bay witot bein’ shot at, aft’all.”
 
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"My face is burnt, and I'd prefer my cock isn't either. I'll pass on the hooker." He replies, following after her. "I'll find my own way, then." He replies, giving her a two fingered salute before sauntering off down the wretched street, and further into 'town.' He barely wanted to call it that.

It wasn't even a village, truthfully.

"And I will see you... another time, Difficult."
 
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Unless Brandar was a very slow drinker, it must’ve been his fourth or fifth pint on the table when Gal walked in.

Oh, she’d given him the one-handed salute – or his back, anyway. But the sun had set since then, though the only way to tell was the inky darkness that slowly crept through the narrow, muddy streets of Cerak. The bay was still shrouded in mists like a blushing bride on her wedding night.

Which, really – what the fuck kinda metaphor is that in a place like At’Thul? No brides, blushing or otherwise, ever walked down the aisle here. Down the plank, sure, but hell if they’d only ever had the one church, reduced to rubble a week after it was built.

Nobody had tried again since.

Which made it an exceedingly good place for clandestine, unobserved meetings. Not that the type of folk who lived here’d bat an eye at another corpse – it was the who Gal wished to keep quiet.

Vesso found the edge of her knife and an early grave in the overgrown plot that used to be, well, a graveyard.

Gal, now comprehensively dead as far as the world was concerned, draped his cloak over her shoulders, and marched off to find the only tavern whose swill was worth the copper coin.

The chair scraped a little when she pulled it out and slid into the seat. “Wot kind o’ deal didye make?”
 
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He was alone, of course. Why wouldn't he be? He knew he could, typically, only get company if he paid for it, because not even merchants tried to bargain with a pirate like him. Frankly, he couldn't blame them. Sure, it could be lonely but... it meant he could drink in peace.

And he was a slow drinker. It was only his third pint.

Spotting her as she neared, he waited for her to pull out the chair and settle in, bringing the tankard to his lips for a gulp before staring at her with eyes as dead as the wood on his ship. "Deal?" He asks, surprised. "You're the first person to ask what..." He snorted, then his lips curled upright.

"Normally they just ask... 'why.'"

Chuckling at his own joke, he settled back in his seat, reaching up to brush a palm over his unscarred cheek in a pensive gesture. "I was drowning, ye see?" He begins. "Crew had thrown me overboard - their best helmsman, and there I was, drifting into the depths, rope binding my arms to my chest."

Scowling, he took a breath, looking down to the table before panning his eyes back up to meet hers. "And somewhere down there, things seemed to stop. There was a crab, in the black, and it was just... floating. Staring at me. We made eye contact, and I heard a voice. I don't remember quite what was said but... I do remember the deal.

Revenge... in exchange for faith. And not just my own faith, but the faith of all those who sail the seas without belief in the Goddess. I'm the Redeemer of the Damned, you see? And I needed a ship. So she raised one from the depths for me."
 
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To the ‘why’, Gal had only half a shrug to offer. That why had been her lifelong companion ever since Mother had told her she could see spirits like her sister Ziri, like herself. Throughout all her training, and all her hunts, and all her sleepless nights.

That damned why was the reason she was sitting here, the reason she’d ever sailed with al-Kamah, the reason she’d ever left her home island at all.

“Lots o’ sailers drown, all da tim’. Wot make ye special?”
 
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"I don't know." He admits, "You go through the usual stages, I guess. Denial, acceptance, rage. Not necessarily in that order." One shoulder lifts into a shrug, and he takes a gulp of swill before setting the tankard down with an audible thud. Maybe it had gotten to him... a little bit.

"I'd always believed in her, though, and I asked her why she'd forsaken me like that. Crew thought I was cursed... and I wasn't... so I suppose that's the revenge she got on me, too, isn't it? I am cursed, now."
 
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Gal tapped a finger to the rickety table in time with his swaying. In time to her thoughts. In time to the wailing tune of drunk pirates howling a shanty to the top of their pipe-stained lungs. All things in time; all things in order.

That’s what she’d been taught – by the Shaman, by the Chieftain, by the tribe elders. A sharp lesson, that, and untrue besides. The world was chaos, and she stopped trying to bridle it the night she’d left.

Best learn how to step out of time instead – a tenet she’d drawn forth on a whisper from formless lips, standing not in a circle of blood but rather in the eye of a storm. Before dawn broke the next day, mother had roused her in the dark and told her to leave lest she be killed for her transgression.

Her finger stopped dead as the singing cut off. Her eyes stilled on the scarred man, on his sullen face.

“Why serve god dat rewards faith wit punishment?”
 
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"Putting aside the fact I would label it a sense of humor rather than punishment, I suppose that's the conundrum, isn't it?" His lips pulled into a smirk, and he set his palms flat on the table in front of him while he studied her. "I suppose at the end of the day, we worship that which is best suited to help us.

For mariners? You won't find any more apt than Kiva. But you can't ascribe morality to something as fickle as the waves - you'd spend all day arguing and reach nowhere long before the sun set."

Sinking his teeth into his lower lip thoughtfully, he shrugs once more. "Frankly, I've gotten what I want - a ship to rival and outclass most others, and a chance at revenge. The old crew split after the voyage, and so now I can hunt them down and take my vengeance. Still a long ways to go, though. A long, long ways."
 
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“Et worth dat much ta’ ye? Revenj?”

Oh, Gal burned to bury her blade in Eshan al-Kamah, but would she sell her soul for that?

No.

Not for that.

But she would sell her soul. In being a pirate you quickly learn everyone has a price. Sometimes it’s coin (most often it’s coin), but there are those whose hearts sing for other riches, other treasures. Gal liked to think herself the latter.

Coin didn’t hurt, though.

“An’ den? Wen ye hunt ‘em down an’ kill ‘em all, wot den?”
 
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"Worth not dying." He replies simply, draining the tankard before waving for another. His nose crinkled, and he watched as she seemed to mull over what she'd do in the same situation.

He was fairly certain she'd take the deal, given the opportunity and position. But what did he know?

"I suppose once that happens, then my mission remains the same... but is my life really that different from any other pirate? I raid. I steal. I board carracks and sink men o' war, same as anyone else. And i go to the same ports. I just have a second purpose, too. So I suppose I'll do what I've always done, once I get my revenge - wait until I'm strung up in a gallows, or another pirate finally manages to send me under for the last time."
 
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She snorted at that. “Mos’ pirates don’ tink ye e’en exist. Ye’s a tale. Dat ship o’ yers, et ain’ reel. Ne fo’ dem.”

Tilting her head this way and that, Gal watched him drink the swill. She’d other poisons – ground cauaa leaves, tari-lapakau burnt as incense – but they were hard to find off the islands. And there were precious few in the tribes that would do trade with an exiled Nazrani.

“So ye agree ta’ deal… ta’ ne die… but ye ne feer death?” Her dark curls danced as she chuckled. “Ye a stranj man.”
 
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"Oh, quite real. But I can see why they'd think otherwise. You're the first person what's set foot on the ship who wasn't crew, or soon to be." He smiled, and while it was meant to be reassuring, it came off far more unsettling. Though, she wouldn't be fazed.

"I expect to die. I expect to die bloodily, with a hole in my chest from a bolt, or a sword in my stomach, or with a noose around my neck. But I'll be damned if some ignorant cowards decide whether or not I'm cursed, and drown me before they find out one way or another."
 
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“Mm.”

Unfazed indeed, Gal slid a knife from her sash and began cleaning the dirt under her fingernails. Tough bitch, digging a hole six feet deep. But if you skimped, spirits help you – in the southern sun the stink got so bad, so fast, you didn’t need no dog to sniff out a corpse.

And if they ever found Vesso, she meant it to be only after the worms had gnawed off every bit of recognizable flesh. A pile of bones was nothing new ‘round these parts. Hell – make ornaments from it. Some pirates liked that aesthetic, she’d heard.

“Wy didey tink ye’s cursed?” Not that it would be hard. Sailors were a superstitious lot – but superstitious enough to throw your best helmsman overboard? That’s something else.
 
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"I was more a merchant mariner at the time, ye see." He begins, accepting his refilled tankard and flipping over a coin for the swill. Taking a few, much needed gulps with his throat barred and adam's apple bobbing, he set it down, belched, and grunted at the memory. "Contracted to run a bunch a' scholarly elves out to some family ruins. Nothin' too unusual. Gravesites are a bit iffy but, eh, coin was good."

His brows lofted to say 'it went south quick.' "Turns out, place had been cursed. Or, well, not cursed. A lich had left his phylak... fillack... phylacteray?" He couldn't quite remember the word. Eventually, he just gave up. "Spirit jar. He kept his soul in a jar. That thing.

I touched it, and his failsafes kicked in. Lots of skeletons and whatnot. Chased us clean back to the ship. So, I touched the thing, I must be cursed. Elves didn't start making sense until after they threw me overboard, but by that point, it was too late." He seemed to anticipate the next question, and so answered it before she could ask.

"And I did find that out after... learned it from the first man I took revenge on."
 
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Gal’s brows did their own bit of acrobatics as the man more or less stumbled over, and into, the unfortunate tale. It followed as all unfortunate tales do – a bad idea, a pile of gold, and a lifetime of regrets.

“Mus’ be special kind o’ mad ta’ keep yer sool in a jar.” Sure, she’d been exiled for consorting with spirits she shouldn’t have, in ways that weren’t allowed. But shoving your own spirit into a flask and sealing it off?

She didn’t shudder, but it was a close thing.

“So dis… leech? He was family to da elves?” Her brows danced to to say ‘doesn’t that strike you as a bit odd’. “Dey on dat list o’ yers?”
 
"I don't think so, but I don't know yet." He admits, then shrugs. "From what I understand, the crew took their payment forcibly, and then, took it again in blood. Can't be on the list if they're already dead." Sighing, he drained more of his swill, and his mood darkened further .

"Why do you ask?"
 
“An’ et wouldne be sweet revenj if ye had ‘em serve on yer prison ship?” She stuck a thumb over her shoulder at the harbor – like there were any other ghost ships floating around in Black Bay. Granted, if there was a port that would ever play host to one, let alone another cursed vessel, it would be Cerak At’Thul.

But not tonight.

“Cos bindin’ spirits ain’ right. Dey need ta’ return ta’ da sykle o’ life. Like rain ta’ river ta’ sea an’ den baq, yeah?”
 
"Poetic, certainly." He replies, a low growl in his throat. After a moment, he just shook his head. "I don't know much of spirits, all told. They're on my ship, and eventually, over time, they throw themselves overboard to return to the waves. That's the extent of my knowledge on the matter."
 
She peered at him with the same curiosity a hunter might consider a beast they’d never met before. “An’ ye’ve never asked? Wheir dey go, why dey go?”

This was the first man she’d met that worshipped Kiva with any real devotion. Of course many a sailor muttered the occasional prayer for fair winds and merciful weather, but it had more to do with habit than actual ritual.

Gal chewed on her bottom lip and leaned forward. “Wat’s she like?”
 
"Who would I ask? The Goddess? She'll tell me what I already know - the deep. But only a fool thinks that the bottom of the sea is where those souls stay." Studying her for a moment, he tilted his head, and leaned in, as though to share in the secret.

"Overwhelming." He replies. "She eclipses all thought and reason, and her power is as oppressive as that first wave from a hurricane, which bowls you over across the deck and leaves you grasping for the handhold that will save you being blown overboard."
 
Her jaw jutted out in thought, eyes fixed on some distant point beyond Brandar’s skull. If the goddess called those spirits back into the cycle after they’d completed their service, paid their dues…

Gal closed her eyes, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Ah don’ make da habit o’ beam reachin’ thru storms.”

Heave to if you have to, but “Ah’m mor o’ a runnin’ downwind kindo’ gal.”

No greater rush in the world of the living or the dead than harnessing the edge of a hurricane to round the Spear. She’d left her heart on those roaring waves many a winter, and would again until the depths took her.
 
For once, he didn't actually process what she'd said. Perhaps it was slang, or maybe it was her awful way of speaking, but most of it just went over his head. "Runnin' downwind is what brought you here, no?" He asks, a brow raised.

"I suppose we all wind up overboard at some point or another."
 
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