Sal could still taste the ale on his lips, the lingering tones of malt and various spices. It was his doing but he justified it. He needed to blend in, to appear as one of them. The task was a simple one, involving the exchange of coin and the emptying of pewter tankards against tables in a run down tavern on the wharf. Men howled, women took coin that was offered, and hands were played until there was nothing left. The jingle in a mans step was quickly replaced with a wobble, sauntering home with nothing but stink and empty pockets.
Sal had not fared well at the numerous rounds of cards but even as a pirate, he never had a knack for it. But it wasn’t money he was looking for, it was knowledge and rumors. These were a form of their own currency, sometimes a form of economics that an assassin could live on. A cornerstone, a means for momentum.
Between the tavern and the warehouses along the wharf, it was an uneven amalgamate of bare sodden soil and dirt covered planks of warped wood. Long rods of steel stood out from the ground, bent over like an old man’s hunch, and supported hexagonal lanterns at three meters height. A tall spindly figure moved up and down the piers like a quiet ghost, checking the candles to ensure the path was well lit.
This area had rumors of their own. Rapists and molesters, murders seeking an easy prize, and crime that leaked out from the bowels of the Shallows. It was odd that it could travel upstream, as it did, absorbing past the Outer City and into the heart of Alliria. But this was where the trades were made, where the pirates thrived, and the portcullis was rarely closed.
Sal took his time as he walked, unfolding the directions inscribed on the damp papyrus. The boards were bent and missing nails, the lapping of the Strait washed out any noise he could have made with his careful steps. The warehouse appeared unguarded but he assumed that was intentional. Standing at nearly 10 meters tall, the building was three times as long as it was wide and contained an inner berth for small vessel maneuvering on the back half. The muddy and boarded path sloped downward and curved into the back end of the building, ending the path at a small alcove that bled directly into the river.
Sal stood silently in the dark upon an abandoned pier. The signage indicated that the structure was abandoned, likely left for renovations that would never come. The boards rose and fell with the incoming chop, shimmying up and down the reinforced pylons with lazy groans. Even from this far away, he could hear the inner banter.
The fisherman was not alone. He and his gang numbered many and they spoke of many things. But Sal didn’t care for these words or those actions. His focus was on the crimes of slaving, right beneath the nose of Allirian law. And he had decided that this Fish Peddlers time was up, his severed finger would fetch a pretty purse.
And he would join the Pantheon, just like all those who came before him.
Grimolf Ozursson
Sal had not fared well at the numerous rounds of cards but even as a pirate, he never had a knack for it. But it wasn’t money he was looking for, it was knowledge and rumors. These were a form of their own currency, sometimes a form of economics that an assassin could live on. A cornerstone, a means for momentum.
Between the tavern and the warehouses along the wharf, it was an uneven amalgamate of bare sodden soil and dirt covered planks of warped wood. Long rods of steel stood out from the ground, bent over like an old man’s hunch, and supported hexagonal lanterns at three meters height. A tall spindly figure moved up and down the piers like a quiet ghost, checking the candles to ensure the path was well lit.
This area had rumors of their own. Rapists and molesters, murders seeking an easy prize, and crime that leaked out from the bowels of the Shallows. It was odd that it could travel upstream, as it did, absorbing past the Outer City and into the heart of Alliria. But this was where the trades were made, where the pirates thrived, and the portcullis was rarely closed.
Sal took his time as he walked, unfolding the directions inscribed on the damp papyrus. The boards were bent and missing nails, the lapping of the Strait washed out any noise he could have made with his careful steps. The warehouse appeared unguarded but he assumed that was intentional. Standing at nearly 10 meters tall, the building was three times as long as it was wide and contained an inner berth for small vessel maneuvering on the back half. The muddy and boarded path sloped downward and curved into the back end of the building, ending the path at a small alcove that bled directly into the river.
Sal stood silently in the dark upon an abandoned pier. The signage indicated that the structure was abandoned, likely left for renovations that would never come. The boards rose and fell with the incoming chop, shimmying up and down the reinforced pylons with lazy groans. Even from this far away, he could hear the inner banter.
The fisherman was not alone. He and his gang numbered many and they spoke of many things. But Sal didn’t care for these words or those actions. His focus was on the crimes of slaving, right beneath the nose of Allirian law. And he had decided that this Fish Peddlers time was up, his severed finger would fetch a pretty purse.
And he would join the Pantheon, just like all those who came before him.
Grimolf Ozursson
