Fable - Ask Dreadlords, Pirates, and Thieves

[Kael]

Teth, Midday​

The famed pirate city of Teth was not a place Dreadlords were normally seen. Nor was it common for a Dreadlord to masquerade as an Orc. Then again, Kael was no ordinary Initiate, with a specialty for shapeshifting and trained in infiltration. Today he was on assignment as a pirate hailing from Bhathairk, with a mission of finding the 'healing trove'. A collection of healing potions and poultices that the nation of Cortos has ordered, that Vel Anir had intercepted comms about. A raid was planned, executed, but a nearby bandit troupe took on the Anirian's after their fight with Cortos and managed to secure the haul. The 'healing trove' was supposedly enough material to heal a few thousand soldiers, accelerating redeployment of an entire regiment. The chance the wares made it all the way to Teth was admittedly remote, which was perhaps why this section of the search made it's way to the Initiate, but Kael figured it was likely there were others assigned to the city as well.

The 'orc' made his way through the rocking and waving floors of the outer city of Teth. Not truly a city, he instead walked on a collection of barges and floats that were loosely chained and nailed togethers. It was refreshing to wear green skin again, even if he was nearly three times his normal size. It was also a delight to be around non-humans, even it the normal Tethian was of a decidedly hardier breed. Kael decided he would enjoy himself on this assignment, as such opportunities were few and far between. Making his way to the 'Thirsty Gull', a haphazard collection of shipwrecks that functioned as a bar, serving every form of vice under the sun. The shapeshifter ordered a drink and sat, using some minor spells to listen to the myriad of drunken conversations around him. It was a long shot, but if any of the bandits who took the Healing Trove were here, they would probably be bragging and spending.

It did not take too long for Kael to begin to understand a few things going on in the city. Most of it was unimportant, at least to him, but he did make note of an upcoming auction of a 'great haul' that would bring great riches to the crew of the Falash. A promising start.





OOC: Open to a limited number of Dreadlords, Pirates, and Thieves. Feel free to DM me, or chat in Discord for any questions.

 

[Mortivore Urn]

Spoiler: Music

If not for the aether coin in his palm, Mortivore would barely have been able to parse his colleague from the rowdy rapscallions and roughnecks in the Thirsty Gull. He had seen him already in the unsightly shape of an orc pirate, and his size assisted in the matter of following him, but this watering hole was packed to the brim.

Cutthroats and thieves, all come to dull their senses. Mortivore had nothing but scorn for them. But, as it so happened, a drunk crowd would serve their purposes better than a sober one. He had even engendered this himself, previously buying a few rounds for the most thuggish company, indulging them in the notion that he was but an old, fever-minded fisherman.

Now, he could safely observe his colleague at work, with a mug of apple cider in hand. He sat on the old aft of a once stately schooner called Herald's Eye, perching him on a bit of a vantage point, as he could watch the teeming bar below.

He rubbed the aether coin with his thumb, cold, flinty eyes watching the orc work his way through the crowd. After some missions involving Kael, there had been . . . questions. Quiet reports. Faint mutters of concern. Enough so that the superiors of the Dreadlords had decided to test the mettle of this initiate. See if he could keep to discipline, in a place turbulent with chaos and temptation. And if not, well . . . that was why Mortivore was here.

A wordless bellow emerged from the mouth of a balding dwarf, black hair crawling from the back of his skull like a whip. His open mouth teemed with rotten- and golden teeth, black beard bristling with crumbs, foam and finger-bones for braids.

The roar turned into guttural words:

"I tells ya I'ma buy that whole auction, I--" he interrupted himself for a titanic belch, smacking his bared and tattooed stomach, "stick it to those republican scum, I saysh, heh - didn't know what hit 'em! JUICES!" - he shouted louder now, as others were roaring at him to shut his gab, "juices that'll SET ME BACK STRAIGHT and - and make me two-hundred years younger--"

Mortivore clenched his fist around his coin, closed his eyes and muttered a complex incantation. When he opened them, a subtle, silvery sheen had replaced his eye-colour, glowing like a bared blade reflecting in the sun. He concentrated on the dwarf. The proximity of one of his aether coins helped him quiet the mass of thoughts, honing in on him.

Words were often meaningless. Most spoke them with hardly any sense or to deliberately confuse those around them. Sometimes even to confuse themselves.

But thoughts. Thoughts revealed more.

However, reading a mind wasn't as simple as that. Mortivore had spent the better part of his life studying this craft, and even he had only grasped certain elements.

He likened the mind to a lake. Its surface could be seen easily, though it only revealed a sliver of the truth - but to plunge deeper, one would have to immerse themselves in its waters. And to hold their breath.

The surface of this dwarf's mind came in visions and murky flashes of imagery. Some people were like that - predisposed to think visually. Wordless emotions latched onto these, identifiable only through a certain empathy of the psychemancer. A fresh tankard of ale at the bar. Hope. A dwarven lass with a comely bosom and flaxen hair, smiling. Vain hope. A scroll with writing, a seal, and a place to sign. Anticipation? An elixir of a teal liquid, stoppered by a broad, flat cork. Greed.

Mortivore opened his eyes again. The image had been vague, uncertain - but close to the official description of the healing potions they sought.

He turned the side of his coin, blew on it on its face in the vague resemblance of an ear. It heated between his fingers, and his whisper carried preternaturally to Kael's ear.

"The dwarf speaks not complete babble," Mortivore said, his gaze locked on said dwarf, now in the process of mooning on the table with his breeches down. "He has seen it. Seek him out, and let his actions instruct your interrogation. I shall watch for suspicious eyes."

Mortivore had a certain reputation among the Dreadlords. Whenever he said something along these lines, many knew what he truly meant. His idea of 'interrogation' usually involved insidious torture of the kind that left no scars or bruises on the flesh. Instead, it broke spirits like snapping wood, and splintered their minds into pieces of fractured glass, leaving behind bodily husks, drained of both information and will.

Kael

 

[Kael]

Kael was a professional, but it he wasn't he would have frowned at the magic voice through his ear. It wasn't so much having a supervisor as it was expected for initiates to pair with senior Dreadlords, but what the man was that brought discomfort. A mentalist, or psychemancer as this one preferred to be called. Such things were perhaps the greatest threat to Kael's existence as an Anirian. If he dug too deeply he would find the true Kael. The goblin had read every text he could find in the academy on fighting such talents, but had never tested his work. It could have all been a hoax, but at the same time it was Kael's best hope if things came to a head. Still, he knew that given time Mort, or Proctor Harkenov, would inevitably break through. There was no true security after all, only delays.

Kael did not use the aether coin to respond, but laid down some coin and took his drink from the bar and headed over to the dwarf. He sat down next to the bare-chested ruffian and pushed over a drink.

"A drink for some info on your auction." The Dread-orc said. The dwarf puffed up his chest, highlighting tattoos of ships, the walls of Belgrath, and a dwarvish rune that he believed translated to 'Belinda'. He pushed the drink back.

"I'll not - " The drawf hiccuped. "Give a competitor opportunity to outbid me." Kael let out a guttural growl and bore his tusks at the creature. The dwarf didn't back down, but didn't push forward either.

"Not looking for treasure, but work. My last crew was good but small time. Hitting Anir? Treasure so great to auction? Sounds like a real crew." Kael responded. The dwarf looked over Kael a moment, then took the drink.

"The auction's handled by a third party. The Crimson Broker they call him. Or was it the Scarlet Broker? By the stone, why do humans have so many colors?" The dwarf cursed, then took the flagon. It was downed quickly and unceremoniously, followed by a belch that could probably be smelled two tables over.

"He's set up shop on the east side. He probably won't tell you who sourced the haul, but you can ask." The dwarf said. Kael nodded to the dwarf.

"Appreciate the tip stonebeard." He said. The dwarf put on a devilish grin.

"Appreciate the drink greenback. Be seeing you." The dwarf responded and Kael took his leave. The orc made his way to the entrance of the Thirsty Gull. He had the feeling of being watched, but wasn't sure if that was just Mortivore, who was supposed to be watching him, or someone else. Either way, the Thirsty Gull was far more open than he'd like for a confrontation. It was likely commonplace, but Kael didn't want anyone to give him a reason to remember him.

 

[Miran Ulgoth]

Miran Ulgoth leaned against the main mast on the deteoriated clipper that made for the bar, arms crossed, biceps bulging. The namesake of the ship was written in patchy, white letters, Thirsty Gull, with a seagull figurehead - proving to be the origin of the establishment's name.

The broken mast creaked in lament when Miran pushed her weight off it. Axes and daggers dangled by her leather-armoured side as non-chalantly as others might carry bags or purses, clinking gently with the brass braids in her heavy mane of wicks. Her deep, dark eyes trailed after the orc who had been conversing with her charge, Torgest "Bilgebelly" Twinbeard. Torgest was of noble stock, exiled from Belgrath, now descended into the pits of Teth as an arch merchant of all the ill-gotten gains from pirates and other sea-thieves.

In other words, a dwarf with one, fat purse. The Crimson Broker had wanted him safeguarded and had invested in his security. One never knew what might happen in Teth, even to those of influence. It never hurt hiring a bit of extra muscle.

She nodded to two of his other bodyguards, neck-deep in their drinks. Still sober enough to guard him, at least.

Miran herself didn't drink. She never grew up with it, the way they seemed to do it in Northern Arethil. Besides, it would render her slow, sluggish and probably as fat as her charge. No, she sought an altogether different liquid - thicker, life-giving and rarely to be found in tankards or goblets.

Her hand carressed the silverite axe-head in her belt, its shaft black as death. Vague contours of skulls and hollow eye-sockets seemed to bulge from its steel cheeks, like trapped souls seeking escape.

Her axe thirsted. She could feel its steady drain on her already. As subtle as a silent spell, her vigour slowly seeped into its cursed steel. Partly why she stayed in Teth - the pirate city was never short on daft knuckledusters begging to have their blood spilled.

This orc didn't match anyone on the Broker's guestlist she knew of. Perhaps she could ask him a few questions. Or perhaps, he could quench her axe.

Trampling through broken glass and rotten furniture, along with a few unwary shoulders, Miran pursued the orc outside the establishment's boundaries. Not with any stealth, but cleaving a steady path through the patronage with the same, assured routine of a butcher going to work.

She wouldn't need any assistance with this one.

Kael