Fable - Ask Queen of the Reef

[Dangeruese]

​

Bayou Garramarisma
The Burrow
Brandar the Burned

The heat that permeated within the bayou was enough for anyone to drown out of water. It clung to the skin, saturated clothing, and drained the bones' sweat, culminating in an uncomfortable, humid environment. It was the perfect environment for vermin and insects alike, be it above water or out. Here crocodiles and deadly water musicians made their home, slithering through the mangroves for their next meal. It was a near inhospitable environment, save for those who could use it to hide from the world and governments who would arrest them.

It was a smugglers haven, with nooks and crannies amidst the mangroves and many hidden water caverns to stash pilfered fortunes or two. The Burrow was a neutral area of such venues. It sat within one of the many islands scattered along with the claw of Bayou Garramarisma.

The date when it was founded was lost in lore, and ultimately, didn't matter. A small port and the many buildings were held up out of the water on deep-sea pillars of coral and what appeared to be petrified wood. They gave shacks the appearance as if barely held together by sinew and twine, yet here they remained, after one tropical storm and the next. Perhaps the mangroves protected the shadow port. Or maybe rebuilding efforts were on point. Either way, The Burrow allowed a resting place for smugglers, pirates, and privateers alike. As per the guidelines, any foot set upon the Burrow had to maintain a level of neutrality. Out of the town limits' bounds, anyone was free to determine their own version of justice to right a wrong or an insult given. To break the rule meant to earn the sea's wrath, and there was enough superstition among the sailors over the decades to believe it.

A sign upon a wooden wall posted a wanted ad for a boat and a crew by one Dangeruese Delmare. Coin and profit were to be their payment and seek her out at the Sea Hag's Head for employment queries.

 

[Brandar the Burned]

He wasn't sure if it was the gators or the giant bugs, but he hated swamps. His sole consolation was that in a place like this, he was no longer the ugliest creature around. While many portions of the bayou couldn't fit a true sailor's ship, most of the smuggler's havens were located near convenient coves that allowed for the anchoring of the largest of vessels.

The stroke of oars was almost loud enough to distract from the incessant din of nighttime insects, but was never quite enough to drown them out. Seated in the middle of the ship's boat, surrounded by dark skinned elven corsairs, he looked as out of place among them as they did around him.

Where they sported two swords, dark cloaks chased with gold, and gilded masks that brought to mind the terrors of the deep - with wavy tendrils or bared teeth - he was just an ugly pirate. Sure, he sported a tattered admiral's coat, and sure, there was only one 'Burned' among the many pirates on the high seas, but these were small trinkets in the grand scheme of thing.

Finding a small dock, he stood and got off unceremoniously, going through the ugly town with narrowed eyes. Normally, one could find jobs at a place such as this. He was not disappointed.

"Danger...ooose." He muttered, narrowing his eyes further at the wanted ad. Grunting, he flexed his hand and turned towards the Sea Hag's Head.

He entered it a few minutes later, going straight to the bar while taking in the clientele. One of them was Delmare.

 

[Dangeruese]

Brandar the Burned

The tavern was thick with pipe smoke, sweat, and fatty tallow from the lanterns that illuminated the figures within. All of about a dozen patrons were there, some smugglers, some pirates, along with everything else in between that would rather stay out of the spyglass of policing entities.

A large, bulky Half-Orc stood by the bar. Sweat stains marred his shirt along with cooking grease. Seemed he was also the cook as well. At Brandar's entry, a few pairs of eyes spun to check who came in. All had their backs to the walls and had positioned themselves in methods that would allow them to have a good line of sight to the door - to survive, one had to make sure they had an eye up.

More than one gave Brandar a double-take. A few went back to their ale. One could tell which were the green whelps who were not used to the variety of seafarers and smugglers along this part of the coast. It was those whose Adam's apples bobbed and eyes bulged. No one, however, dared get up to meet him.

 

[Brandar the Burned]

There was exactly no one in this bar that suited the name. His nose crinkled, a touch of a limp causing his shoulders to lean as he walked like a ship blown about in a storm. Paying little mind to anyone save the orc, he settled his palm on the hilt of his curved blade and leaned forward onto the bar, forearm taking his weight as he did so.

"Dangerous." He grunted, voice the rasp of abrasive on chainmail.

"You know who they are?" Taking the job ad, he placed it on the bartop, giving the Half-Orc the unblinking stare of a hound chasing hare.

 

[Dangeruese]

Brandar the Burned

One had to hand it to the Half-Orc; he managed to hold his ground while staring at the towering man with a series of burn scars marring his face. He polished a mug, putting two and two together with the job ad, his olive complexion twisting into a frown. There was no missing the way he cast his attention off to the right.

"You lookin' for the job?" A voice called out, feminine, but with a husky rasp that one could feel down the length of their neck.

The Half-orc gave a cant towards the direction of a booth far in the back, where a single woman sat with a pint of ale in front of her. She had a widebrim black hat with the sides pinned up, and under the low light, one could pick up on the length of auburn hair that cascaded down her shoulders.

 

[Brandar the Burned]

There was no missing the voice that called out to him, the throaty timbre of it enough to make any man turn his head. That, of course, made his eyes narrow further until they were almost slits. Taking the paper back into his hand, it was crumpled up inside his fist as he teetered his way purposefully towards her booth.

"You askin' obvious questions?"

Staring down the widebrim hat and the promise of long, feminine hair, he stopped just shy of the booth. It was the fool who set himself down uninvited, and the deserving who got a knife in the side for it.

"If so I've got obvious answers."

 

[Dangeruese]

Brandar the Burned

A tanned hand, calloused and weathered by time spent at sea gestured for him to sit. From under the brim of the hat, eyes as deep of a green as emeralds would reflect back at the man. Quiet observation would go sweeping over Brandar, first impressions were important.

"I'm looking for a crew and a ship. Do you have those?" her husky voice inquired, straight to the point.

 

[Brandar the Burned]

He crinkled his nose for a moment but eased himself into the booth. It wouldn't do well to stand with his back to the door after all. Shadowed taverns left little room to really know who he was dealing with, but he could tell she'd drive any sailor mad with lust.

The left corner of his mouth lifted, curling into a dangerous smile. White capped teeth rested visibly upon his lower lip.

"In Irons is never far, though she's not oft used as a transport."

 

[Dangeruese]

"You'll be well paid," Dangeruse told him plainly, her fingers tracing along the rim of the pewter mug. "A thousand gold coins. Five hundred now and five hundred upon completion." There was a no-nonsense quality to her. From her appearance, she couldn't be older than in her mid-twenties. Why would she be in need of a crew or a ship? Where would she have enough gold to pay for them?

Now was the question of whether or not the man would be willing to go where she needed to.

"I need transport to the isles of Kiva." she told him, referencing the archipelago known for its dangerous storms and deadly whirlpool.

 

[Brandar the Burned]

He smiled at that, knowing his way quite well through the region. Yet, he'd wound up in this mess for something similar - easy gains, and quick wealth. Not that five hundred coins would make him a King. His eyes narrowed again, and his gloved hand extended to her to shake.

"I can take you there. I cannot promise you will survive the arrival."

 

[Dangeruese]

Brandar the Burned

A slow, knowing grin would curve upon the woman's lips. For a brief second, one would think that her eyes gave a flash of an emerald glow. Perhaps it was the light of the candles or lanterns.

"Fairtrade. There will be a series of five stops," she told him, gesturing with her left hand, five fingers extended.

"How do you feel about kidnapping, killing, or stealing?"

 

[Brandar the Burned]

He narrowed his eyes. Five stops? Along the way to the Isles of Kiva?

This wasn't about the coin now. Now it was about a mystery. What was she after? And who did she fancy herself to be? This smelled of ego. It almost made him smile.

"Yes."

 

[Dangeruese]

There was a look there. One that flickered an interest at her query. That he accepted meant one of two things; he was someone she'd have to keep an eye on for a potential betrayal or he was willing to do that and more for the coin. It could very well be a mixture of both. As it was, as long as he was willing to provide a ship and crew, then Dangeruese was willing to pay.

"As for quarters. While I do not expect to have a spare cabin, if I have to sleep with the crew, I want it clear that if anyone attempts anything without my consent, I am free to act accordingly with your support?"

 

[Brandar the Burned]

This time, he did smile; a crooked line drawn upon cracked porcelain. "I can assure, you will be the last thing on their mind." Though she might not be too far from his own. Despite the thought, his eyes remained locked on hers, betraying little more than the fact he was a pirate about to be paid a hefty sum of coin.

"But by all means... amuse yourself if you must."

 

[Dangeruese]

There might have been a flare of an emerald glow within the redhead's eyes, or perhaps the manner by which the oil lamp cast its light might have something to do with it. Either way, as the corner of her mouth, drew up in a twitch, she extended a leather-gloved hand over towards Brandar the Burned.

"Then we have an accord, savvy?"

 

[Brandar the Burned]

Without much hesitation, his hand met her own and gave a perfunctory shake. Such was the manner of deals like this - quick, to the point. Seeing it through, however, would be a months long endeavor. Strange; much of a year, for a few minutes conversation.

"Are you keen to leave now?" He asked, as a group of his corsairs stepped in, paired curved swords at their hips. They were far more finely garbed than anyone here needed to be, but that was to be expected.

"Or shall I let the men get a wee bit sloshed?"

 

[Dangeruese]

"Let your men enjoy the next two days," she told him, leaning back on her wooden chair. Fingers went curling along the pewter pint, bringing it up to her lips to drink deep.

"On the third, our I'd like to head to our first stop, an island off the coast of Fal'Addas."

 

[Brandar the Burned]

After a moment, he decided it would be best to take a seat, and he settled his weight into a chair nearby. Though they exchanged no words, the masked faces turned towards him, held his stare, and then wordlessly went about their business as if by order.

"A short enough journey. Is it inhabited?"

 

[Dangeruese]

At Brandar the Burned 's query, Dangeruese would respond, gesturing with her left hand. "You could say that this particular island has difficulty in anyone reaching its shores."

Her head went canting to the side, revealing the smooth curve of her jawline illuminated by the lantern's glow, the upper part of her face still cast in muted shadows by the point of her hat.

"Storms frequent it. The channel between the mainline and the island causing the same kind of turbulence Kiva is known for due to the strength of the winds. Some say that there is more than meets the eye with the winds, but, I believe a skilled crew and schooner will be able to reach the southern shore."

 

[Brandar the Burned]

Ugly as he was, the glimpse of taut skin across a defined jawline drew his eye like the orange glow of light reflecting off a window in the dead of night. Rubbing his fingertips across the scarred tabletop, criss-crossed with gouge marks and old stains, he found himself smiling again.

"I'm sure we'll manage."

For once, being a cursed pirate would work in his favor outside of scaring people off. "I take it you'll be searching for something."

 

[Dangeruese]

The corner of her mouth twisted in a seemingly telling upward curve.

"Yes," there was no need to lie. "A former acquaintance has an item that belongs to me. I only just received confirmation on his whereabouts. I seek to reclaim it."

Her hand came down, fingers starting a small drum upon the carved table.

"If all goes well, it will only require some encouragement for him to part with it."

 

[Brandar the Burned]

"So the island is inhabited." He replied, smiling. "Unless you're stealing from the grave." In which case, the island would only be inhabited if the skeleton was raised to renewed unlife.

"In which case, I certainly will not judge." And her encouragement was prying it from his skeletal fingers.

 

[Dangeruese]

A throaty chuckle went bubbling from the redhead's throat. However, it was with a certain wryness that she replied with, "There are many sorts of graves. Some are worse for the dead as they are for those left alive."

Cryptic, but there was a certain edge in her voice. Emerald eyes would sweep over the Captain sitting before her, taking a quiet measure. Whatever she saw she kept in her mind. Instead, leaning back again, one arm propping up to rest against the top of the back of her chair. The motion revealed a series of inky tattooed that seemed to flow in a variety of patterns along the side of her neck, over her decollete and further down below, hidden away by the dark blouse and the heavy leather overcoat she wore.

"Should matters go to plan, then the next port would be the tip of the Spear." A gesture of her hand and the Half-Orc caught the flag of attention. "Another pint," she called out, looking over at Brandar with a lofted brow.

"Ale?"

 

[Brandar the Burned]

Running his tongue over the front of his teeth, he cast his eyes to the other patrons, who were dutifully avoiding contact. The orc behind the bar would periodically scan the room, and it was in one such moment that he saw her hand lift.

Narrowing his eyes at the bartender, he scraped his teeth across his lower lip, folding his hands together atop the table while leaning forward. His eyes dropped for a moment to the ink, then reverted to studying her posture and then, again, the room.

While he had a lecherous mind, he had seen enough men stabbed in seedy bars to avoid falling for the immediate gratification of some bared skin.

"Of course." He rasped in reply.