Private Tales The Most Reputable Pirates This Side of Anir

[Kilien Basmarc]

The Free City of Istanfol
Between Vel Anir and Cortos
Istanport

So far as free cities went, Istanfol was one of the most robust and well-maintained. Not that Kilien would really know the difference, but that did not stop the surprise upon seeing a mixture of cultures and nationalities all in the same port. Flags from as far as the Kalit, Vel Anir, Alliria, even Elbion made port here to name just a few that he could recognize at a glance. Mixed among them were countless privateers and unknown sigils or crests that added to the melting pot of this cultural trading hub.

Even if he was here on mission and had a strict schedule, what was a few hours of pleasure in such a lively place?

Markets to browse.

Landmarks to visit.

People to meet.

Pubs to crawl.

Socializing never came so easily as when you were a stranger in a strange place. No one here knew his face. He had no reputation to precede him. No gossip or rumors to turn others away. It was the sort of life he could happily get used to, if only for a short period of time before needing to move on.

For now, as the sun dwindled on the western horizon, he made his way along the port row businesses speaking to vendors and merchants but buying next to nothing. With little coin of his own to spare, all he could pay with was his company and dashing good looks.

But also he needed to figure out where to hire on a ship and crew for the mission.

Gal

 

[Gal]

“Istanfooooool!”

Gal grinned and swung her legs over the gunwale. “I’m baq, carina!”

Her ship and her crew sang in unison with her sea as they coasted in with the evening tide. The mellow waves made for good dreaming. On open oceans, under clear skies, ‘twas the sway to which Gal lit her pipe and stretched out in the shade of the t’garns’l.

But not tonight. Tonight was for sinking into cards and drink and a lovely pu—

“Capitain!”

The pirate shook off her reveries and hopped back on the quarterdeck to take over the helm. She knew the Coast better than some of the local pilots: the shoals, the lurking sandbars, the wind corridors, and the doldrums. Tacking into some of the closed ports along Cortos could be a real bitch, but they opened up for Gal and her charms like spring flowers.

Just like the many, many pairs of fine legs in Istan—

“Capitain!”

The nazrani course-corrected to avoid a long pier and led the Bird of Paradise safely into Istanport.

“A’ espett the watch crew ‘ere on da morrow ta onload da ship,” Gal called out as they finished lashing the ship. “After dat, yer all free ta fuck away. Two days, genti. Den we’re gon’, wit or witoot ye.”

The harbourmaster was already rushing along the wharf, fishing for his spectacles. She dispatched the old geezer with an easy smile, a fake name, and a new set of papers. Last time they’d dropped anchor here, the brigantine had been called Chaos Queen. Or was it The Dominion?

No matter. Gal paid the docking fee in silver and slipped into the waking nightlife of Istanfol with feline grace.

 

[Kilien Basmarc]

The Salted Ivy Tavern

Upon first impression, the place was the most upscale tavern he'd ever stepped foot into. Vaulted ceilings opened to second-story bay windows let in a flood of the lingering daylight while high candelabras and brass braziers burned countless candles at high wick.

The central area was open and hosted a squared stage where presently a bard with a fiddle entertained the guests with a story of ... well, he couldn't say yet but the ladies seemed invested.

All in all, it had a good feel and it most definitely had a lot of sea-faring folk judging by the amount of sun-kissed faces he could see in the crowd. There were languages and dialects aplenty he could not hardly understand, which told him all he needed to know about just how far a reach this little trade hub had. The fabrics and wardrobes gave clues to various nations in attendance, not that Kilien could recognize many. It simply meant there was enough of a hodgepodge that a young, scruffy man like himself wouldn't draw any attention.

He made for an open space at the bar before it filled and slid onto a stool to await service.

"Got anything seasonal?" he asked when the man finally stepped over. At least, he thought it was a man but the face bare more resemblance to a pig.

"Summer Ale," the man grunted. No, maybe boar. His bottom lip hugged what appeared to be two filed-down tusks.

Kilien nodded, accepted a sizeable wooden tankard, tossed a few copper coins to the bar and slowly turned as he sampled, eyeing the crowd and the new faces filing in through the entrance.