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.

 

[Gal]

Every city had its hidden treasures, its glinting jewels, and its diamonds in the rough. Gal made it her business to see to all of them when she visited, to see which riches were ready for the plucking and which ones needed more time on the vine.

The Salted Ivy had been a member of the latter category when she’d last set foot in Istanfol. Now it was an elegant, mature lady, brimming with opulent décor and lovely, lively patrons.

The nazrani threw her hair over her shoulder as she swaggered to the bar, sharp glint in her eye, sharp grin on her lips. She inhaled deeply of the smoke and beer and sweat that mingled like the finest fragrance in the humid air. After the briny sea, this was the scent that set her nerves alight.

There were a great many things to do in taverns: games of hazard, kegs of drink, wicked brawls, handsome strangers… Gal could hardly decide which ripe fruit to bite into first.

“Spiced oraja,” she ordered at last. The boozy draught smelled delicious as she brought it to her lips and leaned back on the counter to survey her options.

The bard looked like a fine catch, but the line was already long and Gal didn’t feel like dashing dreams tonight. A few tables in the other corner were gambling their money away on trionfi, with the usual chorus of misery and delight whenever lady luck dealt a new hand. Up the stairs the patrons were shrouded in the rising smoke, carrying hushed conversations over plates of fish and roast. Business, no doubt. She already had her trusty fences in this town, but new connections could never hurt.

Gal loosened the strings at the front of her (already precariously open) tunic and made for the stairs.

 

[Kilien Basmarc]

By the time the glimmer of gold and a wafting aroma of spices entered his senses, Kil was already half into his tankard and looming among the smoke of a cigarette. Earthy greens followed the shape of a woman through the crowd as she lingered briefly, deciding where to drift to for the evening. She had the look about her of someone come from the sea; something ethereal he felt he'd seen before but couldn't quite place the memory.

He blinked and she was gone. Brows heavy and low over his eyes in thought, Kilien pulled at the last of his cigarette, mentally noting he'd need to purchase more before shipping out, and turned with consideration to the crowds of the tavern. He'd have liked to ease into the evening, but the nagging of his current mission had yet to let go. Finding a ship and crew to chase after some lost treasure hoard shouldn't be too difficult, but he'd likely have to ply the interest of less than savory sorts for the job.

Merchant vessels weren't likely to go off schedule or route.

"Hmmm..." his eyes roved about the faces for that glint of gold but she'd melded into the crowd of patrons beyond his awareness. He'd have to leave it up to fate, perhaps.

Kilien shifted from his stool and meandered his way through the crowds, a nondescript stranger among forgettable others, to join the gambling tables. He didn't exactly have much in the way of funds, but flirting with Lady Luck was a favorite pastime of his. Nursing his ale while he watched and listened to the current games of triofi, he nodded as one of the tables closed on their current round and squeezed himself in between an orc and a scrawny shiphand.

"Not familiar with this one," Kil remarked as he dropped his buy-in to the center, the coins clattering onto a growing pile as others joined, "go easy on me, eh?"

 

[Gal]

Gal sashayed between the gamblers, weighing the tables – the players – to see which of them she could fleece for the most coin. It was early hours yet, but most of them were already well into their cups, beer and mead sloshing over to speckle the scuffed cards in their hands. Easy marks, the lot of them, but not particularly likely to be cash cows.

A game reshuffled its players after a few minutes, and fresher meat finally showed up. Gal waylaid the swaying gentleman who’d gone to snatch his refill off the bar. She slid into his vacant chair like she’d always belonged there and picked up his hand.

By the Spirits, it was shite. But quality didn’t much matter when you had half of an extra deck tucked into your bandana, boots, and breeches.

“Yer a bit far from home, ne?” She smiled at the lanky man across the table as the licitation began. “Ne worry, ragazz’, we show ye some local ‘ospitalité.”

 

[Kilien Basmarc]

Well hello Bangles.

Kilien stared as his earlier mark apparated right into the empty seat across from him, a bloomin witch on a warpath if the waves of mysterious allure wafting off her had anything to say about it. And what an accent on that spell of hers - a twang of which he'd never heard yet. Took him a moment to digest the meaning but the orc at his right nudged his elbow at him with an amiable chort.

Ragazz. Never been called that before.

"That's a mighty warm welcome," he said over a lopsided smirk, tucking his dealed hand into his palms to take a mild peek, "just let me win the first round and the welcome will really settle in, eh?" When he grinned his canines glinted in the candlelight.

He did not win the first or second round, but by the third round he was beginning to catch the drift of the game. Unfortunately he'd already spent the small stipend granted him for the mission so he began rolling the golden ring on his pointer finger around. It wasn't sentimental, though he'd been told it belonged to his father - whoever the hell that was. Lord Faceless Basmarc.

Kilien was feeling pretty good about Lady Luck for this round and his flagon had sat empty since the end of round one. A win on the current pot could score him some extra cash and another drink, maybe even a meal for the night.

Clink went his ring into the pile.

"I'm in."

 

[Gal]

Gal was cheating.

She wasn’t no amateur either; made sure to swap out the cards, pass them off to her neighbours when they leant in to grab their drink. When someone inevitably noticed that the deck had gotten somewhat light in the way of colours and rather heavy on the aces, she wouldn’t be the one caught with cards tucked into her sleeves.

Mostly because she had no sleeves to speak of. Her tunic was cut off at the shoulders, as was the habit of seafarers all along the Liadain coast. She’d donned one of her darker bandanas today – a stolen silk number counter-woven with a black pattern of chasing dragons. Her ears and neck and fingers and other places besides were gilded with jewellery, twinkling in the low light of the tavern whenever Gal made a move.

She looked down at the ring as the newcomer chucked it into the pot. A signet of some kind; a bold B drawn out from a little sword. A rich man’s bauble, no doubt. Fetch a nice price with the right fence.

“Te.” Gal slid a small stack of silver docatti into the middle. “Qe brings you ‘ere, ragazz? Biznis o’ plezir?”

The answer didn’t really matter so much as getting him talking. If he strutted around joints like these with a ring like that, he was either an arrogant noble on his first outing without a chaperone, or an arrogant thief that didn’t remember to melt the mark off the metal.

Whatever the case, Gal needed to soften him first. She preferred to work further west, in the chaotic waters between Mantessa, Baleri, Kasmetros, and the like. Here in Istanport Vel Anir cast a long shadow, their eyes and ears everywhere.