Private Tales Through the Red Mist

[Gal]

“Ah—” she grimaced and swung her legs onto the table with an exaggerated eyeroll, “got betrayt.”

Gal fixed the burned man with a steady stare, lips a displeased curl. She twisted the words around her mouth like a stringy piece of meat. “Only ran once in ma’ lyfe. Rest o’ it’s joos bidin’ da tim’.”

The corner of that red slash quirked up. Dark eyes got darker. “Ah’m a hunter.”

And she would chase her new prey to the ends of the world. Al-Kamah would never again know peace until she sent his cold corpse careening into the depths.

 

[Brandar the Burned]

"Before I took to sea, I was a hunter, too." He remarks, a smirk forming. "Wild cattle, boar, the like." He gesticulated vaguely with a hand just so she'd get the idea. "And every hunter knows it's only a matter of time before something gets on your tail, too. It doesn't make you less of a hunter. It doesn't mean you can't take care of yourself. It just means nature is, as it always does, going to do what it wants.

We're animals, too. Pirates, especially. Hunter, hunted, betrayer, betrayed..." He snorts, "All the same thing. The only thing that matters is getting them before they get you.

You failed at it once, and I admire you don't want to fail at it twice."

 

[Gal]

“Ah kno’ dat. Ah grew op wit it.” She shrugged one shoulder, the other arm draped over the rickety backrest of the shoddy chair. Everything in this tavern looked, and behaved, like it could fall apart at any moment.

Including the tentative peace.

“Yer a right fuckin’ scholar, eh?” She arched one brow, puffed out an amused breath. “Yer also wrong, freynd. Beasts don’ got nothin’ ta’ betray. Ye alwa’ kno’ were yer at wit beasts. Dey eider gon’ try ta’ kill ye, or dey gon’ run awa’. Ain’ lyin’ got nothin’ ta’ do wit it.”

Gal shook her head and swept an unruly curl from her forehead. “Ye an’ me… we wors’ dan eny beast.”

 

[Brandar the Burned]

"I've long held that betrayal is just our version of leaving the old, sickly, or weak behind." He smiled, "We just take a more active role in it." His head tips to one side, both brows lofting high for a moment to concede that, yes, he was a scholar.

"The majority of my crew are ghosts. I have a lot of time to think." Then he shook his head.

"We're no better or no worse than animals - the only difference is we subscribe to a concept of right and wrong, and project it onto things with no knowledge save animal instinct."

 

[Gal]

“Speak fo’ yerself, mainlander,” she snorted, flipping out her knife to clean the grime under her fingernails. It was always there, no matter how often she picked at it with her dagger. An eclectic mix of dirt, blood, salt, and spirits know what else.

Always.

“Ma people live like neytur ment us ta’.” This was a bald-faced lie. If her tribe didn’t have its own tenets and laws, she never would’ve had to leave. “Rayt an’ wrong’s jus’, wassitcall’d… exkyuses fo’ dose wha don’ have da guts fo’ doin’ wat needsta’ be don’. Wha canna look demself in da eye after.”

Pointedly, Gal stabbed the blade into the table. If the deep grooves were any indication, it had fallen victim to such emphasis often in its long life.

“Ah ain’ da one wha failt, freynd.” Her mouth spilled into a lazy grin. “Kamah screwt da dog, an’ noo he’s gonna die ‘cos he wasne hunter enuff ta’ see if da beast was killt fo’ real.”

 

[Brandar the Burned]

"Well, in truth, the beast would be dead... but... well..." He grinned, and it had nothing to do with good humor. "Sometimes the dead find their way back, don't they?" Laughing to himself, he downed the last bit of his pint and slammed it down, letting out a belch that had everything to do with all the froth now burbling in his belly.

"Good luck with that, though. Not that you need it. I'm sure you'll do just fine. You've got the spirit in you.... no pun intended." What with her not having a ship, or a crew, or anything other than a thirst for vengeance. He'd been there, of course. More than once.

But fortunes had always been the metaphorical hand you were dealt; random, uncaring. Not that he was any good at cards.

 

[Gal]

An expression best described as put-upon crossed Gal’s face like a bird in flight. Her mouth twisted into something resembling a smile. “Having da spirit is wat got me ‘ere in da first pleys.”

Likely she’d still be chasing game through the jungles of Iwi Lua if certain… lines hadn’t been crossed. “An’ ye’d know aboot comin’ baq, wouldne ye?” Her eyebrows bobbed again as she nodded at his scarred, half-melted face. He might’ve been handsome once. She might’ve been chieftain once.

Would be, could be, should be. Pointless shite.

“Ah don’ need luck. Ah need a ship.” Her eyes burned bright with an internal fire as she leaned forward on her elbows. “An’ yer gonna ‘elp me get one.”

 

[Brandar the Burned]

He snorted. Finally, they'd come to the crux of her needs. A ship. She needed a ship. "And how do you propose I help you get one?" He asks, a brow lofted high.

He gestured, vaguely, to the door and what lay beyond. "There's hardly much in the bay. At least, nothing worth sailing - aside from the Irons."

 

[Gal]

“Well, short o’ stealin’ a cursed ship ay haven’t a chance in hell o’ sailin’ on me own…” she spread her hands wide, mouth turning sour, “now ye see me pratik— pretickt— problem.”

The dagger still buried in the tabletop gave a tiny creak as she began dancing it back and forth with her finger, punctuating each word. “Wat ye did… ah’mn’t aboot dat. Me soul’s me own.” Gal shrugged, that’s that. “But. Ay am, wassitcall’d… businesswummin, yeah? Ah’d like ta’ talk ta’ yer goddess.”

Her hand stilled. Her smile widened. “Make a deal.”

 

[Brandar the Burned]

He snorted, then laughed. "Then find a temple." His palm rested around the bottom of his tankard, and his face fell flat. "I'm not a conduit to the gods, after all. I'm not their messenger bird."

His hand waved a bit again. "I suppose you could try drowning yourself. That might help your cause."

 

[Gal]

“Fuck ye, eh?” She said without heat, rocking back and forth in the chair. Some moment soon, the thing would fall apart. She was sure of it. “Kiva don’ have a temple. Ne one dat ay know o’, anyhoo.”

The creaking of the chair stopped as she fixed him with a level black stare. “Noo dere’s a thought. Da ocean’s da biggest church dere is, isneit?”

To a normal person, her smile would’ve bordered on crazy. This guy? Not likely to bat an eyelash. (Did he still have them, for that matter? Hard to tell in the smoky, dark atmosphere of the tavern.)

“Gimme a lift to Kiva, den? Promise ah can pull me weight, Capo.”

 

[Brandar the Burned]

He snorted. "Fine." He says, waving a hand. With a palm to the edge of the table, he pushed the chair back with a scrape of wood on wood. "Fine," he repeats, "I'll bring ye along. Just keep yer head down, and listen to the crew. It's more like a normal ship than you'd expect, but less so than you'd think."

His shoulders shrugged. "We'll be taking on supplies for the next few days, so just make sure you're onboard in three days time. I'll tell the Quartermaster to expect you."

 

[Gal]

“Verra specific,” she dragged her snark over sharp teeth, and then they were outside in the buzzing, humid air of a Cerak evening.

The next few days went by in the usual shoreside haze. For every ship that Johnny and Joanna left, there were always five more waiting in the harbor for folk with quick legs and sharp knives.

For Gal, this would be the last time she sailed under any flag other than her own. Under tattered canvas bearing east; a fine voyage in the making. High seas, foul winds, rough storms – all of that would no doubt receive them with open arms once they began the winter journey ‘round the Spear.

But if the goal was never to make it, then surely she would succeed with ease.

Come third dawn, the Nazrani was vaulting over the high gunwale of the Irons. Before the first gold spilled o’er the eastern horizon they had weighed anchor and hoisted the sails for the rising tide.

 

[Brandar the Burned]

Brandar strode the deck with a stout dwarf at his right hand. He was old, with grey streaked through the orange of his belly-length beard, and they were deep in conversation when Gal appeared. The dwarf stopped, then looked to Brandar with the raise of a brow that asked the question his lips didn't form.

"She's with us." He says simply, motioning for the Ship's Master to come with. "Welcome aboard." He says to Gal, like she hadn't been here before.

Clearly, the dwarfs surprise was that she was joining them again. He spoke up, though, the moment they were within' earshot. "We'll need ya on tha sails, lass. Gonna haf'ta tack a short ways, 'til we ken hit the traders." He meant the winds, of course. So far as dwarfs went, he was downright understandable.

Brandar nodded to her, and then moved towards the helm, where Hastings held post, his bright red coat standing out starkly against the dark wood. "Weigh anchor." He says, and behind him, the dwarf raised his voice. "WEIGH ANCHOR!"

The crew hurried to, and as Brandar approached the gunwale to take one last look at the cesspool they were leaving, a Dark Elf appeared at his side, his cloak of hydra hide wrapped tight around his narrow shoulders. "Why are we bringing her?" His voice was sharp, and filled with spite.

"Because." Brandar replies, "She wants to make a deal with Kiva."

The elf, Karendal, narrowed his eyes and turned towards Gal. "She's as dumb as you."

"And twice as pretty."

"Only by your low standards."

Brandar snorted, then shrugged, and annoyed Karendal by clapping him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, Kare. We'll find a few prizes to board. The vanguard won't thirst long."

Behind them, Cerak began to recede, and with the sails unfurling, they began to angle towards the Spear.

 

[Gal]

Between Gal and the Ship’s Master, the Captain would have a load of swallowed syllables and mangled Common to deal with. But you can’t put a price on expert sailing skills.

Her feet never even touched the deck – she just climbed on over to the t’gallant yards as the dwarf roared orders left and right. Tacking a ship this size… well, suppose it wasn’t difficult to discipline a bunch of ghosts when they had no earthly needs.

After they spent the morning tacking out of the bay, the Nazrani was starting to realize that much of the Irons’ notoriety came from the simple fact of a drilled crew. The ship was fast, and quick on the turn despite its size, and she’d no doubt they could clear a whole broadside in the time it took those navy boys to load up their bolts.

Gal expected the perspective would be much different when they came upon their first Mantessant brig. This late in the year they were sure to be closing ranks around the last of their merchant ships running for port before the winter storms.

The fattest pigs always come last to the slaughter.

 

[Brandar the Burned]

Their journey was unremarkable. They encountered several other pirates, but a raising of the black cleared up that they were 'friendlies,' and they passed without incident. Brandar was pleased, however, with how well she meshed with the crew. It was hard to say how long she'd stick with them, but he knew his goal. Perhaps she did too.

She wanted a ship? The sea provided.

His time was spent plotting their moves, maintaining a log, and ensuring no one was out of line. The Quartermaster and Ship's Master handled the running and the crew itself, but he was there to arbitrate, and could often be found working with the crew below decks. He certainly seemed to prefer the dark and damp.

Mantessans. Anirians. Allirians. All called the waters theirs, and all could be found upon the waves. The dangerous ones, though? Well, he had a corsair leading his vanguard who would attest to the most dangerous.

"SAILS!" The call came from up top, and with the pounding of boots, the Captain appeared, cloak of discarded fish net and cloth extending behind him in the wind. He pulled a spyglass from his belt, and hefted it to his eye - even now, the Ship's Master was studying the sails through one of his own.

There was a long moment of silence, and then Brandar narrowed his eye, trying to get a better visual over the mid-day glare. "What colors?" He asks, wetting his lips.

"Can't tell yet, Captain."

"Someone find out, we'll tail her until we're sure what she is."

 

[Gal]

A gleeful whoop sounded from the mainmast top. A head of black curls and blacker eyes peered over the edge, one hand wrapped round the shrouds. “Ye need betta eyes, ehe?” She tapped the side of her nose before swinging ‘round onto the next set of ratlines. “Ne ta’ worry. Ah got ye cover’d.”

Sprightly as a jungle cat the woman ran up to the crow’s nest, bringing a third spyglass to bear on the distant ship. A slow grin spread across her face like blood in the water.

Yellow an’ purple.

“Mantessa!” she roared down to the deck, one hand already poised above the halyard that would hoist their own colors in turn.

 

[Brandar the Burned]

"Should we raise the black?"

"Not yet."

"They'll see our sails..."

"Not until it's too late."

He plodded along heavily, moving to the bow of the ship to raise a spyglass and get a good look. "Bring us up behind her. We'll run her down." His brow darkened, a keening cry echoing from the depths below.

His head snapped about, looking to Hastings, and then down to the waters blackening in the setting sun. "So... it's going to be one of those trips."

 

[Gal]

Gal glanced this way and that. “Wat kinda trip.”

She’d heard the scream, ‘course, but what it meant to a man like Brandar that was another matter.

Still, whichever way they went about it, the sea would run red. The Nazrani kept a weather eye as she ran her hands over her ensemble. Cutlass, knife, another knife, a length of rope, a flask of kickin’ grog.

The cork made a wet pop before she tipped a healthy swallow down her gullet. She wiped the red from her lips and offered it up to the Captain.

“Drink?”

 

[Brandar the Burned]

"Yes...." He mutters, looking to her out of the corner of his eye. Digging into his coat, he pulled out a battered, and thoroughly waterlogged scroll. With a shake of his hand, it unfurled, dripping water to the deck as black as the midnight sea. She couldn't read - he'd figured that out already - but she'd know a list when she saw it.

One name, halfway down, glowed the same green as the name of the ship. "One of those trips."

He wasn't too happy about it, but he reached down to the bandanna hanging around his neck and pulled it up to hook over his nose. With the shark tooth grin in place, he turned up the collar on his stolen coat and settled a palm on the hilt of his cutlass.

"No, no drinks." He says, suddenly quite devoid of personality. "I'll need a clear head to see this through."

Every name on that list was someone he'd once counted as a friend, but he wasn't going to confide in her just yet that the list never actually grew shorter.

Gal

 

[Gal]

“Soot yeself.” A freckled shoulder shrugged under the sheer white tunic moments before Gal tipped the flask to her lips. Her throat bobbed, one, three, five healthy swigs. An indulgent shudder ran down her spine as she swallowed the last of the grog. “Dat hit da spot.”

“So was da plan, Capo?” She jerked her chin at the glowing scroll. Maybe she should’ve been afraid, but at this point… Well, if the sea spirit had wanted her dead, it could’ve taken her head a hundred times already.

The answer, she expected, would be along the lines of ‘Kill them all’. But then who was she to presume the ways of the ocean?

 

[Brandar the Burned]

He growled, then thinned his lips, staring at the ship ahead of them. It would be an hour or two until they caught up, but catch up they would. "Get aboard. No bloodshed." His tongue ran over the front of his teeth, and a moment later he was sinking those same teeth into his lower lip in thought, pensively rubbing his palm over the pommel of his sword.

"This ship won't be yours, I'm afraid. The Captain is mine, and the crew will be kept in one of our holds. The ship will be left to drift once we've killed the captain - goods intact."

Clearly, this had to do with reputation. Killing the captain but taking the goods wouldn't build up the necessary word of mouth that a full hold, missing crew and dead captain would.

"I apologize that this will not be your typical boarding action, but the vanguard will go across first... just in case."

 

[Gal]

A wayward spray of salt let her know her mouth was hanging open. She blinked. Snapped it shut.

“Wat da fook.” Gal stared at Brandar as if he’d grown a second head. Scratch that, a second head wouldn’t have warranted more than a double take.

“What’s ye need a clir head fo’ den? We’re na doin’ nothin’! Na fightin’, na killin’, na robbin’ – who taught ye piratin’? Yer mother?”

 

[Brandar the Burned]

His lips thinned again, and he stared at their prey with contempt he held only for her and her lack of understanding. "The Goddess demands what she demands. Souls, and vengeance." He frowned, "But what I need? What I need is people too afraid to attack me. People too terrified of what we might do that they would rather throw themselves overboard than look us in the eye when we board.

You only get that by slow playing your hand, Gal. A bluff is only good after you've dominated your opponent once. The Mantessans have forgotten what I can do to them, and I'm going to remind them. I'm going to remind them when that ship is boarded, not a soul in sight, their captain strung up in fish netting, gutted and drained, and everything in it's place, food still warm."

Those tired eyes swept back to hers, and the bandanna pulled tighter across his cheeks as he smiled. There was almost a glow to those eyes in that moment.

"Sometimes it's not about the feast - it's about leaving blood in the water."

 

[Gal]

Her frown grew deeper as she listened, eyes trained on the distant red sails. The royal colors of the Mantessan navy were still a faded glint just above the horizon, wrapped in early morning mists like a whore in her silks.

By the sound of it, they’d get fucked over just the same.

“Ah s’pose dat makes some sens’,” she admitted at length, lips pursed in thought. “So ye jus’ need os to look real danjerous an’ scare ‘em shitless?” A hint of teeth peered out behind blood-red lips. “Ah can do dat.”

Blood in the water indeed.