Private Tales What do you do with a drunken Nordenfiir?

[Petrus Ritus Iskandar]

The HIS Stormlance. Southeast of the Allir Reach; Asherah Ocean.



Dark, thundering storm clouds roiled overhead. Casting about in wild motions like the full, grey beard of an angry storm god. Glaring down at the comparatively puny, intrepid vessel stubbornly cutting through his wrath. A voice of thunder, booming and imperious, matched by a wrathful hand of lightning striking the sea. All of this wrath, all of this ardor from Arethil, meant nothing to one Petrus Iskandar seated in the luxurious bowels of the Stormlance. An appropriate name for such a sizable galleon meant to cut through even the worst of storms. His own enchantments bent the winds to support the sails, while calming them around the ship such that while further out to sea they could nearly tear the clothes off a man, while on and within a few feet of the Stormlance, the winds were perhaps only enough to pull an unsecured hat from your head.

Peering out the window for a brief moment Petrus would take a slow, measured sip of wine before casting his eyes heavily down to the charts upon his cabin desk. Efforts by many of his house had tracked, triangulated and scryed the wreck of a vessel known as The Shadow. A vessel that had once grabbed it's fortune's worth of wealth from the sacking of Alliria some years hence. What many did not know, or did not wish to know, is that The Shadow had also made it's escape with a supposed bevy of necromantic artifacts and, even, practitioners of the art.

With some funds reallocated and the Stormlance secured it had been as simple thing to post a bounty, a job offer, and secure the aid of a Nordenfiir woman and her crew. While their comparatively.... savage.... ways did nothing to impress the Allirian nobleman she had seemed..... adequate to the cause. Only time would tell if she was truly anything approaching impressive or, perhaps, worthy enough to avoid a renegotiation of her price once the journey was complete......

In any case Petrus had seen the woman, one Nerren Harclaw, summoned to his cabin to further discuss with her the dangers they may encounter when coming upon The Shadow. Initial Scrying efforts had revealed it dashed upon a small, rocky isle, arching and grasping into the sky like the finger bones of some gargantuan skeleton reaching for the sky. Only when this Nerren's presence was announced at his door by the guard did Petrus lift his eyes and reply in a firm, casual tone.

"Enter."


Nerren Harclaw ​

 

[Nerren Harclaw]

A storm was coming. For some folk on land or at sea, those were words that they generally never wanted to hear. Rain was good for a time, and those who tilled the fields needed the water for their crops to grow. The wind shaped the climate, distributed heat in balance, and the sailor needed it to sail from the coast.

Storms, however, were the violent spawns of what was vital. They were nature’s wrath. Unbridled. Those in their homes would shut the doors and close the windows and hope that the storm would pass over them from night to dawn. Those in their ships would secure the rigging and stay in the depths and wait as the storm would pass overhead.

Yet not all of them.

There were some who welcomed the storm, beckoned it, and were so taken to the challenge that they actually tried to actively find it before it even came to them. They chased the rain, excited by the lightning, and wondered whether the thunder would crack the welkin to the beats of their drums. That was their blood.

These ones were born of salt and iron, forged for the sea, and were the mercenary company for this calm ship and its lord and captain. They were Nordenfiir, raised on ice and rock with a bite like a bear. They were trained to take to the ocean and dominate their opponents wherever they dared.

Storm? They were born for the challenge and their captain who commanded their Iron Bitch would show it.

Sword and axe on either hip amid her outfit, Captain Nerren entered the quarters of the other captain who had requested her presence. Boots tapped against the floorboards, softer against the rug which she paid no notice of. Her walk stopped before her host, her grey gaze taking in the captain’s space before landing on his face, unbroken.

“Stormlance,” Nerren spoke in a deadpan tone that matched her expression. “Have you ever had to lance your ship through a storm before, captain?”

Petrus Ritus Iskandar

 

[Petrus Ritus Iskandar]

As the Nordenfiir woman came to stand before him Petrus would finish writing a letter, his movements unhurried, and he left Nerren waiting for several seconds as he calmly and smoothly rolled the vellum, bound it in ribbon, then stamped it shut with his personal seal before placing it aside. Beginning to speak before his eyes even came to rest on the short woman. Well shorter than him anyways.

"You seem to be mistaken, Nerren Harclaw, I am simply the owner of this vessel, not it's Captain. Responsible for some of the enchantments currently allowing the Stormlance to live up to it's title but not the one who guides it presently."

It was then that those heavy, amber eyes would come to rest on Nerren's severe, if feminine, features and Petrus would motion to the chair across from himself with a ringed hand.

"You may sit, if you like, I called you here to discuss what my mages have scried of The Shadow's wreckage and how your people may best aid me in recovering what is of value."

Petrus would, whether Nerren sat or not, retrieve a bottle of heavy drink from beneath his desk and set it atop the wood with a generous 'THUNK' before giving Nerren a questioning look to silently ask if she wished to drink.


Nerren Harclaw ​

 

[Nerren Harclaw]

Untroubled, the woman watched as this man gave his subtle display of power. He seemed the type to always be doing something when speaking to somebody to show them it. Granted, this was their very first meeting, but his kind had been seen a thousand times from seas to mountains and the trees in between.

Then it was her turn to take a moment of quiet, only the Nordenfiir had no need or means to compose a letter. It might not be the first time she was mistaken in her speech, her demeanor never betraying her prejudice for creatures like him, but such were the presumptions as much as superstitions of a sailor at sea.

One who had no time for pomposity but plenty of time for drink.

“Owner, indeed.”

As bidden or invited, whatever he might like to think, Nerren took a seat. Tempted to place her feet on the desk, cross one boot over the other, she thought better of it but accepted the offer.

“Please,” she nodded. Maybe it was whiskey, maybe it was mead. It was not grog and that was a certainty.

“Forgive me,” she suddenly spoke eloquently but not mockingly. “But whoever is the owner of the ship and sits in it…” Nerren sipped her drink and licked her lips. “Is its captain and damn the rank. Just my opinion.” She shrugged.

“Come. Let’s discuss business.” She curled her fingers in toward His Lordship as if to beckon him. “I run with a crew of sailors, warriors, explorers, and I have trained divers in my midst.” Nerren shifted her eyes between his. “But it’s more than golden fortune and silver treasure you wish to recover, isn’t it?”

Petrus Ritus Iskandar

 

[Petrus Ritus Iskandar]

Bringing up two glasses Petrus would uncork the bottle of what smelled like a very fine whiskey. Likely with some infusion of honey and small, brown motes of cinnamon to add a bit more of a dull sweetness to it's 'kick'. Pouring a glass for Nerren first he would pause at her verbose statement and he would give a small, dry chuckle before pouring his own glass. He then recorked the bottle and, lifting his glass in a brief, silent toast he would take a drink and hiss out a small breathe between clenched teeth. Agreeing with her as he eyed the dark, sweet liquid and nodded.

"Captain it is then."

Staying silent at the woman's guess he paused as he considered his heavily distorted reflection in the whiskey before his amber eyes, a similar but darker hue than the whiskey itself, would raise to meet Nerren's own as he gave a tight smile.

"Correct."

A slow, measured exhale would be given that caused his nostrils to flare briefly.

"Given recent prospects even that comparatively obvious guess is refreshingly...... competent."

He grimaced an odd, dissatisfied expression.

"Perhaps my standards are withering away......"

Taking another drink he would drain the rest of his glass before setting it upon the desk.

"But yes, I've enough gold and silver to last me several lifetimes. To never have to worry about comfort or material means again. To support countless men and women in my employ for their lives as well..... But no. What I seek from the wreckage of The Shadow is a lingering artifact from the despoiling of Alliria or.... rather... the attempt at such by creatures as such as Vardan and Geladryx with their.... craft."

Petrus waited to see if Nerren had any knowledge of the Lich and the Necromancer dragon before deciding to share in case she did not.

"There have been lingering effects of their potent necromancy in the area. Given my connection to nature I have felt it quite intimately and will not abide it's influence on my home. As such any artifact that drank of their power that I can recover to study will aid me in this effort."


Nerren Harclaw ​

 

[Nerren Harclaw]

This drink definitely was not grog at the least or from a giant's teat. It wasn’t honeyed mead exactly, neither was it highlander whiskey. Nerren had tasted the beverages of Edenham and this wasn’t it. Rather, it was simply if admittedly delicious and made her lick her lips after another sip. The cinnamon was quaint. The ‘kick’ was great.

The captain gave his explanation next so the other captain listened. She was his guest as much as hired hand by way of contract. That was if she decided to sign it of course and sign onboard. He might be a lord but his lordship and majesty needed more than whiskey, fancy words and a rich doublet to win her over.

Unfortunately, his pompous position wasn’t doing him any favors.

Sometimes you had to recognize when someone was stating the obvious.

Obfuscating stupidity? So goes the trope.

Petrus spoke. Nerren listened. He mentioned the wreckage of The Shadow. She blinked. Skeletons and dragons. Waited to see if she knew what the shit he was talking about. She met his gaze with a straight face and gave nothing away.

“Great,” the Captain of the Iron Bitch said to the Lord-Captain of the Stormlance or whatever the fuck he imagined his rank was. “What is the pay?”

Petrus Ritus Iskandar

 

[Petrus Ritus Iskandar]

Under different circumstances Petrus would have found the blunt oafish focus on money from the woman to be disrespectful and induce his ire. But given the grade of mercenary he had recently had sully his home even this single-minded dullardry was a breathe of fresh air by comparison. Petrus would take another drink and, letting out a small exhale, respond to Nerren's question.

"Completion of the contract will be one-and-a-half times your usual rate. You will have any and all salvaging rights to anything outside the captain's quarters and not any of the necromantic artifacts. Any weapons, supplies, rigging, drink or otherwise is yours elsewise."

Petrus would pour himself and Nerren another drink if she desired and idly cradle the whiskey in-hand before adding.

"Additionally, passage and costs for funeral preparations for any of your men lost will be subsidized. We will cover half...."

He trailed off, met the woman's eyes, and his own amber orbs sharpened from the lines at the corners of his eyes as he continued.

"... and lastly... there is one item... some sort of crown or headpiece.... if that is recovered I will personally see you rewarded with services at the dockyards of Alliria for the Iron Bitch. From there you can undoubtedly find even more employment and improvements for your vessel. Time at the main dockyard is, after all, highly contested."

Nerren Harclaw​

 

[Nerren Harclaw]

Nerren weighed Petrus’ answer. One plus wasn’t much but they both wagered that the salvage would make up for the balance and then some. That was fair and expected in this business. The lack of necromantic artifacts in Nerren’s possession? Even better, she reckoned.

At the mention of drink for a reward, a corner of her lips tugged upward. Ah, yes. Because we're just a bunch of dumb drunken Nordens. Petrus clearly had little and less appreciation for a person of her position but it wasn’t her occupation that mattered. Either way, she slid her cup forward for him to pour her another drink.

“Fine,” the Nordenfiir replied, all but hiding the way her eyebrow raised at the proposition for prime port service in the rich city of Alliria. “On one condition.” She sipped her whiskey and licked her lips.

“I want double the rate to begin with, and if our salvage fails to provide an ample price—of which I welcome an assessment of acquisitions in comparison before we part ways—then you pay us triple the rate.” Nerren was not especially trained to negotiate but her work didn’t discriminate.

"As for funeral costs,” she shrugged. “Don't worry about it. My men—and women—pay their respects to the drowned god.” She downed her whiskey. “Pretty cheap to toss bodies into the sea.”

Petrus Ritus Iskandar