Easing the Badger (Nel)

[Stikka al'Tyne]

20th day of Spring, 510 AV

The Dancing Badger wasn’t the nicest inn within Syliras’s thick walls. The furniture was plain and well worn, the rooms were somewhat small, the beds were just not quite comfortable, and the patrons tended to be less than honest. The one redeeming feature of what most would call a dive was the fat cook that had worked within the kitchen for more years than most of the patrons had lived. No one knew why such a skilled cook was content to work in such a lowly place, nor how the portly innkeeper, Mister Dale, managed to convince her to stay. Many believed that there might be something between the two, but the two large men with cudgels on their belts that Mister Dale employed to keep order ensured these rumors were kept at a whisper. Mister Dale himself was an odd fellow to be running such an unreputable establishment. Portly and balding, he always had a ready smile and a friendly greeting. What’s more, he was exceedingly fair with his prices and honest with his customers. He never watered the wine, or took advantage of a patron lost in the drink to remove their possessions. Word got around, and though it still wasn’t completely safe, the Dancing Badger almost always was bursting at the seams.

Stikka had found his way to the Dancing Badger through sheer luck. He had been wandering from inn to tavern in search of somewhere to ply his services and make a few Mizas. In most of the places he found that were willing to indulge his offer, Stikka didn’t want to remain within for longer than it took him to reach the door. The Badger was different. It was quite lively, but not violently so, and more importantly for Stikka, Mister Dale did not have an entertainer. Mister Dale was delighted by the idea of providing some live entertainment within his common room, but had been forced to inform Stikka that he didn’t have the spare coin to pay what the service was worth. Not put off, Stikka suggested that he could play for tips and that in return for his service Mister Dale could let him a room. Mister Dale was amicable to this, though he warned Stikka that it would have to be his smallest room. Stikka didn’t mind, growing up on a ship had ingrained a preference to small spaces anyway.

Stikka climbed the stairs to the upper level, and followed the corridor al the way back to his tiny little room. Inside he deposited his pack and cloak, returning downstairs with just his flute and iron quarterstaff. The former to earn his keep, the latter just seemed prudent based on what he had seen of the clientele. While Stikka had been upstairs, Mister Dale had set up a stool atop a small raised dais that sat opposite the common room’s fireplace. A couple heads turned in curiosity as Stikka stepped onto the dais and propped his quarterstaff against the wall behind him. He took his place on the stool, placed his flute to his lips, and launched into the opening of a jaunty tune called ‘The Rooster’s Down the Well’. The din within the common room quieted momentarily as the patrons realized that there was a musician playing, and then the various conversations resumed, though at a much quieter level as people listened to Stikka’s flute in the background of their conversations.

[Nel Sayo]

Nel loved Mr. Dale's cook.

Few days went by between her visits; once she'd discovered the cook's piping-hot meat pies and her overabundance of affection for skinny girls, Nel could barely force herself to stay away. Food, it was one of the few things that Nel Sayo simply could not live without. If left to her own devices, she would've eaten eight meals a day, and had a midnight snack. Where all of that food went was anyone's guess; her brother had always assumed that her stomach was a secret portal to another world full of starving children. It was the only logical explanation he could come up with, because his sister remained a waifling, no matter how much she shoveled into her maw.

And Nel was a bubbling, bouncing blonde, a dearth of which seemed to plague the Badger, much to Mr. Dale's chagrin. So whenever she came tumbling into the tavern, he was sure to give her a wave and a grin; men followed the pretty, white-haired sylph into the bar out of curiosity, and stayed for the generally amiable atmosphere they found there.

She came spilling through the kitchen door that night, licking a drivel of gravy off her thumb, and blinked at the sudden hush that blanketed the room when the tone of the flute spiraled off over their collective heads. Pivoting towards the little stage, she watched with growing interest and curiosity, as the player first captivated the crowd, and then gently released them back to their own business.

The black-clad Konti shuffled over to Mr. Dale and nudged him in the arm with her elbow. The portly gentleman whuffled and drew a hand over his shiny skull, smiling broadly to her.

"Who's that?" she asked him, voice low.

"New musician, just hired him. You like?"

"He's pretty good."

"A critic!" Dale chuckled hoarsely. "Never heard you express an opinion of any kind, m'love, if it wasn't to compliment the food."

"Well I'm not gonna compliment the petching decor, Dale," she snickered back at him, climbing to a seat at the counter. Her bootheels dangled above the floor.

Dale just guffawed and whuffled some more, turning about to watch his new musician with a renewed twinkle in his eye. The pale-haired pirate tapped her fingertips to her thighs along with the rhythm of the tune, bobbing her head so that a clatter of beads and seashells formed a staccato accompaniment that only she could hear. A musician was just what this place needed, she decided to herself.

[Stikka al'Tyne]

As the final notes of ‘The Rooster’s Down the Well’ faded out over the common room, Stikka caught a passing severing maid’s eye and mimed a drink. If he was going to keep up all evening, than Stikka was going to need to have something on hand to wet his whistle. Stikka returned the flute to his lips, and perhaps inspired by the recent exchange, began song called ‘The Wench’s Daughter’. It was a fast paced dancing song about a young wench you hopelessly accuses all the men within her town of being the father of her baby daughter, a claim all the men deny. Though none of the patrons were the dancing sort, Stikka heard a few voices join in with the lyrics of the bawdy song. Sometime during the second verse, the serving maid returned with a mug of ale, which she sat beside Stikka’s stool. Stikka finished the song to much applause, and paused only to take a sip before launching into one of his personal favorites, ‘Dance the Waves’. ‘Dance the Waves’ was exclusive pirate ballad. Among the villains of the seas it was considered treason to teach the song to any non-pirate, as the first verse often serves as a challenge during pirate gatherings. In Zeltvia, performance of ‘Dance the Waves’ was tantamount to an admission of piracy, and thus punishable by death. Here in a lowly inn in Syliras, Stikka need not worry about incurring legal punishment for its playing.

The song’s low, long notes built a haunting melody over the patrons who had never heard such a song before. Stikka left the final note to hang mournfully in the air as a shadow fell across him. Stikka looked up into an expanse of dirty white cotton. Looking up farther he found the face of what was perhaps the biggest man he had ever seen. The man was clearly lost within the drink and in desperate need of a wash. His eye’s took some time to finally focus upon Stikka’s face. ”Use a prat?””You a pirate?”he slurred.

Stikka’s face remained expressionless as he gazed calmly up at the mountain. “Aye,” he answered before returning the flute to his lips.

The man however wasn’t finished. ”Hoos yerr tan?””Who was your captain?”

“Captain Mcdannan,” Stiika replied coolly. As the words left his mouth Stikka noticed a skull atop a single lightning bolt tattooed on the man’s arm. If Stikka was the kind of man given to cursing he would have let out a few choice expletives there. That tattoo was the symbol of the Storm Pirates. The captain of the Storm Pirates, one Hugh Thunder, had developed the brilliant idea that instead of the wasted effort securing merchant vessels and searching them for valuable loot, it would be much simpler to take the loot from other pirates. The stratagem had worked quite well until they attempted in on Captain McDannan’s ship. The Storm Pirate’s ship had been scuttled with all living hands aboard. Stikka had believed there had been no survivors. Clearly he had believed wrongly. As the man’s drink slowed brain tried to process this information, Stikka set both feet firmly on the floor, and once more raised the flute to his lips. As if he had be choreographed, the drunk swung at Stikka as the first not of his next song left the flute. Stikka straightened his legs, causing the stool to tip back and topple over, the man’s drunken right hook passing harmlessly through the air.
As he fell, Stikka tucked his head and when his shoulders contacted the floor threw his legs up and over, completing a backwards somersault. He had been attempting to land on his feet in a crouch, but the maneuver deposited him on his backside, with his back fetched against the wall. It would do. His flute still in his left hand, Stikka reached out with the right to where he had propped the quarterstaff against the wall. The man was staring drunkenly at where Stikka’s head had been, Stikka brought an end to his confusion by lowering the quarterstaff’s tip to press lightly against the man’s throat. The man, either too drunk or too stupid to realize that he could back up, froze. “I have no wish to fight you, leave,” Stikka told him in a stony voice. The two toughs that Mister Dale employed took the opportunity to each grab one of the mountain’s arms and haul him from the bar. Those patrons that had half risn from their seat returned half drawn weapons his tsks of annoyance. One simply does not assault the entertainment.

Stikka picked up the mug of ale, which had been knocked over during his fall, and walked over to the bar. He registered a pale young lady to his right, but figured her for a serving maid. He placed the empty mug on the bar in front of Mister Dale. “Regular?” Stikka ask, meaning his recent assailant. Mister Dale nodded with a sour grimace. “I’ll leave,” Stikka said with a quiet sigh,”he’ll be back, with help.” Stikka was truly disappointed, though it didn’t show on his usual expressionless face, here he had finally set up a decent arrangement, and an unlucky chance encounter had ruined it.

“Nonsense,” Mister Dale protested, “we don’t let thugs push us around here.” He turned to the pale maiden to Stikka’s right. “Isn’t that right?”

[Nel Sayo]

Nel's mouth formed a perfect little O of wonder when the musician began to play Dance the Waves, and she pressed her lips together to hum along to the flute quite without realizing it.

She could recall, vividly, the night on which Syon and Lohpot had settled her down in a nest of blankets on the topdeck, lit from the back by moonlight, 'Pot with his pipe and Sy with his fiddle, the first time she'd ever heard the song. It had been ritualistic; they had judged her ready to learn the words, the notes, to be brought into their world completely. Rocked by the indolent waves, her toes tucked beneath a length of sail piled for patching, and wrapped in a warm wool blanket that smelled faintly of seasalt and rye, she'd become taken by the song to some other place entirely. A place where the rolling crest of the tide was capped by fog and ghostlight, where the shadows danced a jig for the sailors as they passed. A place where the wind favored the bold and black sails snapped against clear skies; the jingle of coins in one's pocket turned wishes to full wonders and every man was part devil, but part thief, and part master. Sy and 'Pot had impressed upon her, with that very song, what their lives meant, what they journeyed for. And she'd fallen quite in love with it all, and never wanted to leave them.

The melody left her heart aching for home when it was over. She sniffed and sat up a little straighter, shooting a smile to Mr. Dale so that he didn't think her maudlin.

And then the scuffle occurred on stage, and Nel started to climb down off her stool, but Mr. Dale caught her with a hand to the arm, holding her in place.

"Now, lass," he murmured, shaking his head. "Never you mind all that."

"But--" She pointed towards the musician, even as he flipped beneath the drunken man's fist. "-- he might --"

Other patrons got to their feet, and Mr. Dale just shrugged and smiled, and held her still. A moment later, the bar roughhousers were hauling the sodden bloke out and Nel relaxed back into her seat. She watched Stikka's approach, bright eyes unabashedly curious and carelessly staring as he came up on Mr. Dale's other side.

When prompted by the tavern's proprietor, Nel decided (very much as though the decision was quite up to her), "If you leave, I'll punch you in the face."

Her eyes, on Stikka's, were very serious. This little girl was going to punch him straight in the face if he decided to run away from the drunken pirate. That simply was not done, not in Nel's world. He'd just played Dance the Waves and now he had to face the consequences -- and one of those consequences was the pale-haired waif before him, who would not stand for cowardly action displayed by this musician-cum-colleague.

[Stikka al'Tyne]

Stikka finally turned his attention to the woman to his right. She was indeed quite fair of skin and hair, though upon closer inspection Stikka realized that she was in fact a patron and not within Mister Dale’s employ. She seemed quite fragile to Stikka, though he did note the casual way in which the rapier hung off her hip as though it belonged there. A sign that this maiden was well versed in its use. He greeted her fierce gaze with a bland look of his own, “My playing is not that impressive. And if you punch my face young’en all you shall do is break that pretty little wrist of yours. As this would make wielding that rapier difficult, I suggest you refrain until after our little battle.”

Turning back to Mister Dale, he clarified what he had been trying to say earlier. “I have no wish to leave our arrangement, but my continued presence will bring destruction to your property. By inviting me to stay, you absolve me of all responsibility for the damages.”

Mister Dale swept the mug off the bar and refilled it with ale. “Consider it done laddie,” he replied, depositing the mug back in front of Stikka. “Not to worry, I know a few fellows who wouldn’t mind a good scrap. We’ll make that brute regret taking on the Badger.”

Stikka doubted that the portly inn keeper would be any kind of help in a fight, but decided to refrain from mentioning it. He really had no desire for meaningless violence himself, it was a waste and rarely did anything good come of it. In this case however, he really saw no way to avoided it, as he had n o desire to be socked in the nose. If one couldn’t avoid it, then at least Stikka could turn it to his advantage. “We can split the fools possessions down the middle,” he offered to Mister Dale, “that should cover any damage to your inn these apes cause.”

[Nel Sayo]

"I wouldn't break my wrist if I punched you," Nel said, blinking at him, a tilt of her head as if he were crazy. She knew how to throw a punch; she knew that you slung your weight through your shoulder, precisely so you did not break a wrist. And if he was threatening to break her wrist himself, he should've just said so. "And your playing is really good, but you need to grow a pair. Don't play that song and then slink off like a petching weasel."

She rolled her eyes, hugely. Not a pirate, after all, then, just some poor sot who'd heard the song once and thought it romantic. She presumed that he had no idea what he was talking about -- and for such a small person, that she cared so little for his sharp words might have bespoke naivety.

"Absolved me of all responsibility," she mocked, pitching her voice to sound like an almost perfect ape of Stikka's -- and she made a face to go with it, droopy-eyed and stupid-looking. It vanished in another second, and she just sighed, "Gods, spare me."

As she climbed down off her stool, Mr. Dale caught her again, frowning.

"What's the matter?" the proprietor asked. "The musician's been fair."

"He's full of shyke," Nel announced.

Mr. Dale looked between the two, his eyebrows rocking curiously upward.

"Well, dearheart, he seems good and upright to me," he said.

"He can shove his flute up his ass," Nel muttered, shouldering Mr. Dale's hand off her arm, but shooting him an apologetic smile at the same time. "I'll be by later this week, no worries. And, hey, tell Cook to save me some'a the elderberry pie, because it's my favorite."

[Stikka al'Tyne]

So the girl knew the song too, well didn’t that just beat all. That clarified where her rapier skill had developed at least. Though, as Stikka listened to her tirade, he wondered idly if she had crewed with a ship of princesses. She was without a doubt the most clean mouthed pirate that Stikka had ever met. And Stikka had met quite a few pirates. The insults rolled right off him, and his lips actually twitched upwards at her ridiculous attempt at mockery. As she attempted to storm past, Stikka casually reached out and grabbed her collar, jerking her to an immediate halt. Though his voice emerged in its usual emotionless drawl, Stikka injected some of the jargon he had left out when talking to the innkeeper. “Shark bait don’t speak to their betters that way young’en. If you want to play at the Sweet Trade do it elsewhere, If you are not a waister I suggest you put away your long clothes.” He released her collar, “Now you Daughter of the Sands; Sit. Down.”

Having finished with his piece, Stikka dismissed the girl from her mind. It was up to her whether she chose to stay of go. Turning back to Mister Dale he regarded the bemused look upon his face. Clearly he had not followed a word Stikka had said. “My apologies Mister Dale, I fear you and the gal do not understand the situation. That man crewed for a Scourge eight years ago. His captain felt our colors would be easy pickings and we were obliged to send their sloop to the bottom with all hands aboard. It seems that at least one of the dogs survived. I’m afraid you’ve just found yourself in the middle of a Pirate war that’s been festering for a decade.” Stikka tossed back the mug, emptying it in one long pull.

[Nel Sayo]

Nel wasn't having a very good day.

Only the day before, Murdoch had smacked her for looking just a little too closely at his ragged, slip-shod excuse for a soul, and then he'd nearly killed her. The faint kiss of a bruise still swept across the high ridge of her cheekbone, though the tavern's dim lamplight did a poor job of illuminating it. But the experience made her a little more highly strung than she would have normally been. She'd left him asleep and come to the Badger for the comfort of food, not the criticism of some lumpy pirate who couldn't properly defend himself to a drunkard.

Normally, well, Nel was the kind of person that one could feign call normal, but on a better day she would have laughed for being hauled around and skinned in the language of the sea. It would have reminded her of home, of better times, and she'd have let that be all, maybe bought Stikka a pint and asked him to tell her his favorite tale, what McDannan was like, where he'd learned to play the flute, who his mates were, and when was the last time he'd soared the blue? On a better day. Not on this day.

She tried to keep herself cheerful, under all circumstances. She tried to avoid trouble, to avoid conflict, though it seemed to trip her and catch her and spin her about like a ballerina no matter what she did to behave. It had been a very simple plan: stupid pirate and his stupid flute are being stupid, so just let him know he's stupid and then walk out before he can be stupid all over you again.

A yelp got half-caught in her throat when he grabbed her collar and yanked her back a step to deliver that smooth slew of insults. She struggled for a second to get out of his grip, but he was bigger and stronger, so in the end she relented, but a hardness entered her eyes the longer he ran his mouth: shark bait, sweet trade, daughter of the sands. When his fingers loosed her collar, she didn't sit down.

She made a fist and punched him right in the face.

Mr. Dale nearly choked on a gulp from his pint of ale, and several of the other patrons swiveled their heads to look.

Nel wasn't a large person, but she sure knew how to throw a punch. Not strong enough to do much actual damage, but she was aiming more for his ego, truth be told.

"Why," she asked, exasperatedly. "Is everybody in this city so mean?"

[Stikka al'Tyne]

Stikka’s head rocked back from a sudden impact. He looked at the slip of a girl and blinked once. That was, he reflected, whole unexpected. So, the wench could behave like a proper pirate after all. Turning his attention to the sputtering Mister Dale, Stikka caught his eye and wiggled his empty mug, indicating that he would like it refilled. He took a couple of moments to gather his somewhat scattered thoughts before answering the lady’s question. “Well, me beauty, I do not hail from this city and Mister Dale seems to have taken quite a liking to you. I don’t know where you come from, but it is my experience that those who act superior to others are often reminded that they aren’t.” He would like for her to stay after hours. Stikka didn’t expect the Giant pirate to return while the common room was full of the type of men who didn’t take kindly to having their drinking interrupted, and it would be nice to have a likeminded individual to watch his back. However, Stikka had met her kind before. The type of seaman who would stand in a dingy and call themselves a captain. He had no interest in dealing with her trying to preside over him all night.

Mister Dale set the refilled mug down on the bar, and Stikka nodded his thanks. “You have breached our bargain missy, I am sporting a split lip, but have made no attempt to leave the Badger. If you are capable of civilized conversation you may grab yourself a stool. If not, I kindly ask you to weigh anchor before I lose my patience.” He tested his tender lip with his tongue, it seemed that he would be playing no more tonight. Hopefully the thugs that were bound to come later would have enough coin to cover his most dismal first day.

[Nel Sayo]

"I wasn't acting superior!" she argued vehemently, but she was already climbing back onto the stool beside him. Angry, sure, but there was a more maudlin sift to the tone of her voice -- something sulky, not superior. "I didn't -- I didn't mean to act superior, you just -- I've never known anybody to play that song and then run away from a fight -- I mean, I don't know if you were running, I don't -- I was just -- well and you were being a dick just then, so I'm not sorry I punched you, but I didn't mean to split your lip."

She pressed her lips together to stop up the frustration and even the possibility of an apology; he started it.

The pout on her mouth was so profound that it inspired the bartender to put another pint of ale in front of her. She paid for it, folded her arms, and continued to glare defensively at Stikka.

Mr. Dale hid a chuckle behind his pint of ale and tried to look casual about watching the two pirates.