Easing the Badger (Nel)

[Stikka al'Tyne]

“There are many ways to run away matey,” Stikka informed his pouting companion. “And as pirates there is no shame in doing so. We spend most of our life running away do we not? The authorities of this great wide world in which we live tend to look unkindly upon those that ply our trade. And I was not offering to leave out of fear for myself, I can handle that, I simply did not want to bring destruction and violence to Mister Dale’s inn after he had been so kind to me.” Stikka tenderly rubbed his jaw. “And for a pirate, you don’t really understand what it means to have gone on account,” He held up his hands to prevent the outburst he knew that would come from this statement. “Piracy is not about plunder, and fighting, and drinking. Yes pirates do all that but to truly be a pirate is to embrace freedom. Freedom to do whatever you want, however you want, whenever you want. Mister Dale?”

“Huh…what?” stammered Mister Dale, clearly not expecting to be made a part of the conversation.

“If you were out on the street and saw a man selling fine mugs that you wanted for the Badger, what would you do?”

“Well,” Mister Dale replied, taken aback, “I would buy them of course.”

“Aye, but what if you couldn’t afford the price, or you didn’t like the fellow who sold them, or you wanted the save your Mizas for something else. Then would you just take them?”

“Of course not, that would be stealing,” Mister Dale protested

Stikka turned back to the young woman. “Mister Dale is not a pirate; laws are created for the masses. To be a pirate is to choose not to let such things guide your actions. This is where the oldest and noblest of pirate traditions comes to play: avoiding capture. If you are a pirate, and you wish to demonstrate your displeasure at someone with your fist, then do so without apology. Just be prepared for people of like mind to respond in kind

[Nel Sayo]

"I don't need a lecture, thank you," Nel said bitingly. "I know precisely what and who I am, and you're in here playing a flute, not out on a ship, so I don't see how you've much room to be yammering on at me about what piracy may or may not mean."

She rolled her eyes hugely, in the way of every teenaged girl who's found herself being told how to act, and what to care about; no, Stikka would not have much luck if he sought to educate her on something she presumed to already know everything about. He was right, of course, on all accounts, and how he spoke of the trade was accurate and true to form -- but she'd not allow him that, not out loud, anyway. She could be every inch as stubborn as was necessary.

"And I'm not afraid of being hit."

She crinkled her nose at him again and continued to sulk, hugely put upon. Only the sulk vanished in another blink, after she took a sip from her mug of ale, replaced in a dazzling flash by a bright, guileless smile. Because Nel preferred smiling to sulking, generally speaking, and could not be bothered to hang onto a serious sulk for more than a few seconds anyway.

"Do you play other instruments, or just the flute?" she asked, quite as if she'd never punched him in the face at all. "Do you sing? My brother played the fiddle, but he couldn't sing, not even a note. He told me a sea witch stole his voice, but I've never met a sea witch much interested in voices -- likely he was just too embarrassed to admit he coudn't sing, and would never be able to."

She added, in case Stikka was likewise one of those blokes who just couldn't sing, "Not that there's anything wrong with that."

And smiled again.

[Stikka al'Tyne]

Stikka was a bit taken aback by the woman’s sudden shift in mood, but he was not going to follow her cue and let the matter lie without one last parting shot. “Oh?” he asked, “And your ship is where exactly?” Stikka’s peaceful nature disregarded the open invitation that the fair lady had inadvertently offered to test her preferences to being hit. Instead he calmly listened to her tale. Mister Dale cocked an eyebrow when she asked if Stikka could sing, he had noticed that Stikka’s voice had not deviated from its monotone drawl. An indicator the his singing might fall a bit flat. He refrained from mentioning this, not wanting to offened either his musician, or the young lady he had such a soft spot for.

“Anyone with a voice can sing,” Stikka replied, “Whether that person is worth listening to is what matters. Myself? I’m not worth listening too. And this flute,” He patted the case on his belt where he had stowed the instrument in question, “is all I know. As for sea witches, I can’t say that I’ve met one, though I do know a couple of gems who could probably qualify in a pinch. Right nasty pieces of work they are.” Belatedly, Stikka realized that he was not aware of this young lass’s name, and that she was likewise ignorant of his. “By the by,” he offered her his hand, “Stikka al’Tyne formerly Boatswain of Captain McDanna’s crew, aboard the Fourth Wind. And who might you be?” Glancing around the commonroom, Stikka noticed that it was fast depleting of paying customers as the night dragged on.

[Nel Sayo]

"My ship sank," Nel said, matter-of-factly. "And my entire crew with it."

She could say that to a stranger, someone who hadn't known Captain Rezar or her brother Syon, someone who didn't remember sitting at Rezar's feet as a child, listening to him read poetry. Someone who wouldn't care that her entire crew, her family, her home and her sanctuary had been destroyed and plunged to the depths in one night. It had only taken one crack of lightning to splinter the ship in half, and then they'd all gone down.

A shrug rolled the narrow line of her shoulders, and she lifted her pint for another sip. Licking the foam off her lips, she went on, "I'm Nel." And took his hand in a firm shake. "Sayo. Of the...stuckondryland. Nice to meet you."

She followed his glance into the dispersing patrons, and when she looked back to him, her mouth twisted apologetically.

"Sorry if I petched up your show."

[Stikka al'Tyne]

Ah, now that did explain why such a free spirited pirate lass found herself on a Syliras barstool. Stikka closed his eyes for a second, acknowledging the unfortunates passage to the depths. Since she hadn’t offered a name for ship or captain Stikka was unaware if he knew anyone aboard, and felt it would be presumptuous to offer sympathies that the young woman clearly wasn’t looking for anyway. Instead he tried to smile as Nel introduced herself. Expression being foreign to his face, it came out more like a crooked grin, and of course it never reached his eyes, but Stikka felt he ought to at least try and behave like a proper human being. “A pleasure, Nel.”

She followed his glance around the common room, but had apparently misinterpreted what he was looking for. “Don’t fret the show, I can perform tomorrow night. If anything, there will be more patrons as those here tonight tell their friends.” Mister Dale nodded enthusiastically at this, his eyes glazed over thinking of the profit he could turn from such a crowd. Stikka didn’t begrudge him his profiteering, it enabled him to have a free room after all. “No, I’m more worried about who’ll show up when the last of these drunks staggers out, which seems likely to happen sooner rather than later.” Dropping the conversation for a chime, Stikka stood up and walked back over to the dias he had been performing on earlier. The one patron still sober enough to notice perked up a bit, thinking that Stikka was going to resume his playing. Unfortunately, all Stikka was doing was retrieving his quarterstaff, and he returned to Nel and Mister Dale at the bar. “Sometimes,” Stikka mused more to himself than to his companions, “I really wish I was on a boat.”

[Nel Sayo]

Sympathy, Nel knew, really didn't do anything for anyone. Nor did pity, or misery, or the gut-twisting ache she felt in her belly every time she thought about her brother, her captain, and the ghost-crew now climbing topsails at the bottom of the Suvan Sea. No more poetry by candlelight, no more love songs in the crow's nest. And nothing was accomplished by missing it all; nothing brought them back. So she left out their names and tried to remember that they didn't exist anymore, and never would again.

Stikka's attempt at a smile, even as crooked as it was, managed to tempt an actual smile onto the girl's mouth. Smiles, for Nel, were free. And easy. And much preferable to sympathies anyway.

The smile lingered on her lips as she watched him fetch his quarterstaff. An odd choice of weapon for a pirate, Nel thought, though she kept that opinion to herself. When she thought about it, she supposed a quarterstaff was just as capable of knocking someone's brains out their ears as anything else, or shoving someone over a rail. Less efficient when it came to the quick-kill, but one fought how one fought. And everyone fought, really, whether they wanted to or not.

"Oh," she said thoughtfully, glancing again to the dispersing crowd, though this time she understood what he was looking at. "Well. I can stay for awhile, if you want some back-up. Just in case."

The flickered attempt at another smile to him.

"Where's your ship, then?"

[Stikka al'Tyne]

Stikka caught Nel Glancing at his quarterstaff. He wasn’t surprised. Pirates spent the majority of their lives on ships, where space was at a premium. The deck was almost always crowded with cargo, equipment and fellow sailors, and the belowdecks were cramped, tight affairs. In order to fight effectively within this environment, most sailors, be they legitimate or pirate, tend to adopt small, agile weapons such as cutlasses and hand axes. Stikka had often received jabs about his unwieldy weapon while aboard the Fourth Wind. Stikka preferred it however for one basic feature; it didn’t put unnecessary holes in people who didn’t deserve to die, which in Stikka’s opinion, was just about everyone. He had long since given up explaining this to sailors though, pirates who abhorred killing tended to invite ridicule.

“Aye,” he acknowledged the woman’s offer with a nod, “Tis always nice for me to not worry about my back. As for the Fourth Wind? Last I heard she was plundering the waters twix Zeltvia and Sunberth. But knowing McDanna, they could be just about anywhere the pickin’s go…”

That was the precise moment that a barrel decided to come flying in a side window. Stikka thought he had seen barrels of a similar make stacked outside when he entered. The door burst open and five men, including the Giant former Pirate from earlier. The other four men were clearly street toughs the big man had coaxed, threatened or bribed into assisting him. Two of the thugs carried scavenged staves, and they brought them down on the heads of the two bouncers Mister Dale employed. They dropped to the floor, still breathing but out of the fight. The other brace of thugs produced daggers from beneath their ragged clothing. The giant, letting his goons array themselves in front of him, leaned on a long handled hammer as he leered at the three sitting at the bar. Through the broken window a sixth man climbed in. He was clearly not just a simple padfoot. Though scrawny, his clothes were nicer and where the thug’s daggers showed spots of rust, his cutlass dully shone with the care of maintenance. On the swordsman’s right cheek was the same skull and lightning bolt tattoo that Stikka had recognized on the drunkard.

“You lot are unwelcome here,” Mister Dale sputtered. “Now clear out before I call the Knights on you mangy lot. Out! Out! OUT!”

Stikka held up a hand to forestall any further outburst from the innkeeper. “Mister Dale,” Stikka said, giving him a pointed look, “Why don’t you go check on the kitchens?” For a moment it looked as if the portly man was going to argue, however, he finally consented to disappear through the door behind the bar. With Mister Dale out of harm’s way, Stikka turned his attention to the six men who seemed intent on making his night rather painful. Standing from the stool, Stikka grasped his quarterstaff and faced them. “Was that really necessary?” he asked the swordsman responsible for the broken window. In response the man just grinned wickedly. The four hired goons began cautiously creeping forward, the two former pirates content to let them bear the brunt of the danger hung back behind them. Stikka glanced over at Nel and shrugged. Then he snapped his foot out, sending his barstool across the floor at the rightmost tough.

[Nel Sayo]

When the barrel came crashing through the window, the diminutive Konti girl nearly fell off her barstool in surprise. She scrambled down out of her seat, though, and instead of removing herself to safety, she slid in front of Mr. Dale. It may have been a ridiculous image, at first, the pale little slip of a girl standing protectively in front of the portly proprietor, but a resounding hiss hit the air, and the glint of lamplight across steel lanced through the tavern's interior as she drew the rapier at her hip, and the entire display was abruptly less funny.

There were a lot of goons crowding into the Badger, suddenly.

Nel kept one eye on the tattooed man slinking in through the window, though her more immediate concern was the dagger-wielding pair creeping in upon the quarterstaff's edge. Privately, she decided that Stikka was insane for fighting steel with a freaking wooden stick, but that argument seemed ill-placed in just this moment. The most problematic of their opponents were obviously the two that sat back to watch, and she catalogued that information to remind herself not to get too tired in whatever raucous was about to ensue with their peons.

When Stikka kicked the barstool forward to smash into the rightmost bloke, Nel took a step backwards and then jumped upward, planting a heel on the stool she'd been sitting on, which propelled her further upward, till she could land, heels skidding, across the bartop. Higher ground and all that.

A swish and sidelong slice of her blade saw its razored edge kissing the fingers of one of the dagger-hands, lopping four of them off at the knuckle. He shrieked and dropped his blades, and by then the fight had truly begun.

"I'll have to mop the floors for Mr. Dale," she sighed, lunging away from a countering slash delivered by the first goon's mate.

[Stikka al'Tyne]

The stool clattered across the old wooden floorboards and caught the first tough unaware. The two went down in a pile amidst a tirade of curses. Stikka heard a howl of pain from his left, but it was to low pitched to be Nel’s so he ignored it, he was sure she could end or herself. He set himself in a simple fighting stance, staff held out before him with the tip slightly elevated with the left hand leading, and the right trailing father towards the base. As the second thug warily advance Stikka slid his trailing hand down to the base of his quarterstaff. The man shuffled another step closer, hesitated a moment, and then lunged at Stikka. Stikka snapped his trailing arm forward, putting his body weight behind the straight thrust of the quarterstaff’s tip. The charging goon caught the blunt tip of the iron staff in the soft tissue of his gut, stopping his progress with a wheeze as he folded over Stikka’s quarterstaff. Stikka pulled the staff back and the thug dropped to his knees without the support.

With Stikka’s attention focused on his buddy, the first tough had disentangled himself from the stool and tried to sneak behind and stab Stikka with his rusted dagger. Stikka pivoted on his right foot swinging the quarterstaff out wide in a sweeping motion at the first goon’s head. The goon ducked the swing so Stikka lifted his left leg, using the centrifugal momentum to power a roundhouse kick into the thug’s side. The tough staggered a couple steps to the side and Stikka stepped in close to drive his knee into the man’s solar plexus. The thug crumpled in a groaning heap. A quick rap to the side of the head with the quarterstaff’s but and he lay still.

Stikka retuned his gaze back to the second thug as he struggled to his feet and into the brawl. Stikka feinted another jab and the tough rocked back on his heels to avoid it. Stikka jabbed the tip forward again, this time not at his assailant but at the floor between his feet. As the tip struck the wood Stikka swung it out to the side, removing the off balanced goon’s foot from under him and he toppled backwards. Stikka viciously pounded the quarterstaff’s tip into the prone thug’s gut, driving the wind from his lungs. Gasping, the tough rolled over and pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, trying to get up. Stikka’s boot connecting with his chin sent him to join his hapless partner in unconsciousness. His immediate threats taken care of, Stikka glance over his shoulder to make sure that the pale lass was alright. It wouldn’t do for her to get herself injured on his account.

[Nel Sayo]

Nel was doing great!

She was little, and fast. Those first few fingers lost to a poor sod's miscalculations proved to be portentous, as any of the other toughs who came near her lost a digit or two for their trouble, or found themselves unerringly sliced.

The second dagger-wielding ruffian took a cue from his mate and tried to dive inside her guard, slashing towards her midsection; the tip of his blade tore into the front of her shirt but she leaned back, swiping her rapier down and sidelong, catching the handguard of his dagger and snapping it out of his fingers. He let out a yelp and scrambled backwards before she could get the edge of her sword beneath his chin.

She glanced over, afterward, and met Stikka's eyes as he dispatched the first round of his own attackers -- she shot him a brief, brilliant grin in reply. Sure, everything was totally all right, this was a piece of ca--

And then one of the bigger ones grabbed her by the collar, hauling her up into the air.

"Oof," she coughed, as he shook the living daylights out of her, slamming her into the edge of the bar. The impact rattled through her bones all the way to her fingers, and she dropped the rapier in her hand. "Crap--"

And then she was scrambling to try and get loose from the man's grip before he could wrap his thick fingers around her throat.