Damp, fishy, and crawling with enough swarthy, foul-mouthed brutes to give Daggerhand thugs a run for their money. Assuming these sailors weren't Daggerhands already, that is. One of them turned to face the sea and fiddled with the front of his trousers. A tick later, a steady stream of piss arced out into the open waters. Beside him, another sailor Nov had secretly dubbed Ugly was picking at the spaces between his grimy toes, giving a good scratch to his hairy belly now and then. The noise sounded something akin to rubbing sandpaper against raw wood.
Krysus, how he hated these rot-filled death traps others fondly referred to as ships.
Nov stuffed his hands into his coat and glared out at the world, head throbbing with increasing intensity. Whatever Bitzer and the Hound had in mind bringing them here, the merc hoped it would end sooner than later. One more chime having to watch Ugly de-lice himself and he wasn't sure he could help greeting the petcher up close and personal with a full set of knuckles.
A commotion drew Noven's gaze away from Ugly's one man peep show to lock on the obligatory display of human brutality. The stench was worse than the poorest of slums, which was saying something, given that Sunberth itself was just one big, steaming, pile of slum. He took a cursory glance at the vacant faces below and returned to his stance of feigned indifference. It made his stomach rile. Cursed as he may be, at least he was free. Free to remedy his pain when he suffered, to eat, petch, live, or die as he chose. These sods shackled up below decks, on the other hand...
Nov lost his train of repulsed indignation as Bitzer picked one of the human wares to inspect. Without hesitance, the slavers fished out a boy old enough to know his way around Brega's merry little whorehouse but too young to be called anything but green. He was dragged by chains to kneel before the wolf girl, eyes blazing with anger and defiance even as his body was forced into submission.
A giant dam of apathy slammed down on Nov's flood of unexpected emotions upon recognizing the slave. This is our first job for the Hound, he chanted in his head amidst the ache of a growing migraine, which was becoming increasingly more difficult to ignore.
Think of the job, of trust to be built, of revenge...of the day you found their bodies...fucking Daggerhands, if it were just me and Seng...if Bitzer wasn't here...one brother wasn't enough for these fucking scum...
For a moment, the boy's stormy eyes met his. Grey, just like Henry's, with the same mud brown hair plastered against his dirty, olive skin. Nov clenched his teeth, torn between fear and loyalty. Though he longed to free the boy right then and there, to begin making amends for all that his childhood friend had paid for in blood, he could not. It would blow their tenuously maintained cover, and there was no guarantee the three could take on a boat full of able bodied seaman, ratty and repulsive as they may be.
A handful of ticks later, the boy looked away. No, of course he wouldn't recognize the mercenary. He had only been no older than three or four when his older brother was murdered in cold blood. Nov was willing to bet the kid didn't even know the truth.
As Bitzer made her examinations of the boy, the cook contemplated his options. The best choice would be to let their compact little leader keep doing the talking and hopefully follow through with her purchase. The worst--and coincidentally the easiest--would be to turn a blind eye and forget this ever happened. It would certainly save them all a whole world of trouble.
Alas, Nov got little enough sleep as it was, and he was dead certain he'd get none for the rest of his days if he let Henry's one remaining family rot in a boat of sea rats or live out a future of nothing but chains. Something needed to be done.
His chance came when the captain, or as Nov preferred, Ugly Senior, offered to hash out details of their potential business transaction in the more comfortable--and very, very safe--confines of his cabin. No guards, no slaves. Just the two of them. That suggestion alone sounded suspicious enough for more than one red flag to be raised, but the cook trusted their wolf girl could handle herself. Besides, with them gone, he and Seng could have a proper introduction with these vermin infesting the ship. And, perhaps, with the boy as well.
With surprising decorum, the captain led Bitzer to a more private place to discuss business. The boy was left in the care of the sailor who had dragged him out, forced to his feet with a sharp jerk of his chains. For one long, silent chime, mercs and sailors stared at one another, waiting for the other to make his first move.
It didn't take long for the first insult to be tossed. "Oy," someone called. It was Ugly, who had apparently finished de-licing himself and was now on the hunt for a new form of entertainment. "You two stone faced nancies. Ye fancy petchin' each other, or do ya take turns with that wee lass takin' it frem behind right now 'ith our capt'n? Bet she's riper than she looks beneath all them rags."
His fellow crew chuckled darkly all around, and another jumped in before the first could even finish. "What with the way she's got you two followin' her 'round you'd think she's the one with the spear between 'er legs. Wudya say lads, ever get good look to see fer yourselves?"
"Bet they 'ave," Ugly chimed back in, "and must've taken it real good from her too to be comin' back fer more!"
At this, the entire ship roared with laughter. It took them a moment to realize that the shorter of the two bodyguards had moved to stand before Ugly, who was so pleased with himself he hardly had the time to look scared.
"You asked for it," Nov leered. Then he shot out his hand to grab Ugly's dirt encrusted, stubby fingers. A violent twist and a flare of his mark was all he needed to feel the cool rush of relief.
Cr-cr-cr-crack!. The pot bellied sailor screamed so high Nov had to check just to be sure he hadn't accidentally stepped on the man's balls too, on top of having just broken four of his right fingers.
He let go. Ugly continued howling and writhing in agony on the deck, his compatriots watching in stunned silence. Broken fingers or no, it should not have caused him that much pain, to the point where the man was now foaming at the mouth as he spasmed uncontrollably. Several of the sailors began forming superstitious wards against the caustic-eyed mercenary, muttering to themselves in horrified alarm.
The man's cries ran dry after another chime. He had screamed himself hoarse, his throat no longer able to keep up, though he continued wheezing in vain. "You should be grateful I left you your thumb," Nov seethed admist the momentary quiet, "so you can suck on it when you find yourself out on the streets. The left-handed cripple no one will hire. Never again to sail the high seas. Crying for your mother. "
He spat on the sailor's contorted, sweat stained form.
And then all hell broke loose.
oocSo I figured we could still brawl a bit without compromising our cover. Since the sailors had insulted our employer, a rowdy right can be justified. Let me know if I need to rework anything.
