Booty Bay

(( Music! ))

There was flotsam in the water. A trail of blood from a ship lost to the sea. Her scattered pieces drifted along the bow and into the wake of the merchant brigantine passing by. Drifting through silent waters, the crew of The White Lion held their breath.  She was a phantom passing over a graveyard, and the chill of death pierced every heart aboard.

"I've songs and stories for harvest moons, for abandoned orchards in the late afternoon, for old saltworn houses on the shore as the sky darkens, for the child in her red woollen sweater with a branch for a sword and leaves for a crown, roaming out to conquer the world!"

"Tell us one about a dancer!"

"A dancer you say? Well now I may know of one - a dark haired gyspy girl who would give anything to dance forever!"

As the sun dripped slowly into the red and violet hues above the horizon, life in the city of stilts began to renew itself once again. The White Lion was home for the time being, and most of the crew had gone in search of the more infamous pastimes available in Booty Bay; a city where men felt justified in hiding their own crimes in the shadow of greater sins. It was in such a setting that the bosun chose to bury his own.

((Continued: http://www.rp-haven.com/blog/teufelia/wasn_t_part_plan ))

This wasn't possible, but it's in my trembling hands.   Varadia's note to me I had discarded in the room in murder's row after I pissed her off.

Handed to me a few minutes earlier by Maliandras's daughter with folded letter  attached.  Again looking over the letter.

Teufelia,

We don't know each other, nor do I really care to get to know you more then what I have discovered through those friends and associates I used to gather information on you.

31. The poison boiled under his skin, rising to the surface at times, visible in his eyes. That red-eyed glare... She shuddered, pushing the memory from her mind. She'd fix him, she'd cure him. She'd find a way. The priestess had only hastened the weakening of his body, the removal of the fel taint that had strengthened him also taking a great deal of his life with it. He seemed old now, damaged even more than before. This time, she would turn to the spirits for help. Ajamu was a fine raptor. Surely they would heal him, restore him to how he should have been.

"Mel I’d like for you to drop this matter."

"What?  Meladela almost choked on the fine rum she was enjoying a moment before continuing  "Gazie are you serious?"

"Never been more serious in my life."  Baron Revilgaz repliedj just focusing on the glass in his hand.

"Gazie, once I’ve secured Septimus's vote the remaining opposition to my membership in the Kirin Tor will crumble."

It was a sunny day in the Bay on the first of October. She'd left the doors and windows open to catch the gentle breeze that was coming in off the sea. She leaned back in her swivel chair and rolled her brand new, Roc feather quill between her fingers.

“...Leine?”

She looked up from her quill at the use of that particular nickname. Aurin stood in the doorway, his once long hair cropped short, his leather pants tucked neatly into his boots and his linen shirt laced like the buccaneers around here wore them. She dropped the quill, “...A-aurin? I don't... but... Y-you're dead. You died almost--” 

We've only arrived home from our weekend holiday early this morning, but I decided to come in to the office as some sort of show of support. I can't say it's a strong one, really. Mostly I'm a warm body and the lanterns are glowing, but I'm useless to any sort of actual work. Ace is in the lobby and there's tea and coffee brewing while she tackles the bulk of everything I'm not doing. There's all sorts of letters and scrolls on me desk to go through, and an unusual parcel wrapped in brown paper addressed to me from one Ixinane Stormcren. I'm avoiding that one.

The rain outside is keeping the office a bit chilly. I watch it come down sideways in thin, icy sheets of grey needles. The docks outside the window are slippery and miserable and most the veteran workers 'ave good enough mind to stand under Port Authority awnings an' nibble on hot fried sausages or chips until the dark, angry clouds pass over.

I pull me mechano-guitar into me lap and lean over briefly to flip on the amp. An electric pop fizzes to life and fills the quiet office with a low, expectant hum. Leaning back into the comfortable leather of me captain's chair, I cross me boots at the ankle on the windowsill and adjust the guitar to a lazy angle in me lap. Me fingers slide along the metal strings and pluck out a few tentative notes I've been putting to a song I've been writing off and on while my mind wanders away from the work I'm avoiding.

When at last she stepped on the planks of Booty Bay, Lueli's muscles were coiled and her head was light. She and the sea has come to an agreement over the years, but ships? They made her want to fall out of her body and let her spirit curl somewhere far away from the sick lurching and keeling of the craft. She still shook with illness as her eyes passed longingly over the inn, but slow, shifting steps took her towards a cramped stall in the the old port authority instead.

A small frame shadowed the front counter. Like many of the initial risen, there was little left of Ruken's face. Rot set in early, taking much of her mouth and all of the Forsaken's nose. The yellow glow of her eyes had faded some time ago. The look she gave the troll had no light in it.

These traits Lueli had long grown used to. It was Ruken's stature that cooled the Troll's blood, for Ruken was a child's corpse.

Alynore woke up and moaned. The light filtering through the room's blinds was too much for the pounding behind her eyes. Sowelu Taggert was still sprawled out, asleep. Alynore tried to remember what time they'd finally got in...this morning?

((A little cartoon I drew tonight for fun. I like to imagine this is a candid cutting room floor shot from a promotional photoshoot Ace & Iloam were doing to advertise ATS. The background is totally a fake beach cutout some nasally obnoxious Goblin photographer brought in and stuck behind the desk. In my mind, Iloam is giving Ace crap about hamming it for the camera between shots, and she's going to pinch him really hard in about 2 seconds in retaliation. You may come up with whatever dialogue for them inspires you, though! I'd be amused to know what you come up with))

Hand painted gold lettering on a frosted glass door, rimmed with dark, unvarnished wood, states plainly: ATLAS TREASURE SALVAGE.

((An entry for Tavlo's Time of Day writing exercise. I wrote this one last, and I think it shows that my creative mojo started flowing. Also, I apologize in advance. >.> ))

Clup clop clump clop.

Xelarus’ sandals had a chunky, slightly raised heel that made hollow clopping noises on the baked wooden planks of the dock, an effect that was enhanced by the way the elf insisted on stepping one foot in front of the other, swaying his hips and keeping a sassy clip to his stride. His voidwalker hovered a pace or two behind him, the creature carrying a bag in each oversized hand, laden with the contents of his Master’s shopping spree. It was difficult to tell, but it wouldn’t be far fetched to assume the voidwalker was glaring at Xelarus.

Ratchet

The doll was tied on a cross made of two rusty nails. A single black feather was tied to the point where they met. The doll’s little green head sagged mournfully as Mama’ji held it out for inspection. The goblin frowned at the crude craftsmanship and said, “That doesn’t look much like Danzig.”

“It don’ gotta,” Mama’ji said irritably. It was the morning after the fiasco in the village, and she was already feeling the pressure. The Loa were owed their due, and they would not let her forget it until she paid up. It was a terrible time to realize she was all out of decent offerings. The tricks she pulled while dealing with Azumah and Faraji went far beyond what she usually asked, making the cost far greater as well. The nightmares that plagued her every attempt at sleep during the night were a reminder of that. Even now, safe in the waking world, images of dead hands and giant serpents flickered in her mind like heat lightning. It didn’t help that she was still sore from the tussle, or that she was still picking spider webs off her dress.

Nilzex wasn't an unscrupulous goblin, at least relatively speaking insofar as goblins went. That much Valeyard could tell. Certainly he knew that the goblin was charging him a ridiculous sum for his flat, but at least he kept the place secure and minded his own business. Although everybody has a price, and goblins' tended to be lower than most, Nilzex so far had kept all the riff-raff and undesirables from poking about. Certainly any goblin's lips could be parted for a fee – Bellani and the Keeper tracking him down in Stranglethorn had been proof enough of that – and though Valeyard had come to like Booty Bay for all its certain charm, he knew that he could not rely on Nilzex's continued discretion forever. Goblins or no, staying in one place for too long was just courting disaster. Valeyard could never allow himself the luxury of getting too comfortable, lest he forget that he was forever a man on the run.

For all that he was certain he knew of goblins, however, Valeyard wasn't altogether sure that gift-giving was part of their culture. Nilzex, apparently out of the goodness of his little green heart (or so he insisted) had bestowed upon Valeyard a baby revasaur as a gift, despite the doctor's strenuous and repeated assurances that no such gift was necessary. Nilzex steadfastly maintained that for Valeyard to refuse such an offering by a host was a grave insult. Not wanting to appear ungracious, Valeyard relented and with great trepidation accepted the tiny creature. Once handed over, Valeyard inquired as to what the creature ate. Nilzex, who beat a suspiciously hasty retreat, succinctly and ominously replied: “Everything.” 

It took a lot of driving—rough at first, as she got used to Cerwis' bike—and asking at villages along the way, but finally Lirriel drove up to the bridge demarcating the border between the dark forest of Duskwood and the jungle of Stranglethorn. She could see Reggie on the far side of the bridge, his orange shirt easily visible in the dimming light. He looked beat to the Nether and back. “There you are! What happened to you?” Lirriel kicked down the stand and hopped off the chopper to examine Reggie.

“...Um...”  Reginald started counting off on his fingers. “Wolves, large ones, like your mother's, only horrid. Wolf-men. Giant spiders...I was mugged by some rather professional...Well, I was mugged. Oh, undead. More wolves, and in running from those wolves, a rather large Dragon.”

Continued from: http://www.rp-haven.com/blog/theraesia/losers_weepers

Theraesia von Haller cursed her own stupidity for the ninth or tenth time that afternoon.  She should have know that Ilsa would be somewhere near Rudy.  She shouldn't have gone charging in blindly.  She should have ...  There was no point in second guessing.  Now she was very securely tied to a chair in Rudy and Ilsa's front room.  She tried to move a bit, to test the ropes once again.

"I really wouldn't bother.  You're quite securely tied."  Ilsa walked into the room followed by an orc laden with parcels.  "I checked the restraints myself."

"Had a lot of practice tying people up?  I didn't know you were into that sort of thing."

". . .just a stroll north. . ."

Reaching up with a thick cloth, Zyjiin wiped the sweat off of his brow. The morning's deluge had added to the Vale's already humid temperatures, and he already missed the breeze that was so welcoming in Booty Bay. Looking back, he could still see the path wind through the jungle towards the port. The Bruiser's had snickered as he'd tripped only a few steps into the jungle. He'd dusted himself off and walked briskly to get out of their sight, blushing the whole way. Nothing hurt but his pride.
 

My toenails were bright pink.

I peered down at them and decided I rather liked the color.  The little blonde who'd just finished painting them leaned over to put the nail polish away, giving me a good look at what she wasn't wearing underneath her loose dress. 

She looked coyly at me through long lashes, "Anything else I can do for you?"

Her smile held the promise of a couple of enjoyable and expensive hours that I really wasn't in the mood for.  After the pedicure and foot massage she'd inveigled me into all I wanted to do was lie here, soak up the sun, and enjoy the nice buzz I'd gotten from rum and fruit drinks.

An ugly green face loomed into view on top of a nattily attired goblin body.  "Hey!  You Theryl?"

"Yeah."  I said, taking a sip of my drink.  "Who wants to know?"

"Da Baron wants to see youse, toots.  Like now."

A series of faded pages were in Zyjiin's hands. He smiled as he recalled writing each letter to his old guildmates. They had all arrived in one entire package, a little late, to the Guild Hall. He skimmed over the lines as he gently placed them with his new record. The dates jumped over several years, and the parchment has begun to fade. He had taken some ink and scribbled a few lines upon the first:

I have decided to continue my record with the addition of these letters, written by me over the years I lived in Booty Bay. Although I recevied a few visits from my friends early on, I soon lost touch with them. It wasn't until recently that I discovered that they only received the letters in one large sum after the last was sent out.

One look outside of his tent was all Zyjiin needed to confirm the weather conditions. Handfuls of sand still made their way through the open corners despite the efforts the troll had made to keep some order within, while chaos whirled without. Days like this made him question his reasoning for being in this scorched land to begin with. Tanaris was not a vacation spot by any definition. Practically no moisture to be found, and when it was found, it was surrounded by either goblins or bandits. The first charged you for the water, the latter charged so violently as to make you wonder if the water was even worth it. 

(( Continued from Exit Strategy.....  this one is very long, brace yourself! (That's What (S)he Said) ))

((Little bit of bad language))

Booty Bay, for all its charm, is not known for being a source of high-class entertainment. Nor, I believe, would those who call it home appreciate such. Oh I am aware this fact doubtless influences the other, but simply speaking to the current circumstances a gallery of fine art in Booty Bay would not only record an attendance of zero, I am sure it would be burglarized to bare walls within the first four hours, if that.

No, I haven't tried it myself. I am not an idiot.

I am, however, a shrewd businessman: I know an opening when I see one.

Do you know what passes for entertainment in this backwater outpost, kid?

Fishing.

FISHING.

Not even the profitable sort with nets and teams and ships, no no. These buffoons fish with a hook and line. Competitively! As if anyone could possibly compete with a single fishing boat by using only a baited line! It's idiocy!

The weather was perfect for scaling the ratlines up past the tops and well into the cross-trees, finding meself a nice perch behind the main topgallant mast. The winds were light and carrying a warmth from the rising sun that brought a sort of wanton abandon after spending the past few days in Winterspring. I’d left most my clothes, besides pants and boots, in my quarters and come up here while the rest of the crew rested for tea.

I took a deep breath, sharing the moment with a kit of pigeons that had built a nest amongst the shrouds, and could smell the aromas drifting up from the below decks: spices, lime, the warmth of rice, the smoky char of spit-roasted meats, and the sour tang of spilled ale seeping into our boat. I couldn’t help but smile. It was going to be a good night.

The breeze tugged at the parchment between me fingers, as if impatiently insisting I make the decision I’d come up here for.

“All right, all right,” I scowled at the wind, earning a flutter of pigeon feathers to my right. “Blimey.”

--October 22--

"This Faceless chick, yeah I heard of her. Some elf aparantly, practically runs the world's black market, gotta be the wealthiest bitch on the planet by now." The gnome spat a wad of black chew onto the deck, peering out to the giant goblin statue peering out into the ocean through the mists, the lights of the dirty city behind glowing in the foggy haze.

Tenth month, 24th day, of the....uuuh....current year.

Booty Bay has been my solace for so long, it’s no wonder when times get tough, I find myself deep into my cups at the tip of the world. I’d come for my own reasons – running away, you might say, though I’d slit your throat for the insinuation. All the same, the empty drawer Kharris left at the Shattrath flat haunts me all the way out here, alone on a barstool at a shanty dive new to town.

I wasn’t here two days before Seahorn was talking me into taking a job. The little slip of paper is nestled between my jerkin and shirt, itching my breast. I’d been fed a line about the bartender splitting his wages with Bloodsail’s – but if you ask me, The Salty Sailor’s been a beacon in this town, and there ain’t no more reason for it than tradition. Either way, I can’t be bothered. I’ll earn my quid and be on my way.

After another round.