Raising Black Sails

[Warpath]

The call went out to every discontented seadog, viking, renegade, privateer, raider, and seaworthy blackheart across the known world. It was signed with names they knew: the infamous Malachi Drear, Lye Ulroke, and, strangely enough, Flint Skovik, and the parchment smelled of salt and rainwater.

It promised a fair share of gold and riches, territory and control, and the freedom of unrestricted passage, seizure, and trade. The once-mighty Sails were expanding their fearsome black banner in the interest of some great pushback against the law-giving world.

Enclosed in the invitation is a map to the distant isle of Seravien, a place of legend southwest of Scara Brae. It is said the Pirate Lords of Old Corone made their home there, stashing their vast treasures, maps, plans, and clever ship schematics in deep and deadly caves somewhere in the center of the island. It is an appropriate place to take up their vaunted legacy.

Ships have begun to arrive at Seravien from all over the world. They anchor far off the coast, forming a vast flotilla all along the horizon, where old enemies and allies parlay, trade, and speculate over the event they are due to attend. Seravien has but one viable beach for landing on the eastern side of the isle, which is shielded by an intricate and largely invisible reef. Hundreds of ancient shipwrecks warn away visitors there, overgrown with moss and teeming with colorful jungle birds and amphibious creatures of every description.

Thus, the captains and their retinues and trusted friends and rough-and-tumble but paying passengers approach the isle by small boat, canoe, raft, and dinghy. As they approach, they make out myriad shapes beneath the cerulean waves: trained sharks and schools of fish of colors in dizzying array, squids and octopi and lithe, humanoid figures that slip between the reefs like shadows, just out of direct sight.

Scantily clad men and women of every race and nation, oiled and smiling, wait at the shoreline. They help guests from their boats, welcome them, and guide them across the beach with promises of food, drink, and friends. They do not lie.

Dozens of large tables are set up amidst the palm trees and bamboo torches, overflowing with a cornucopia of fresh culinary delights. Wine and mead and rum flow free and copious, and the narcotic smoke from dozens of lit pipes and bowls mingles with coconuts and palm leaves overhead.

Everyone is here. Blackbones Hugh is perched on the corner of one table, carving a crude charm out of ivory with his clever knife. Isidore Eden laughs boisterously with some of his crew, a giggling and delirious serving girl on each knee. Hoga Kuul stands apart with his loyal spearmen, stoic and still, his skin coal black, his fifty long braids all white with chalk dust. Madam Tai Si sits demurely, smiling behind her hand and sipping rum from a teacup. Turgut Dey juggles scimitars and throws knives through hats at three dozen paces, eliciting cheers from his admirers. Red Maria Salve strums on her guitar, the dozen necklaces, beads, and trinkets she wears around her neck jingling as she sways. King Malachi Drear himself sits upon his throne of driftwood at the head of the largest table, hookah pipe in one hand and half-empty bottle of blood wine in the other, laughing himself breathless.

The sun is nearing the horizon now, red and dominant, and the party is just getting started.

[Philomel]

Five knots of bitter sea wind flew into the main sail, a perfect breeze for carrying them away. Carrying them far away across the distant horizon to lands beyond your wildest dreams, where animals spoke and giant ravens created snow magic, and the gods of tomorrow got drunk on mimsy wine.

Yet for now the ship The Fiesty Fox was safely anchored, and her small but strong crew of thirty whores and ex-whores along with their First Lady and Matriarch, walked along the sandy shores towards where the party is situated. The two ladies in charge, both fauns by species and mother and daughter by relation, strode ahead, both with their hair flying free to the air. Philomel did not like the feel of the sand against her hooves but by ascension they moved to more rocky climbs. She a hand she helped to assist her mother onto the platform where the servers attempted to outdo them all in terms of wearing the least.

She paused as the rest of her crew, made up of those who had been rescued from the clutches of the pimp Mort after Philomel had burnt down the brothel and others that had simply made friends with the faun and her mother along the way, eyed up the obvious competition. They were scantily clad, some with barely enough fabric upon them to even call it clothing. But it was done in such a fashion that it could, really, be called distasteful. They each also bore a mark of a small figure of a fox somewhere on their person, about half choosing to have it tattooed already, the rest wearing it on a leather cord around neck or wrist.

Mother and daughter looked to one another, the so-called First Lady and Matriarch respectively, but equally with as much authority on the ship as each other, and both holding the title of Captain when it came to politics. Raised eyebrows occurred all around as they glanced back to their entirely female crew.

Giggles began to run through the crowd of elves and humans and a halfling or two. Those giggles began to rise and soon became jeering laughter as they saw the people who were trying to allure them, a crew of prostitutes on a prostitute pirate ship. Spurred by this delight the namesake and mascot of the ship came bounding through legs with a delighted spring in his step, whipping up small rocks and grains of sand caught in edifices with whips of his fluffy russet tail.

He nickered, condescendingly, along with the crew, pulling back his lips to reveal his sharpened teeth. When he got to the front near the First Lady and the Matriarch Philomel decided it was time to descend into the party and show the world what real flirters were like. She titled her chin up, turning back to address her crew as they came into the presence of the already established pirates and their decades-long established empires.

"We maybe new but we are here to show our promise ladies," she declared, "Whoemever gets the highest authority of the night gets a pint of Headbutt on me!" She raised her hand, roared the Fiesty Fox's entrance, "Whoring and Piracy!"

The shout went up. The whores mercilessly spilled into the party, among the benches and barrels and men, giving their good wishes because that is what they did best.

Lacey van der Aart, once of Paradisia, then of Radasanth and now of a pirate ship, wrinkled her nose at the sight of all the perfection that was going to be turmoil, at some point. She glanced around, from Isdora, to Tai Si to Turgot Drey, then turned her attention to the man who actually owned their ship, the Pirate King himself. Meanwhile Philomel was doing her own searching, and she spied Ulroke, the leader of the Crimson Hand and one of those who had first spurned the thought of piracy in the Nightingale's skull. Both faun-whores looked to each other, the same thoughts rising in their heads - just like mother like daughter.

Their was a quiet glance of understanding between the two, and a small nod. Lacey patted her daughter on the shoulder before dispersing from her, dressed in her classic white silk bikini-length blouse and white cloth belt, in which there was hidden a single steel knife. Philomel watched her for a moment, smiling a little, before tightening the straps of her own clothes - today, to show the image of a strong new crew, her dragon-scale breast plate and all the adornment of her weapons. Beside her Veridian pattered his paws, clearly impatient to get going into the fray.

"Alright, sweetheart," she said softly, "Lets show these people what whores can do."

Veridian nodded, a quick short bob of his pointed head. Then the two of them in perfect synchonisation walked forwards, towards the table where Lye Ulroke sat.

[Lye]

How many moons had it been? The assassin had lost count. Season after season in the Scavian Wilds passed as quickly and indistinguishably as the sunrise and sunset. Each day was just a blur of white and occasionally mixed with the crimson splash of blood. When did he last step foot upon his own vessel, The Serpent? The details did not matter. The old crew was replaced by new faces from the Crimson Hand and thankfully, Malachi saw that the ship remain in peak service conditions during its captain's absence.

After the events in Eiskalt, a certain nostalgia urged him to send word to Etheria Port. Originally destined for Torin Reahkari, one of the Rogue Brothers and original leader of the Black Sails, Lye was intrigued at the return message signed by one Malachi Drear. The letter went into detail of recent events and informed the assassin of his vessel's state of being. On top of which, the Pirate King extended an invitation to meet the long absent captain on a famed island not far off from Scara Brae. Curious as to Drear's story and the state of the Black Sails, Lye extended his interest and made way to Etheria.

Some mischief, misunderstandings, and bloody politics later, Lye secured his vessel from the port, manned it appropriately, and filled the sails for Seravien. During the long travel at sea, Malachi and Lye had exchanged several messages by raven. In their contents, the two explained their histories in the Black Sails. The assassin elaborated his service as a captain and brief stint as an Ocean Lord. Malachi relayed his history with the Rogue Brothers and in their absence, he took the disheveled ranks and popped them in order. By the time Lye had anchored The Serpent offshore of its destination, his interest in the Pirate King had peaked. More so, was Drear's announcement of a new face that had proved themselves into his favor, one Flint Skovik.

"Awfully quiet over there, Viper!" Malachi roared in the midst of laughter and enjoyment. Much like a constantly dissatisfied, grumpy feline, Lye remained at the opposite end of the table silent and scowling.

"Grab some ale! A wench or two! This is a joyous occasion!" Malachi continued. He gestured to the bountiful numbers of both.

"No thank you," Lye remarked with his head resting upon a propped arm. "I prefer to keep my wits about me."

Though the statement was true, a certain experience involving a faun and a festival came to mind. The events of which were all a blur save for a few choice images firmly scorched into the back of his skull. The culprit of this affair? A few measly shots of an enchanted beverage affectionately dubbed, "Headbutt". The thought alone forced him to tend the headache that began to well in his temples.

"We maybe new but we are here to show our promise ladies," a hauntingly familiar voice declared, "Whoemever gets the highest authority of the night gets a pint of Headbutt on me!"

The assassin felt his stomach wretch. A look of near panic flooded the already lacking color from his face.

"Whoring and Piracy!"

He glanced to the source to witness a pair of well groomed goat legs and free moving breasts charging toward him in a casual gait. All the muscles in his body tensed, and his posture involuntarily righted.

"Oh ho!" Malachi shouted. "You salty dog! You were just holding out for real treats to arrive! I've underestimated you again, Viper!"

Lye's stomach turned to knots and his fingers vigorously worked the bridge of his nose.

"Fucking pirates..." he murmured.

[Irate Pirate]

Over the horizon the white painted white hull of the Solenyy Shlyukha (Salty Whore) crested over the waves. Carrying a crew of 25 rowdy Salvaran sailors, the 50 foot long, slender vessel was more akin to a viking warship than a traditional pirate ship. It weaved it's way into the docks of Seravien where it's anchor dropped.

A wooden plank slid from the ship, and one end landed on the sandy ground with a thud. The rough looking Salvaran men that composed the ship's crew began to pour from it's bow. Some ran down the plank, others seemed content to jump into the warm tropical water and swim to shore. All of them eager live like kings for a day getting fat and drunk and maybe plunder some booty.

Trailing behind them were to other men. The first was an older man with along gray beard a missing, several missing teeth. Trailing behind him was a much younger man with slightly more muscle and much less beard.

The two made their way through throngs of their fellow seafarers. They laughed and talked but refrained from delving into the decadence too deeply. The two stopped when they came upon their host for the night Malachi Drear.

“Ahoy Captain,” said the older man cheerfully “I'm Captain Petrov Baranski and this 'ere's me first mate Dmitri Slovak.”

“Aye!” echoed Dmitri.

The old sea captain placed an corked oak bottle that was wrapped in a fine red silk on the table in front of the world famous warlord. Sloshing around inside of it was a clear liquor. 198 (99%) proof.

“Thought I'd give you a gift to thank you for your hospitality here. Concordian moonshine. The finest there is. It'll knock the barnacles off you're bow.”

“Might even make you're mopey friend over there crack a smile,” joked Dmitri only to be slapped upside the head by his captain.

“Watch yer tongue stupid, that's Lichensith Ulroké,” chided Petrov in Salvaran.

“Sorry sir,” responded Dmitri in the same tongue.

“I apologize Captain,” said Petrov to Drear in trade speak again. “The lad's the best navigator I ever had but his tongue's gonna get him strung up by his gills one day.”

[Philomel]

She laughed as she heard the edge of his murmur. Raising a hand to her hair she ran it down her plait, the purpose being to pull it over her shoulder so its end rested near her left breast. Pulling out her random iron steak knife she had once gotten free from a trader she walked over to Lichensith. Unfortunately all the stools were taken near the Viper, and thus she singled out a warrior to his left who had his back to her.

Cold met warm flesh as she tapped his neck with the blunt blade of the weapon. She could see the very veins in Lye's eyes popping as the man jumped, suddenly no longer a tough old seaman.

The fellow, blonde matted hair and grey eyes, turned and stared at her ... breasts. They were directly in his eyesight. Letting out a light laugh, she gestured with her knife, speaking light and soft.

"If you would be so kind, I would like to speak to your captain."

The man's eyes couldn't quite bare to tear themselves away from those volumotuous rolls of fat. Philomel blinked, then smiled even more angelically. To her right the small lithe form of Veridian leapt up onto the man's lap, using it as a step to get up onto the table. Yet, still, the man did not move.

Sadly, the Nightingale found herself sighing, "Darling, move."

Forcefully she pushed her strength into the power of the earth. Around her hoof, centered towards the stool, the earth resoundingly cracked and shook, violently. The man was unceremoniously tipped back and he fell to the floor with a cry. The shaking lasted for a couple of seconds, getting to Lye but the steady Crimson Hand managed to hold his own and just stared daggers at the faun-whore. However, she found it amusing.

As the earthquake abated she leaned down and righted the stool, ignoring the toppled man still sprawled beneath her. With a careful adjustment of her short tail she sat her rump down, and speared a near peice of meat with her knife. Likewise her bloved fox familiar snatched a round slice of gammon ham and started to munch.

Philomel grinned a happy grin and finally spoke to Lye himself, enjoying the maddened and irritated look in his eyes.

"And how are you? By the way, I have a ship now."

[Lye]

"I was bored," the assassin replied whilst giving the Dimitri a glare of daggers from across the way, "Now, I'm just irritated."

He peered over to his sexy faun correspondent. Her gleeful smile at his subtle torture only soured his stomach for the next question.

"You really didn't bring that stuff with you did you?" He referred to the sweet, smooth, but utterly vile drink known as Headbutt.

Before she could reply, a drunkard from an unknown ship sauntered up to him. His aroma of sweat, salt, and rum hit before his words.

"Hey, whitey!" the man slurred with a swagger and a swing of a pointed finger. "How's 'bout you learn t'share?"

The assassin, teetering on the verge of turning celebration into conflict, clenched his teeth, turned from the faun, and opened an angered expression to the drunk.

His face had moved quite literally nose to nose with Lye's.

"I saw 'er first, mate," he breathed in what Lye could only describe as rum aerosol mixed with some tooth decay fragrance.

"That's it." The assassin slammed his own skull into the face of the drunkard's. Blood spewed from his newly broken nose and sent him reeling backward only to trip over some fallen coconuts. He slipped a shout out only seconds before the back of his head found the rest of the tree, and he was out cold. Comically, his body propped against the trunk with empty rum bottle cradled in between his legs.

"Easy! Easy!" A bearded fellow with a captain's hat coaxed to the comrades of the drunk which stood armed with blades, legs of turkey, and empty bottles. Lye's chest heaved as he attempted to calm his nerves.

"It's about bloody time you had yourself a share of the festivities!" the captain roared with a hearty laugh to follow. "Just try not to knock out all my mates before nights end!" The laughing continued.

"Fucking pirates," Lye reiterated under his breath, before turning to the gleeful smile of his colleague.