Seeing Grommak step into clearing, Darcell moves forward, less concerned about being ambushed. However the eerie silent does unnerve him.
He leaves the talking to Grommak for now, a rare occurrence for him, while keeping an eye out for anyone seeking to surprise the group.
With the orc having broken the silence, Henri follows Darcell's lead into the clearing. Not wishing to get caught offguard by anything or anyway, the ex-navyman glances around the camp. They've sure got an awful lot of stuff for just themself. What sort of experiments is this person running?
As the group enters the clearing, Grommak at the lead, the fire begins to grow and swirl before them. "That you did," says a voice that seems to come from the flames themselves, the shape of the fire shifting and contorting with the sound, almost resembling a featureless face as it 'speaks'.
"There are more of you than I'd expected, but no matter, you'll do," the voice continues. It is deep and raspy, seeming to alter slightly with each flick of the flame. "I assume you are here about my bill?"
"Aye, your bill." Grommak slips the letter out from a pocket and fans it in the air, wondering if the voice could really see the gesture.
"You gonna explain what the hell this is?" The orc steps closer, examining the fire. "Wait, I got it. You're in the tent, tryin' to spook us out here. Yeah?" He glances back, expecting to see the tent flaps open and somebody step out.
As the Dogs approach the tent, Henri spots the body parts piled alongside it. Nudging Darcell, he discreetly gestures towards them, slightly cautious regarding their presence. With the fire now appearing to speak, the ex-navyman says, "That's some pretty impressive magic, but enough of that. What's this bill about?"
"What? N-no. Of course not," the voice from the flames sputters for a moment in response to Grommak, before returning to its original, more serious tone. "As it states, I need help procuring specimens for my experiments. However, these specimens are not exactly easy to come by. At least not without drawing the ire of the locals," the voice continues, the flames growing ever brighter as it speaks.
"I need people who can be discreet and trustworthy, fair work for fair pay. Who are you that come before me, and how do I know that I can trust you with this task?" the voice asks, the flames beginning to swirl somewhat above the fire pit, seeming to focus its 'gaze' on the gathering Dogs.
"The name's Grommak. Fair pay is fairly acceptable. But tell me this," the orc says. "You want trust. Something like that's a commodity here in the Wharf. Sure you know that. But what I reckon is that it doesn't seem fair for us to prove our trust to a floating, talking head that won't tell us how or why it is that way. Why dance behind magic? Who are you, and what has got you this paranoid?"
He shifts his stance, giving a shrug. "You gotta see from our side, stranger. Promising fealty to somebody we hardly understand."
"The name's Darcell," the bard says, joining the conversation. "I still think he's hiding in the tent," he says, turning to Grommak.
"We're members of a reliable crew, that's how you know you can trust us. As long as your money is good, you have our loyalty," he adds, turning back to the fire.
"My reasons for hiding my identity are my own, but it is necessary," the voice says, calmly, though some annoyance does show in its tone despite its odd qualities. "Perhaps once we've established a business relationship we can establish a personal one. For now, though, you must remain content to accept pay for work without knowing my face."
The fire continues to swirl, though now seems to face - at least, as close as flickering flames can face - towards the flaps of the large tent. "Please, peek inside if you must. You will not find anything dangerous or harmful. On the contrary, you fill find your promised pay, should your work prove sufficient."
"You don't have to tell me twice," Darcell says, before quickly walking over to the tent and sticking his head through the tent flaps. He keeps the rest of his body outside, ready to pull back if a threat presents itself.
Darcell slowly makes his way over to the table and cautiously opens the box, looking inside.
"Whatever," Grommak answers with arms crossed as he eyes Darcell enter through the tent flaps. "You know my name, and I know your face. As long as you don't run a knife in our ass or go back on your payment, we'll do whatever needs to be done."
He pauses briefly, his eyes narrowing at the tent now that his friend has left his sight. "What we lookin' at, Darce?"
"Henri," the Imardanian says, late to the introductions much like he were attending a ball in his homeland: nearly fashionably late. If it didn't trust us to begin with, it was a fool for leading us here. Though maybe it has traps for the unsavory sorts.
Giving the flame a polite nod, despite feeling odd doing so, he follows his comrades into the tent. "Let's hope it's more than enough payment for whatever job we have to do. I'd rather not make chump change for this."
"I think it's worth our while," Darcell says, grabbing the small chest and taking it outside to show the others. He passes the chest to Grommak before turning to the flames.
"So what are these specimens you're after?" He asks, both the money and natural curiosity speaking. "There's not a lot that would draw the ire of the people of Wastrel's Wharf. Or are we headed across the island? It's been too long since I've visited Talguta."
"We'll split that out later, when we're back in the city," Grommak says with a nod toward the box. "Still owe you for the purchase," the orc reminds Darcell as he slaps at his own breast, the strange armor tinkling from within.
At his friend's questions, Grommak pitches in his own. "We talkin' creatures, here? Or people?"
The chest instantly shuts when Darcell tries to carry it away, sealing itself from being re-opened in the process. Any attempt to move it from the table is met with what seems like an impossibly-heavy, immovable object.
"Payment comes from successful aid in my research, not up front," the fire chimes in, aware of the attempt to take the gold. "But as you can see, there is plenty to go around, and more can be arranged the more specimens you provide."
At the questions about the nature of the work, the fire becomes calmer and less rapid in its movements. "People," the voice says, addressing Grommak's assumption. "Any sentient bodies. They need not be fresh, but the fresher the more valuable, and so the better your reward. Bring me what you can, tonight, tomorrow, in the weeks to come, it matters not when. If I move to a new location I can keep you up-to-date. I will handsomely reward you for each and every one, should you not find the task too morbid."
Grommak shakes his head and smirks. "Bodies, aye? Aren't you a sick fuck." He looks back at the separated limbs and other oddities strewn about the strange campsite. "Well, I suppose if you just need 'em already dead... then that shouldn't be a problem 'round the Wharf. Floaters turn up every week down at the docks. Got any issue with bloating?" He stares into the face of flame. It's almost like we're cleaning up the island, heh. Course, if he wants us to kill anyone then what's in that box isn't enough.
"Any will do, but as I said, the fresher the more valuable. If you'd like to go the easy route and pull bodies from the shore, so be it. If you want to make more, however, I'd suggest other methods," the fire responds.
"Speak your mind," Grommak says frankly. "No need to speak in riddles. If you want somebody killed, give a name and price."
Henri's eyes widen as the sentient fire suggests defiling corpses for their body parts. What kind of sick joke is this? Murdering people to harvest their corpse? At Grommak's remark, the Imardanian replies, "I don't think it has anyone particular in mind, just anyone."
Turning his attention back towards the speaking flame, Henri says, "So what's your end game here? Why do you need these parts? Trying to create some sort of body or something?" That would explain all the assorted body parts, at least.
"The boy has the right of it," the fire responds to Grommak, before turning to face Henri. "I apologize for all the secrecy, but like my identity I cannot reveal my research. There are many who'd seek to claim my findings for their own, and I do not yet know you enough to trust you with the intricacies. And murder is not necessary, but not frowned upon. I do not care how you come across the bodies, only that they are as fresh as possible."
"Well," Grommak says, clamping his hands on his waist. "We'll keep an open mind. If we find anything you could use, or business calls for another job, we'll seek you out. Sound good?"
He furrows his brow for a moment. "If not a name, then is there something we can call you?"
"Yes, that is a suitable arrangement," the fire says, the swirl slowing again to a nearly steady state. "I will keep the Siren's Call posted with bills about my whereabouts if I am to move. I will make sure the tavern-keeper knows to only given them to you lot, so long as our business continues."
At the mention of a name, the fire is silent for a moment, possibly lost in thought. After a nearly-uncomfortable period of silent it speaks up once more, saying, "if you must call me something, you may use Ignis."
"Yeah we create enough bodies in our line of work. Might as well get extra coin out of it," Darcell says, agreeing with Grommak.
"Well it was... interesting to meet you Ignis," Darcell says. "See you around I guess. Unless there's any strange ritual to seal the deal?"
"No rituals for me," Grommak snickers. "I'm leaving here with all my parts attached."
I don't know about this two, but I'm not about to murder an innocent for this, Henri thinks about the arrangement. But I doubt we'll find many innocent sorts at the Wharf. Though the promise of gold is welcome to the former navyman, he's nevertheless gravely suspicious of the flame's true intentions. Nothing so secretive can be good.
"I'll pass on the rituals as well," Henri says as the group begins its departure. "Unless you've got one that'll grant us eternal youth or the like," he jests with a smirk.
"No rituals necessary," the fire responds, slowly dying down into its orginal, more natural-looking state. "I trust I will see you, and only you, again soon." With that the swirling stops and there is only a campfire left, the same as it had been when the group arrived in the clearing. The air is still and things are quiet, apart from the occasional flickering of the flames and the sounds of animals rustling in the distance.
By now it is quite dark out, with only the fire and the torch keeping things illuminated, the moon above only a small sliver in the sky. The stars are out, so navigation back to town should be easy for the sailors, though they will not be so visible through the trees.
Scanning over the various items left at the campsite, Grommak decides to leave everything as it is. Never steal from an employer. Good way to lose a hand.
"You boys ready to get back to the city? Only thing we're finding out here is dead bits of people and these fucking gnats."
"As ready as I'll ever be," Henri replies to his orcish crewmate, eager to get out of the jungle and back to civilization. "Besides, I'd rather not have a running in with whatever jungle creatures like to hunt at night. Not that a bit of lead wouldn't stop them," he adds with a snicker, patting his holstered flintlocks.
Eyes scanning the now-dark jungle, Grommak heads back toward the Wharf proper alongside his human companions. Arcane types. They're all fucking loony. He shakes his head, stepping past a heavy root.
"I'd much rather spend the night in town than the jungle. The Wharf isn't really its true self until after sundown anyway," Darcell says following the others back into the jungle.
The trip back to town through the jungle is a bit difficult, but otherwise uneventful. The uneven ground and thick growth makes navigation no easy task, but with Grommak's good eyes and the light of the torch, the trio eventually finds their way back out of the trees and into open terrain. From there, it is only a short back to the hustle and bustle of the small city.
Crossing over the levee and into the town proper, the group is greeted with the standard Wharf night life. Drunkards wander aimlessly in the streets, a few arguments are being had, and a few brawls as well. Some more shameless men are enjoying the finer things in life out in the open with their wench of choice, and give a hearty cheer to anyone who glances their way.
Henri shakes his head as the trio emerges from the jungle and enters the Wharf again. "Leave it to the Wharf to give us the kind of welcome back that only it can provide," he says, unphased by the chaos of sinful pleasures erupting before them. "Now how about we grab a drink after that trek we just endured?" he asks his crewmates, ready to take a load off after their experiences in the jungle.
Grommak slips away from a man who vomits on the cobblestone right next to the orc. "Fucking drunk," he shouts, checking himself for any of it. "You heave on the wrong guy's boots... You might find one of them up your hairy ass."
Spitting on the ground, the swordsman turns back to Henri. "Suppose it's up to Darcell. I cleaned my pockets out for an important purchase. Waitin' on our next job to pay this stud back."
"Sure thing. Drinks on me! Darcell says. "I'm sure we'll be back out to sea quicker than I'd like. Blackwood isn't one for extended shoreleave. Let's make the most of it, he continues, steering the group towards a nearby tavern he has been to once or twice before.
"Hopefully my new purchases can win back some of the money we spend on drinks," he adds, patting his pocket containing the magical dice and cards.
It is not far to the tavern in question, the Driftwood Inn, where a few of the other Dogs can be found enjoying a drink as well, along with many sailors of other crews. As most evenings on shore go, the night is wild and debaucherous and ends with the men passing out drunk or otherwise finding an inn room to sleep in.
The following morning is a lazy one. Some men wake slowly, many nursing hangovers, and begin to slowly gather their things. Some sleep soundly well into the morning, out cold from the previous night's events. Others still are completely unfazed, wide awake and ready for a new day.
Regardless of the group's state, many who had been asleep are awakened suddenly when the tavern doors slam open. The familiar sound Marian's skeletal leg is accompanied by her usual scowl as she marches into the establishment, likely something she's done for a few other taverns already this morning.
"You... you..." and so on, she says, pointing towards the Saint's crew as she finds them among the crowds, prodding awake those that are still unconscious. "Party's over, we've shit to do. Get your sorry asses back to the Saint for your orders, I expect you all there by noon," she continues, her nose scrunching up in disgust as she passes by some of the men. "And for the gods' sake, do something about that smell," she finishes. Once certain all the men are awake and stirring, she leaves just as quickly as she came, likely moving on to other establishments to deliver similar orders.
"What a bitch," a man says, not someone you recognize as part of the Saint's crew, as he massages his temples. "Can't a man get some sleep? Gods!"
"Not so loud, she may still be able to hear you," comes another voice from the crowd, this one more familiar as Rusty the Red. "Not that it isn't true," he adds, more quietly, as he stands and cracks his neck.
Grommak awakes to the grating sound of Mad Marian's nagging. Fuck. My fucking head. What time is it? He slides down from his slump against the wall into a laying position on the wood floor, pulling his bandanna down over his eyes. "Too bright," he grunts, massaging his eyelids with a thumb and forefinger. He forces in a few deep breaths of the rancor air, and finally sits up.
Looking around at the other Dogs, the orc smirks. "Good night, 'ey? Hope it was." He licks his chapped lips. "Can't rightfully remember most of it." Grommak sighs and stands up, tying one boot that had gotten loose. He finds the other behind him as a backrest, popping it on and lacing it up as well.
Testing his sway, Grommak steps over to where Henri and Darcell lay, delivering to both a friendly-but-firm boot in the ass.
"Let's go, boys. Don't want to miss our boat."
Henri's eyes open less-than-gracefully as the sound of Marian's orders. Goddess, she's efficient, he thinks, rubbing his eyes to wake himself despite wanting to slump over on a barstool and sleep more. Though he'd had much less the night before than his comrades, he still finds himself reeling from the signature headache of a hangover. Can't we leave at four instead?
Hearing the familiar gruff and less familiar boot of his orcish comrade, the navyman rises, his eyes squinted against the morning's light. "Aye," Henri responds to Grommak, a dazed grin across his face. "You've only gotta remember the best parts. The rest, who cares?" Regaining his composure now that he stands, he adds, "Yes, yes, let's get a move on. We've got a ship to catch."
Darcell spends the night drinking, singing, and talking the other patrons into games of chance. Using his new cards and dice, he makes sure to let his opponents win on occasion to avoid suspicion, but still makes sure he wins the largest share of the money on offer.
He wakes the next morning to Marian's voice with a pounding headache. "My head tells me it was," he says replying to Grommak as he gets to his feet. He takes his jacket of the back of his chair and slings it over his shoulder.
Heading for the door he grabs a bread roll off the plate of a still sleeping patron, taking a bite as they leave the tavern. "I wonder what Blackwood has decided to do with that Seer," he says thinking of Daphne.
Grommak's mood sours at the memory of the seer's presence. "Her brother's dead and she's at the will of the bossman. Can't say I envy the poor girl's position," he says, curious of Blackwood's intentions.
"We're always in the dark with him. That stunt with the merchant vessel and the navy..." He shakes his head. "Would do things a lot differently myself."
"Well maybe you'll get the chance," Darcell says, through mouthfuls of bread. "Orson did say the old man wants to build a fleet. A couple of ships and we'll be running out of officers on board the Saint. So you could get your chance then on board the Saint," he says, taking another bite.
"And a couple more after that and the next ships could be ours," he finally adds after a few moments of chewing.
"Hah. Gotta stay out of musketfire to live long enough to see that happen." The orc massages a sore shoulder. "That fucking Imard' navy... Your people sure are bullheaded, Henri. I'll give you that."
The group walks and talks as they make their way into the outside world, which smells barely better than the tavern they'd left. Many men and woman can be seen sleeping in various positions outside the tavern and along the narrow road, in various levels of dress. One man in particular is on his stomach, clearly passed out, with his pants pulled down to his ankles. A series of bottles can be seen balanced along his back and buttocks.
As they make their way towards the main road of the town, which heads from the exit to the docks, they come across John lumbering down the road, likely returning to the Saint as well. He seems his usual self, with a gruff and stern look on his face, but the way he nearly stumbles every so often when he walks indicates his night had been similar to yours.
"Mornin', big guy. Missed ya' last night. What shit-hole'd you find yourself in?" Grommak calls to his friend, finding himself walking alongside him. Always an expensive night for the fucker. Don't need to imagine how many drinks it'd take to bring him down. Seen it myself.
John grimaces a bit at the sound of talking and blinks his eyes a few times, before turning to face the orc. He gives the man a nod and walks over to join the others "Stuck to the Mug o' Mead with that new fellow and Jane," the man says, letting out a quick cough and spitting on the ground next to him. "Little man sure can drink," he adds, thinking back to the night prior.
"Their hearts are in the right place," Henri replies to the orc, thinking fondly of his heritage for a moment. "Or at least some of them are. Some fight for our Goddess, while others use her to fight for other reasons," he adds, fully aware of the less-than-noble intentions of many of those in the Navy and Clergy.
As the group spots John stumbling down the wharf's streets, the ex-navyman can't help but chuckle. How much does a man that size need to drink to get drunk? He cracks a smile as the highlander details his night. "I wonder if he could put Dirge to shame. I hope not, or I'll have to hide my wine from another person."
"Wine, wine..." Grommak chuckles, shaking his head dismissively. "Next time we're along, I'll find you an actual luxury to sip on. Mead, my friend. And not that over-sweet horse-shit concocted in some human territory, either. The real fucking thing from my homeland." He grins. Been a while since I've seen home. Probably a good thing.
