Writing Assignment 2: Chapter 1: The Salty Seafarer

It all started in a bar

Ricmo set his empty beer mug down, leaned back in his chair, and put his bare, hairy, halfling feet up on the rugged wooden table. He heaved a contented sigh and resumed picking his nails with his long dagger. Good beer, good times. 

The Salty Seafarer  was one of his favorite dives in Valoria, and Ricmo was something of a connoisseur of dive bars. The city had a lot of drinking establishments, and he’d seen the inside of most of them, so he felt he had an informed opinion on the subject. For one thing, Old Salty not only had pretty good beer on tap, at a very reasonable price, but there was a smattering of halfling sized furniture scattered around the joint, beaten up, but rugged and serviceable. The room was dimly lit by the sputtering torches, dimly lit enough to offer a modicum of privacy, but not so dimly lit as to prevent him from noticing anyone thinking to sneak up on him. It was big enough you could usually get a table.  And most importantly, it was off limits to City Watch.

The place had been a barge once, a long time ago, before it was permanently moored to a pier along the shores of the Golden Lake, and converted to tavern. It’s nautical origins were still clearly visible in the curved wooden walls, and the great oak ribs that supported them, not to mention the fact that the whole building still rocked slightly in the wind and low waves of the lake.  Because it still was (barely) afloat, that meant it was technically a boat not a building. And THAT meant it fell under the Harbormaster’s jurisdiction rather than the City Watch. 

This was generally considered a Good Thing by the less then savory patrons that frequented it, since policing drunk and disorderlies was pretty low on the Harbormaster’s priority list. Not much money in it, compared to shaking down rich merchants just returned from the Opal Coast. So as long as Phineas, the proprietor, kept the bribe payments current, the Harbormaster left the place more or less alone. And the last thing the City Watch wanted or needed was trouble with the Harbormaster, so they steered clear too.  As a result, Old Salty was mostly left to it’s own devices, happily frolicked along in its own weird legal limbo. A small, dingy, beer sodden, underground world in and of itself, with it’s own (mostly criminal) populace, customs, and, if not exactly laws, then rules, or at least specialized norms. Odd but filling a niche and strangely functional. That's Valoria for you. 

Since Ricmo had also spent most of his short life frolicking along on the edge of the law (and let’s be honest, often cheerfully plunging over that edge yelling “YOLO” the entire way down), that worked just fine for him. And for his companions. No cops meant no hassles. 

Tonight, he had companions with him. Not friends exactly, more like working associates. You needed to be able to take care of yourself in places like this, and it helped to bring folks who could watch your back. A state of semi anarchy cut both ways, after all. It was a rough crowd, as more then one of Old Salty’s patrons had discovered, usually as they were being quietly knifed and robbed where they sat. Phineas didn’t worry what the patrons did to themselves as long as they didn’t disrupt his business, just cleaned up the blood each morning and tossed the bodies out the hatches built into the side of the floating building, down into the lake with all the other refuse. Hopefully they’d be wiser in the next life, or at least better at watching their back, and if not, the City didn’t care. That’s Valoria for you.      

To Ricmo’s left, against the corner sat Dakhir and The Sturg, lurking in the shadows, as usual. Well Dakhir was lurking, the dark hood of his long black robe drawn up over his head, barely a hint of his horns protruding, red tinged skin lost in shadow, back to a wall. Of course Dakhir was a Tiefling, and most Tieflings were a bit self conscious of the demon blood that gave them their slightly infernal appearance (and their renowned talent for magic). In Ricmo’s opinion the discrimination wasn’t warranted. Demon tainted or not, Tieflings were no more inherently evil then any other of the half dozen races that roamed Valoria’s teeming streets. Still, he couldn’t blame Dakhir for hiding his appearance, there was a lot of hate leveled at his people. Some taverns even refused to serve them. Phineas didn’t give a shit of course. 

The Sturg had absolutely zero chance of hiding himself in any room, shadowy corner or no, but he stuck close to Dakhir like he always did. The Sturg was lucky to even fit in your average room. Another reason why Old Salty was one of their favorites, there was plenty of head room. The main floor of the tavern had once been the hold of the large barge working the Golden Lake, it was cavernous and huge, a hundred feet from end to end and forty feet wide. The “ceiling” (which was actually the deck of the old ship) was a good twenty feet, plenty for even The Sturg to not have to crimp his neck. Sure the place reeked of sour ale, sweat, and roasted fish, and was filled with people that wanted to kill you, but it was hard to find a tavern that could accommodate The Sturg’s nearly seven foot height. Here it was not an issue. Headroom. 

A major reason Ricmo felt comfortable here, despite the taverns well earned reputation for murder and mayhem, was The Sturg’s presence. He was not the kind of entity that any sane roughboy or cutpurse would pick a fight with. Full on bar fights tended to route around him like a river breaking around a rock. 

Ricmo used the word “entity”, because he had no idea what race or manner of creature The Sturg actually was, or whether he there even a living being at all under all that armor. The Sturg never spoke. Not once, not a single word in the three months since Dakhir had introduced him to Ricmo and the others. He had never been seen to remove the black chain hauberk he wore, or the black great-helm that completely encased his head. Never. Ricmo had once asked Dakhir, who seemed to be The Sturg’s friend / employer how he ate?

"Some say he doesn't eat or drink" Dakhir had answered. "That he survives by consuming the souls of the creatures he kills. Others say, on the night of the full moon his helmet detaches from his armor and flies through the air trailing tentacles. And it feeds. All I know is, he is called “The Sturg.”

Ricmo was not comforted by that answer at the time. But over the course of their association, The Sturg had grown on him. He had never seen The Sturg do anything other then his job. And he did it well. It mostly encompassed hitting things with his massive sword until they stopped moving, which was a very useful skill in this line of work. He also minored in Looming In A Threatening Manner. After awhile the large, quiet presence had become normal, and eventually, oddly comforting to the diminutive halfling. Nowadays he wouldn’t dream of drinking without him.        

The two elves were sitting on the other side of Ricmo, chatting up a storm. Or at least Whisperleaf was chattering and Merus was listening with an amused expression on her aquiline features. Elves were often seen as aloof and unsociable, at least with the lesser races, but in Ricmo’s opinion these two didn’t fit that stereotype.

Whisperleaf, despite being a druid of the remote and very prestigious Circle of the Northmost Groves was incredibly down to earth and friendly, if a touch weird and a bit goofy at time. Merus on the other hand was aloof and unsociable enough, but she was that way toward everyone equally, at least everyone who wasn’t Whisperleaf. She didn’t discriminate against the “the lesser races”, she was an equal opportunity bitch. She had told Ricmo once that she didn’t mean anything by it, that she had spent most of the last two hundred years of her long life alone, deep in the forest with nothing but her bow for companionship, and didn’t really understand social niceties.

For a long time Ricmo had wondered if they were brother and sister, husband and wife, or lovers or what was going on there exactly? They certainly looked enough alike to be brother and sister. Both were tall, and attractive in the elven way, with their thin willowy frames, long white-blond hair and sharply chiseled features, an appearance that came as their birthright. They dressed similarly too, in simply in browns and forest greens. But maybe that was just an elf thing?

Eventually Ricmo had given up trying to figure it out and cornered Whisperleaf when he was alone and flat out asked. He soon came to regret his question. He had thought halflings were obsessed with genealogy, but they had nothing on elves. Evidentially you could build up quite a complicated family when your species lived for over five hundred years. After an hour of who married who, two hundred years ago, the only thing Ricmo came away with was; One, they were not a romantic item and two; while they were related they were not closely related. Something like second cousins except Merus was seventy five years older then the relatively young (by elven standards) Whisperleaf. 

A few tables down, the last of their little party had cornered some poor unfortunate drunk and was busily regaling him about the wonders of the Great God Mithras. Radiant Lightbringer (not his real name, his sect evidentially took new ones when they converted) had sat down across from some barely conscious sot and was in full proselytizing swing. Radiant was a tall, earnest young man, probably no older then his late teens, simply dressed in a white gambeson partially covered by  a wood and iron splint armor breastplate. He had bowl cut, corn yellow hair, broad shoulders, farm boy good looks, and absolutely no talent with words. From the sound of it, he was reciting verbatim, from memory, some tract on “how to win over the heathen” or some such. Ricmo grinned. That kid was so SERIOUS about that little sect of his, it cracked Ricmo up at times. He never let it show though, since Radiant had no sense of humor whatsoever and needling him about his wacky religion was like kicking a puppy. Still, he pulled his weight on the team, the cleric might be dumb as a stump, but he was a skilled healer, a surprisingly fearsome warrior, and utterly devoted to whatever mission he was on. 

The words “devoted” and “earnest” were often associated with Mithrans, along with “bloody annoying” and “no I don’t want to talk to you about your god, please leave me alone or I will call the Watch.”  Still, as a group, they had a reputation for scrupulous honesty, and their doctrine mostly boiled down to “be nice to people for once you assholes” which, in Ricmo’s opinion, was a lot better then the myriad relatively bloody and self centered deities that most people worshiped around here. Mithrans were pretty rare in Valoria, but supposedly were a much bigger deal over the seas to the west. And surprisingly enough, their sect seemed to be gaining some traction in the big, mean city. They hated the rich and the oligarchs and weren’t shy about saying so, that probably had something to do with it. 

Ricmo grinned thinking about his motley group.  They were not a bad bunch, better then most of the gangs he’d been running with. While he wouldn’t call them “friends” he didn’t have to worry about any of them stabbing him in the back, and that was something. Plus, they had managed some decent scores over the last few months and were even starting to make something of a name for themselves. A couple mercenary gigs that had gone pretty well, that tour as caravan guards, a few bodyguard details. They’d even found and knocked over an old abandoned temple up north. Good times.  

For once, in a life that had mostly been spent dodging kicks and trying to avoid starvation, Ricmo had a few coins in his pocket, a decent crew to run with, and the growing respect of the Street. Things were looking up, for once.

And then it suddenly all went to hell. 

Below, the show was finally starting. Some Valorian Swing band by the looks of things, with a wispy soulful female singer, a mess of brass and strings and a very young and very scared drummer. Despite paying its acts pretty much nothing. Old Salty often attracted surprisingly good music. The best bards were always drawn to an environment of cheap booze and moderate danger. It wasn’t uncommon to catch a really big name slumming it in The Salty Seafarer Ricmo didn’t know who these clowns were, though.

As the music began it quickly became apparent the band was not good. Ricmo had a passing liking for Valorian Swing and these jokers were not impressive. Still, most of the clientele were not here for the music, they were her for the drinking, and for business. 

Ricmo tuned out the band, and flagged down a waiter for another round for the table when his finally honed street trained senses tingled. Something had just changed with the singer. She had just gotten a lot better. Remarkably better.

Looking over at the stage he noticed she was glowing from within with a strobing red light. As the music belted out of her slender frame, the glow got brighter and brighter, so bright that he had to turn his eyes away. “What the hell?” he thought. “Some kind of enchantment?” Magic of that sort was pretty rare in Valoria but not unheard of. Not at all common in a dive such as this, though. Who would be wasting spells on these idiots?

And then, as the song reached it’s final crescendo there was a sound like the tearing of a veil, then a popping noise and the singer sort of exploded outward in all directions. The bright light winked out and a new figure stood on the stage where the singer had been.

She had bright red hair, wild and untidy, cascading crazily down over her shoulders. Alabaster skin. Considerably more voluptuous then the previous woman had been. She was wearing some tight black skirt-thing, not the current style at all, almost archaic but it looked good on her, emphasizing her long legs.  

With a dazzling smile she curtsied and then yelled out at the crowd

“HELLLLLO Valoria! We are Red Alice and the Soon-to-be-deads and we are here to ROCK.”

Ricmo’s blood ran cold.

He’d heard of Red Alice. Everyone had heard of Red Alice. She was a legend. A myth. A dyed in the wool psychopath. Generally considered the most powerful sorceress currently active, at least in his part of the world, almost a god. The only one of the original three Alice sisters still walking around causing chaos. WorldsWalker , sometimes consort of The Gentleman himself. Mad as a hatter, world renown musician, drug addict extraordinaire and mistress of illusion and dreams. 

The stories around that name were insane and only eclipsed by the stories told of her older sister Black Alice. But no one had seen Black Alice in a hundred years and Red Alice was very much still in the world. As a matter of fact she seemed to be standing right in front of him.  

Dealing with her was said to be extremely high stakes. She was dangerous and erratic, but at times extremely generous to those who pleased her. 

The whole tavern went quiet in shock and then the music got them as she started singing. She performed three more songs, as if she hadn’t just exploded the previous singer and nothing at all unusual was happening. Ricmo had no doubt she was who she said she was though, because those three songs were the best music he’d ever heard. Later he could not remember a thing about them, not so much as a single word or melody, but at the time they were mesmerizing, soulrendingly beautiful. And he wasn’t alone in that opinion. In the front row a big block of muscle with more scars then skin, a man who Ricmo knew for a fact had killed over twenty men with his bare hands, was sobbing uncontrollably. The music had the whole place spellbound. Ricmo couldn’t move, couldn’t look away.  

As she sang, Red Alice paced the makeshift wooden stage like some feline predator, gaze roaming the crowd, slowly locking eyes with each patron for a few seconds, one at at time, almost leisurely, playfully. Eventually she got to Ricmo. Her eyes hit him like an orgasm. They were no particular color, or maybe they were all colors simultaneously, he couldn’t tell. His mind went numb, and then in a great rush his life flashed before his eyes. Every moment of his mean, miserable street trash existence, every scam, every blow he gave or took, every con, every job, in a great rush it went past him and out to Red Alice. He watched it go. He sensed an element of amusement from the woman who was reading him like a book, Then her gaze moved on, and he crumpled into his chair, dazed and spent.

And eventually the third song ended. Red Alice stopped singing turned around and looked at the band that had been backing her.

“You lot are terrible” she said critically. “Not an ounce of real talent. An affront to music. How dare you?” She snapped her fingers and the musicians quietly turned to dust, outlines filled only with dust, that held their original shape for a moment before collapsing and floating down gently toward the sticky, vomit stained floor. 

One musician remained, the drummer. “You aren’t so bad” Alice said to him, smiling encouragingly. “Work on it honey, you could be something someday”. The drummer stared at her, then are the piles of dust that had been his bandmates, and then he started to cry.

Red Alice turned toward Ricmo and his friends and smiled. “You lot will do.” And she snapped her fingers again. 

And suddenly they were elsewhere.