Tales from the Tideslicer [Read Only]

The Journal of Mr. Meeks

It has been nearly a fortnight since the Captain took on the fetchling street rat. Since then, he hasn't proven himself very useful other than taking up a ration and keeping the forecastle and main deck somewhat clean. He doesn't really say much. Spends most of his time with his head over the bulwarks hurling his stomach into the sea. Boy's about as green behind the gills as they come, but the Captain sees something in him, though from the chatter in the galley, he seems to be the only one.

. . .

Burgiss and Gibbs have been arguing again. This time, the fools are arguing whether or not it was a marlin or a sailfish that they spotted off the starboard side. They've been at it for about two days and I suspect it will soon come to blows (as these events usually do). I can speak for many of the crew that we are all growing quite tired of their incessant feuding. I would suggest they take their shares and go their separate ways when we make port, but truth be told, as socially daft as they are, they're both solid jack tars without whom, this ship wouldn't run nearly as smooth. Burgiss is an excellent gunner. I don't believe he's ever missed a shot with a cannon in his tenure with the Slicer. Gibbs, on the other hand, is a ruddy poor shot, but I swear he can speak to those sails. Not once has a knot he's tied come undone before it was supposed to and he has an almost supernatural intuition of when to clew and when to let out more sheet. Oftentimes, before the Sailing Master even has to give the order, Gibbs is already halfway up the main mast. If he keeps this up, he'll be first in line for the job once Ol' Duncan decides to retire.

Either way, if they don't soon find a way to settle their quarrel, I'll have to step in and make examples of them lest the crew finds a more drastic "solution" to the issue. I hope for the former.

. . .

Profits seem to be a bit stagnant as of late. I suspect the Captain is already planning our next prize given his meeting in Newport. Hopefully we won't be intercepted by a man o'war like last time. Damn thing chased us off a merchant frigate en route to Pit's Burg. I'm sure that score would've set us right for at least 6 months. Such is the way out here, I suppose.

. . .

I'm certain the crew feels slighted for our premature and hasty departure for Newport, hopefully when they go whaling in the coming days, they'll settle a bit. If there's one thing I've learned as QM, its that there are three ways to calm a rowdy gang of rogues and ruffians: killing, drinking, and fucking.

. . .

The candle is burning low, I'd better get some shut eye. Duties on the ship never stop and the dawn will be nearing before too long.

“Just Desserts”

Some days after the murder of two guards on a small jetty in Newport, a brig called The Vigilance made port on the opposite end of the pier. The Dockmaster greeted the Captain and made to collect the fee as an official-looking man made his way down the ladder to the docks. The human wore a navy blue overcoat, a powdered wig underneath a black tricorne. He wielded a fine rapier at his waist and a pistol opposite of the blade. Down from the main mast of the ship glided a large brown hawk with piercing yellow eyes which landed gracefully on the man’s left shoulder.

He looked around the docks for a moment before he made his way to the Dockmaster to whom the Captain had just handed back the registry and fee.

“Where might I find the Magistrate?” he asked in a coarse, but polite voice.

“Tha’ll be at the top o’ the hill, m’Lord.” The Dockmaster replied.

The man turned to the Captain. “See to it that the ship remains ready to sail. I’ll seek you out at the Tavern by nightfall.”

“Aye, Sir.” The dwarvish Captain replied.

The nobleman made his way to the building at the peak of the hill and located the Magistrate.

“Ah. You’ve finally arrived, Constable Moore. I hope your trip was a pleasant one.” The Magistrate said to him, looking away from the small group of men he was previously speaking with.

“Indeed. The sea was gentle these past few days.” Moore replied. “But to business, if you please.”

The Magistrate straightened his posture. “Yes. Well, we first received a distress call from the local mage that there was an attempt on his life. Luckily, Mr. Antereon was so quick-witted. He bested his assailant easily.”

The Constable remained silent as he listened, giving no tell towards his opinion.

“The boy,” the Magistrate continued, “was apparently a servant of his for several years before he set fire to the mage’s library and was cast out. Mr. Antereon surmised that this was his poor attempt at vengeance.”

“I’m sure this pertains to the reason for my summons from the Capitol?” Moore interrupted.

“Well, possibly… You see, once the Watchmen sounded the bells and swept the city for the boy, (to no avail) two of the guards were slain on the Southern jetty by what we can only assume by the heavy lacerations along their bodies and faces to be a gang of pirates.”

Moore’s eyebrow perked a bit at the word ‘pirates.’ “And were these pirates registered with the Dockmaster?” He asked with an inquisitive tone.

“Indeed, they were.” He replied. “I believe I have the name of their vessel somewhere here…” He said turning around and sifting through the papers on his desk. “Ah yes. It was a corvette-class vessel by the name of the Tideslicer.”

“And the name of her Captain?” the Constable asked.

“Bartholomew Dawson.”


~


The Journal of Mr. Meeks

Damn it all to the Locker! I knew this would happen! I should’ve nipped it in the bud after my previous entry. Those fools would not cease their insufferable feuding for three more days. One of the orc twins, Mor’gath, had had enough of listening to it and confronted Burgiss. I use the term ‘confront’ to loosely mean the orc rammed his fist into the dwarf’s stomach to knock the wind out of him. “Shut your fuckin’ yap!” he yelled as he threw the punch. The shot landed home and Burgiss was left without wind in his pipes. The poor bloke staggered and fell overboard and what’s worse is he fell right into a school of great whites! Ol’Duncan rang the bell and ropes were tossed over the port side for him to grasp. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough. Though Burgiss caught a rope and the crew began to heave him up, one of the blighters made a quick snack of his leg just below the knee…. Gods… I’ll hear his wailing for weeks as the carpenter made with the sawing and sewing of his flesh.

. . .

As per protocol for a fight on the ship, the Captain had the men tie Mor’gath’s wrists ‘round the mast for him to administer the whipping. Given the severity of the outcome of said crime, he was given sixty lashings. After which, he too was begrudgingly tended to by Garret. Poor halfling had his work cut out for him that day. Especially since the orc wanted nothing to do with the stitching. “Leave it, whelp. I wish to remember it.” He said to Garret which the halfling later relayed to me. He seems a bit concerned by the orc’s tone. I’ll have to keep a wary eye on this.

. . .

The tragedy wasn’t without restitution, though. For the same sharks who made a snack of poor Burgiss soon found themselves to be our prey. The men took the longboat and harpoons out and collected the trio of devils. I suppose we won’t be needing any whale for some time now after all.

. . .

All distractions and drama aside, the Captain seems more fixated on his maps and the horizon the last couple of days. I suspect we will be nearing a prize soon. I’ll approach him about it in the morrow.

Radula kept no diary.  

In the night, during the moments the crew had to themselves, he watched from his bunk the dim orange flicker of candlelight on the cabin walls, listened to the scratching of quills upon parchment, hands furiously scribbling down those fleeting thoughts, those approximations of emotional enigma.  Perhaps the other men believed in some sort of Providence, or perhaps they were simple egoists, documenting their hedonism for posterity, but Radula had no illusions either way.  There was nothing to be said, for Death would take them all regardless, and no amount of autobiography would save them from that.  Either way, each of their candles would snuff out in the end, and collecting each memory like a drop of hot, running wax would do nothing to lengthen the wick.

Even the night he lay in his bunk, shivering, the after effects of the stinging coral's poison still racking his body, he felt no desire to write the first-hand account of his part in what those men were undoubtedly recording.  What he'd heard of the sirens' songs through his cotton-stuffed ears still reverberated in his head, and the sweet, choking stench of the kraken's innards still turned his stomach.  What he'd felt when he'd activated the ring and phased into the Ethereal Plane...that was still with him, and it would be until morning.  Each time, it lingered just a little longer.

But even if his hands had been steady, even if his eyes had not been swollen, he would have written nothing.  For just as surely as their ship sailed evermore to other horizons, so would these moments drift and vanish into the unknowing wake.

Rolling over as the men extinguished their candles one by one, Radula allowed himself a painful grin into his thin pillow.  The endless drift.  It was why he so loved the sea.