[Aboard a Vessel, Below Deck]
The crew sat, barely touching the plates of food which rock to and fro with the motion of the sleek two-masted schooner. The conversation was far too intense for them to take a break just to feed their own empty gullets. A Rakash wearing a black tricorne hat sits at the head of the table, calmly looking from one energetic speaker to the next with his piercing blue eyes...
"The hold is full, we've got no reason to still be out 'ere. I says we head back for some land and get us some gals!"
"Some gals and good food!"
A few of the men bang their cups on the table and yell "Hear! Hear!"
"Wait, are we really done so soon?"
"That ain't too much of a take when ya split it up."
The lads mumble and groan.
"I think we should find a nice spot to tuck this here loot away, and go back out and get some more. We've had good luck this run, we are all still fit and there be plenty 'o supplies."
The men quietly look around at each other.
The speaker continues, "... then when we get more loot, we can get more women! Better women!"
The sailors erupt in a cheer once more.
"But ... Where would we hide all this here? It ain't like the shores are welcoming of 'tourists' such as us." A man says as he holds back a chuckle.
A voice from the back of the table shouts out, "Heck! Even M'Riss aint to welcoming at the moment."
The sailors grumble their agreements.
"Some of us ain't got a citizenship and I hears that them locals, well they've been having the run of the place."
The young Rakash finally speaks, "I will not take you to M'Riss. Or Mer'Kresh for that matter."
The crowd is silent for a moment.
Someone finally says with a smirk, "What about Taisidon?"
A reply comes swiftly, "And what? Get lost in the jungle and end up eaten by tribal S'Kra Mur? Not I."
"Wimp." is the only snappy retort needed to send the whole group into a row of laughter.
Buffoons. This sorry lot has to be the worst of them all. Some of them are knowledgeable when it concerns the mast and sails. Most, however, are like blunt tools for breaking skulls and rocks. The schooner had seen many crews just like this one, and the Captain doubts this one will be the last on its deck.
"Well it seems like the Capt'n has a plan in his head already."
"Do ya, Capt'n?" One of the sailors asks inquisitively.
The Rakash leans back in his chair, sipping his spiced apple brandy.
"Please, everyone calm down for a moment and enjoy your food. I will tell you of my plan." He says to the gathered faces.
The men settle into their positions on the long benches which flank the table, finally digging into the stew-like dish and hardtack. Like most meals on the vessel, this one is rather unidentifiable, its texture like that of a thick gravy or batter with chunks of meat and stringy bits of greens in it. The saving grace is the watery grog that washes the whole mess down. The light hint of lime sweetening the beer and rum mixture, making for a wonderful drink. Maybe it's the talk of making for land or the meager amount of goods they've sized in the short time sailing, but this time the grog tastes even sweeter.
"Good. Eat up, you'll need your strength for our next task." The Rakash says. "We've got a lot to do an I'm going to need each and every one of you to do this for me before we can make port."
The men continue to eat and drink, their eyes fixated on the Rakash as he works his charms on the group.
He continues, "We will need to gather a full inventory of what we have now, that way we are sure of what we have. Including what we have used this very day..."
He prattles on for a time about food, fresh water, and mundane toiletries. Expounding upon each subject to great lengths.
"Also, we need to see about finishing repairs to this vessel. You lads have done great work for me since I picked ya up, and she's looking in far better shape than when I pulled ya aboard. Yet, there is still more to do..." The Rakash pauses and takes a drink of his brandy.
As the Captain recites a list of rather minor items to attend to several of the crewmen seem to be blinking sleepily, as if falling asleep in their seats. Fingers lose their grip as the arms drop lifelessly to their side.
He continues, " Following that, we will have to once again take inventory. This time we will have to factor in any expenses gained while we are making said repairs. Including: Any supplies which we do not currently have on board, stocking up on any supplies used during the repair, the amount of food that we will be using during this time frame...."
He continues to drone on.
A few of the men are laying face down of the table while others are crumpled on the floor, having fallen out of their seats. Spilled cups litter the table and utensils are stuck firmly into the cold stew. The visible faces are grotesque, the features contorted and frozen as the crewmen struggled for their last breath. Bulging, bloodshot eyes and a sickly blue tone designate these men as no longer among the living.
"It would seem that I am boring you..." the Rakash muses as he glances at his fingernails.
"Capt'n..." the burly man sitting next to the Rakash struggles to say. The able sailor, with heavy battle scars to prove it, is reduced to a whimpering and wheezing child. His one hand grasps the boat cloak draping the Captain's shoulders, while his other clutches his own throat violently.
"Well now, that is quite uncalled for." The Captain says as he peels the large fingers open one-by-one and releases the crewman's grip on his clothing.
Coughing and sputtering, the last of the crew finally slams to the floor. His legs unable to support the weight of his frame, crumbling in a mess beneath him. His large and calloused hands finally becoming still in the comforts of death.
"Paralyzing poison," the Rakash says. "Targets the lungs. Quick and clean. Although, someone of your size..."
Finishing off his brandy the young Captain drops the glass on the floor and crushes it under one of his nauda.
"...probably coulda used some more."
He calmly walks up the short stairs leading to the deck, all the lines are tied and the patchwork sails are open full. The pilot is the only soul around, as he steers the medium-sized vessel through the violent Reshal Sea. A thin man, his only saving grace is his knowledge of the various routes and trading lanes. But things such as this come at a price, he has grown old in the years at the mast and his movements are sluggish.
"We're clear of any naval ships, sir. We've also got the neutral colors up anyways, so they're not likely to want to stop us." The pilot shouts over the chopping waves.
The Rakash asks, "What are we flying right now?"
"We've got private vessel cloth up, the Zoluren standards." the pilot replies.
The Rakash asks, "What is our current heading?"
"Well, Sir. I didn't know where you wanted to go. You went down below with the crew and you gave me no course so I aimed for Rathan coasts." the pilot says with a apologetic tone.
"That is good." the Rakash assures him with a casual smile. "And would you like to join the others down below and get some food? I believe there is still plenty left. Also, there is much of the grog still available."
"Boy, would I? I'm starving." the pilot says with glee.
"Okay, just let me come over there and grab the wheel from you..."
The elderly man hobbles to the side allowing the young Rakash to take the handles of the wheel. Giving him an appreciative nod, the white-haired sailor begins the tedious journey of crossing the short deck with his old bones. Shuffling down the steps of the stairs, the movement suddenly stops as even eyes as aged as those could see the gruesome scene spread out before them.
He turns sharply on his heels and races up the short set of stairs, slipping on the final one he falls and smashes his nose on the deck of the ship. A sickening crack can be heard as it breaks, probably not for the first time. Tears swell in his eyes as he wipes the blood from his face. He slowly picks himself up, his joints creaking in protest.
The glint of cold metal is stopped short by the splash of deep red blood on the blade. Retracting his arm, and his weapon, allows a large spurt of lateral spray to shoot from the gaping hole in the pilot's side which the Rakash swiftly dodges. The pilot stumbles around in a delirious attempt to flee, with arms outstretched and wrinkled hands clawing the air for some invisible Empath or protector.
The elderly pilot pulls one hand back and grabs his side, a vain attempt to stop the gushing fountain of blood. As he pours his life out over the deck, his eyes glaze over.
He is gone now.
In a quick movement the Rakash charges at his opponent, grabbing him violently by the back of his shirt and shoving him over the railing. The frail man, weakened by the immense blood loss, providing little resistance to the aggressive Captain. As the body sinks into the open ocean the Rakash dusts his hands off with a devilish sneer.
Grabbing the wheel he moves the vessel to its new heading before tying it off with a rope. He heads below deck and proceeds to fetch the corpses of the mercenary crew whom he hired his last time in port. Pulling each body by their legs causes a haunting thump to echo through the ship as the crewman's heads smash and bang against the solid wood steps. Several prove to be a challenge and he makes a mental note to perhaps feed the next lot a little less.
After tossing the last one overboard, he sets about to cleaning the mess. He despises the task but he knows that he would do best not to arouse any suspicion. There is no telling who is looking through a spyglass and the pilot made sure to leave his mark all over the weather-beaten deck boards. Finally done, he returns to the wheel with an exhausted sigh.
"I wonder what I will name the vessel this time..." he ponders out loud.
* * *
The Raw Deal pulls into the Wharf's End.
It was a difficult task for a single man to accomplish, luckily there were a few dockworkers available to catch and pitch lines which made the whole process less of a hassle. Changing the Zoluren colors for his native Rissan ones helped but still the Rakash paid them well for their service, and for their silence. Captains don't often come to port without a crew, and he intends to ensure that this one goes unnoticed. Most will drink the coin and forget the day ever happened anyways.
He makes a swift journey to the bank where he speaks with the teller...
The Rakash says, "I'd like to make a deposit please and I have some 'cargo' that needs to be 'inspected' at the pier."
"Certainly," the Teller replies. "Good to see you again, citizen."
Below the shadow of his tricorne the Rakash grins widely as he thinks about his next adventure aboard the salvaged schooner. Making his way through the crowded streets, the coinpurse seems to drop right into his hand. Well, not exactly. Regardless, its former owner wont miss it and the Rakash knows every little bit counts.
He opens the purse to see his spoils and inside was...
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