Logs:Pirates Don't Like Nosy People
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| RL Date: 17 June, 2013 |
| Who: Jo |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Jo does some investigating into the pirates. She gets... more and less than she bargained for. |
| Where: Dive Bar Outside High Reaches Hold Harbor |
| When: Day 3, Month 1, Turn 32 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Z'ian/Mentions |
| Storyteller: K'del/ST |
| It's a couple of days past turnover, and evening is beginning to set in at the Briny Barber, a seedy bar that lurks just slightly around the bend from High Reaches Hold's harbor. None of the other places Jo's hit up of late have turned up anything, except the comment, just once, that everyone knows the really seedy types drink at the Brine. This has got to be it: it's basically as seedy as it comes, already full of regulars, some of whom may have been here for hours. Some may even not have left since last night. The barkeep's a gap-toothed man of indeterminate age, his face and hands as dirty as the glasses that line the bar-top. Other patrons sit at scattered tables; some are dicing, some talking in low, muffled voices, and a handful throwing knives at a dart-board up on the far wall. Since being with Greenfields, it would seem as if the only places Jo seem to fit in are those real seedy-types. Minus any shoulderknots depicting her as a Reachian dragonrider, and clad in her black leathers and gloves, the convict rider pauses only briefly on the bar's threshold before heading in. She gives the whole place and its patrons a thorough once-over as she heads to the bar counter, the swagger in her step perhaps not easily missed by any of those that look her way. She eyes the group throwing knives at the dart-board with interest the most, but once she makes it to the counter, she seems to really only have one thing in mind: a drink. Also, her jacket's unfastened all the way down with the hilts of the knife set attached to her hip being seen well in advance from the door to the counter. Just in case it was going to be one of those nights. Jo's black leathers stand out amongst the worn and dirty quality of everyone else's clothes; she certainly earns more than a few glances as she makes her way in, including from the group with the knives. No one seems especially daunted by her knives, though; and why would they be? It's pretty obvious that everyone in this place can handle themselves in a fight... and they may well have the numbers. Still, the barkeep straightens as she approaches, and raises his eyebrows in silent query: what do you want? Cocky as she is, Jo's exuding an air of easiness despite the hostile environment. She runs a hand through her wild black hair before turning towards the barkeep, jerking her chin upwards as she orders out, "Whiskey, strong. If ya don' got that, then I'll take whatever's yer strongest." She plant an elbow on the counter once she turns a fraction towards the dive at large, leaning back as she fishes for some marks within her jacket with the other hand. Dark eyes fall on the group with the knives, her gaze going over whatever weapons are on display fleetingly. If she can, she keeps silent to hear any conversations standing out where she is, though it's clear that with this lot, she'll likely not hear anything in that manner. This crowd wasn't really the noisy type. No, they're really not the noisy type, their voices deliberately pitched to make sure there's nothing but a low buzz of indecipherable conversation. The knives they're throwing are good ones, and it's a good bet that they've more on their persons. "Do I look like a man who'd serve piss whiskey?" But it's likely mock-offense: the barkeep looks like a man who'd serve cheap whiskey. Still, the shot he pours for Jo doesn't look like it's been watered down, though it's bound to taste awful. His accent is broad, only a few notches about indecipherable. Setting the bottle back down, he adds, "You're not the usual type who walk in here, all leathered up and carrying." "Ya look like a man who values his bar," Jo is easy to counter, turning her study on him. "Anythin' watered down would cause a place like this to have more than a few holes in the wall. I don' see any." She takes up the shot and downs it right then without even taking a breath, the taste causing her to wince a bit before she sets it down and rakes out, "Keep it comin', eh?" She must have an iron stomach. She drops a few marks on the counter between them, right when he speaks on her choice of dress. Sending the man a lift of the corner of her mouth, "I ain' the usual type no matter where I walk into," she seems to correct, though it's also likely her humor. Nudging her empty shot towards him with a glance over her hunched shoulders towards the group at the dartboard, "What usual types do ya get in here?" she asks now. "Not the type who ask lots of questions," counters the barkeep in turn, as he refills that glass. He doesn't seem surprised by Jo's iron stomach, or anything else she has to say; he also doesn't seem to be in a hurry to step away, or attend to anything else. Perhaps it's that she's interesting... or perhaps it's that she's a new face in a bar full of regulars, and that makes her suspicious. His answer draws laughter from Jo - it gets rolled off her like water. "Not even ones lookin' for a brother of theirs?" she counters now, reaching into one of the pockets of her black jacket to pull out a couple more marks, sliding them across the counter his way. Making sure that she has his attention, her lean still casual, "Ya can say I'm in the business of locatin' people, too," she perhaps gives as an excuse to how she's dressed. "My brother's been missin' for the last month. Last I heard from him, he was shackin' up with those men that attacked that boat out by Reaches Hold's way. Only, I wanted to check'em out first before little ole' me by lonesome goes and say 'hi'. Whatchu think 'bout that?" Like the shot, one long finger nudges those marks she just took out forward. The marks go clink, clink, clink as the barkeep slides them off the edge of the wooden bar and into some concealment beneath it. "Last I heard," he says, as neutral as can be, "they were all locked up in the Lord's prison, as they should be. Got no truck with pirates, missy, and if that's what your brother," though it rather sounds like he doesn't believe her story, "got himself caught up in, you ought to leave him for dead." Has the room gotten ever so slightly quieter? Quieter? Jo slides a glance over her shoulder, eyeing anyone who happens to be looking their way. "Locked up, huh?" she idly echoes, returning to the barkeep. "So ya reckon none of these fine folks in here would know anymore 'bout that, huh?" She gestures briefly, not really pointing out anyone in particular. "And, I ain' about to leave him for dead. Not when he's saved my ass more than I can count," she notes with a nod. "But, if they're locked up nice'n tight, then maybe he is, too. If that's all there is to it." In case there was more on the score, though she nudges her shot forward more as she adds, "Gimme another one." "Reckon if they did," says the man, as he refills her glass, his expression meaningful and-- a touch afraid?-- "You'd not want to talk to them. If you value your own life, anyway-- and," abruptly, his voice is a whisper, hurried and unhappy, "don't think I don't think you can't handle yourself, but you're outnumbered, girl. Watch yourself." There is a group in a far corner watching them: five men, burly and middle-aged, and clearly well-armed. "What, they gotta issue with talkin'?" Jo doesn't seem all that afraid, anyway, taking up the refilled shot and downing it in much the same way she did the last. But then the barkeep's abrupt voice change has her leaning towards him a little more, his warning getting him a, "Well, unless they're here, darlin'...gimme another." Perhaps she can feel their eyes now, for once the words are out of her mouth, she's rubbing a hand to her neck while casting a look towards where that feeling was coming from. Her gaze flits through those five men, then any others that are in their vicinity before they're back to the barkeep. "Sounds to me like ya know more than what yer tellin'," she finally surmises now. "Warnin' me and all." She's even taking in his expression, too, her voice much lowered. The barkeep doesn't seem to want to say much more; his gaze darts towards that distant table, and then back to Jo, and he seems genuinely anxious. "Me? No. I'm just a barkeep, making my way in life. You want information, you go talk to someone else. I want to keep my skin safely on my body, and if you've a wise bone in yours, you'll do likewise." He refills her glass, and then turns to go, hurrying, as though he's just now remembered something else, terribly important, he needs to do out the back. With the whiskey bottle. At least those men haven't moved, nor anyone else... yet. That he's anxious has Jo interested. The barkeep's answer doesn't seem to surprise hr, since she's merely looking at him and not exactly trying to stop him from getting away. It's only once he's out of earshot that she states, belatedly, "And I'm just woman lookin' for her fuckin' brother." And he takes the whiskey bottle. That registers on her calm face, the look of distaste being thrown in his direction as she downs the refilled shot again. She shakes her head before turning from the counter to lean her back up against it, now casting her gaze out at all and any that could be paying her more attention than they should. The group of five are not being overt in their watchfulness: it's one at a time, if that, a glance in Jo's direction every so often. There are others, too-- even the group throwing knives at the dart board seem inclined to glance in her direction every so often. Behind her, though... is that the creak of a footstep, on the other side of the bar? With nothing else to drink - not even the barkeep to 'keep it comin'' just like she asked - Jo's leaning towards cranky at this point. She's catching the looks going her way every so often, and when she pricks on the creak of something behind her, she instinctively turns in the hopes of seeing the bartender back with that bottle waiting for her, the woman straightening up abruptly... It's not the barkeep, oh no. There's a man frozen, as if in suspended animation, clearly having stopped his progress towards Jo at the sound of that squeaky board. He has a sack in his hands, the kind that's large enough to serve as a hood, and it's half-raised. With Jo turning to find that man freezing there, all activity for Jo stops. Eyes widen to find him holding up that sack, and the woman seems to recognize what was about to happen if she hadn't heard him. "The fuck ya-" she's straightening up, the convict rider tensing up as her hand flies immediately towards one of the hilts at her side. She throws a look about her now, finding herself in an unfavorable position, about to spring into some sort of action that either involves kicking somebody's ass or getting the shells out of dodge... The man dives for her, across the bar, with the obvious intention of grappling for her, and hauling her across the bar. The sack gets dropped, and as it does? "We just want to talk, girlie. Come quiet, and we won't hurt you." The fact that she can almost certainly dodge away from his grip may or may not be for the best; it's really hard to tell at this point. What isn't hard to tell is that a few people around the room have stood up, by the sound of chairs and feet on wooden boards. It's likely, even if Jo can't actually see them, that there are weapons on hand. When that man is quick to dive, Jo swears loud something fouler than she normally uses as she slams herself back against a barstool. Knife hilt gets gripped before she pulls it free, his words hitting her as she tosses right back in her backing up from his lunge, "Oh yeah?! Well talk! We can talk fine right here!" She throws a wild look at the other patrons, but even in her haste, she can spot that some of them are on their feet with weapons like hers in their hands. Back to the man, "Whatchu want with me, huh?" she tosses back, back-kicking that stool away from her with a loud thump. "Whatchu want with that sack?" With her, presumably. He misses, but there are people approaching from behind her, now, people in shadow. It's a loose circle, hemming both of them in; there's no easy way to get out of this dark, windowless bar. The man heaves himself over the bar, having grabbed hold of his sack again, a knife now raised in the other hand. "Nice girls like you asking about bad people like them? We take an interest. Put the bag over your head. We'll talk. Then you're free to go." The way he says it, it's a simple proposition... and there's honour among thieves. Jo's hemmed up and she knows it. With the scowl on her face being aimed at those forming that loose circle, it's plain to see as much from her. She keeps the one talking in most of her view, though, since he has that sack in hand and is talking. That knife she's raised to his own is just as steady, too. "Nice?" she echoes that word as if the man had just took a swipe at her with her own knife. "Wanna start that one again, friend? I would've been nice if that damned barkeep didn' hightail it outta here with that bottle of whiskey. Guess ya good men are just stuck with the mean one, ehh?" Eyes drop to that sack, "Especially, since ya were that close to droppin' that thing over my head," she tacks on, deadpan. Still, she's eyeing that bag like it has tunnelsnakes within it, along with his words. "Where're ya takin' me?" she asks now with a hard look going his way. "Cuz, I've got friends, too, friend. Pretty nasty friends. They ain' gonna like it much should I suddenly up and vanish, ya get it?" Honour among thieves...and a deal-maker among them. The man with the bag doesn't answer except to say, "We're not going to hurt you." It's... kind of a lie, though, but only in the loose sense: from behind her, one of the others lifts the hilt of his knife and uses it to crack Jo over the head, just once. He's good at this: a good single blow that ought to render her unconscious without causing any permanent damage. "Do I look stupid?" Jo tosses back, clearly not believing that one as she backs herself up from that sack man. "Crazy, sure, but..." But she pricks up on someone making a move behind her, prompting her to fling herself away to slam her back up against the counter. It was just in time, the bluerider throwing the man in question a heavy scowl and "What the fuck was that?" Feet planted now, she's bracing and looking ready to attack. "Tell me ya wanna talk and then come at me like a bunch'o holdbred girls tryin' to steal a dress? Nah, buddy! Tell yer men to stand down and we hash this shit out. Whatcha need all them for, anyway? Ain' I just some girl?" With a knife, but she's not mentioning that, evidently. The circle is tightening. No one answers the bluerider; no one seems to care. None of them seem especially intelligent - more likely hired muscle than anyone important, but the closer they get, the more of their features she might be able to pick out. "You going to put the sack on? Or are we going to need to knock you out?" It's a simple enough question, one backed up by the presence of so many knives... and so many big, burly men. And from another: "Or maybe we shouldn't return her unharmed, if she don't come quietly. Legs like that..." "Hush. We're making a deal." Jo eyes that circle, seeming to guage where she is to the door. A glare goes to the man and his question, but it's the others that get her sharp tongue. "These legs break bones, darlin'," she returns to the one that spoke, but she resolutely turns to the man with the sack and lowers her knife. She knows when to fold, after all. Aiming her knife at him to make a point, "I go," she decides, "but make no mistake. I get attacked? I'm takin' out at least two of ya before I die. I'm a make sure yer one of them, baby. Now gimme the damn sack." "You get attacked, we deserve it," is the man with the sack's answer, as he tosses it to her. Their knives don't get put away, but there's a lowering of them: this is defensive, only, and presumably only while they wait for her to put the sack on. Jo catches the sack in midair, giving the man that tossed it a few more moments of her stare before she finally slides the knife back to her hip. Only then, with a look going to the other men around her, does she slowly tug that sack over her head - rendering her blind to the world. Damn. She makes sure that her hand strays close to her knives at her side, though, her long fingers lingering close now that she's been put on the defensive if she wasn't before. Tacuseth has been listening the whole time. Now that his precious rider is on the move without him, « the fuck, Jo, » he's sending, his wings already flexing as he prepares to be her 'man in shining armor'. « Whatcha got into now? » Jo reaches out with her mind, soothing her dragon with such sentimental words. » Can it! Don' come over here! I think I'm onto somethin'! « « Does this somethin'" involve you bein' six feet under in the next ten minutes? » the blue has to ask, since their lives are linked and all. « Cuz, I ain' down for that. So get yer ass outta there!! » » Like I'm gonna let us die, Tac. Ya know me better than that! « At least, Jo, thinks she's got it under control. Tacuseth doesn't seem wholly convinced, but at least he hasn't launched up into the air. Yet. « Ya said that the other time when that man lit the shed ya were in on fire, » he notes, the memory still fresh in his draconic mind. » Yeah, « Jo is quick to agree, » and I took care of that, didn' I? Ain' we still breathin'? « By now, the dragon would know how reckless she can be. » Look, I'm just gonna sniff these boys out a bit more and then I'll bounce. Gotta take risks to get places, right? If I get a knife to the gut for it, call out Tsanth and our people, alright? « Then her mental bond is gone. With Jo blind, it's easy for one man to grab one arm, and another to grab the other. They're not pulling her hand away from her knife, though; honestly, they don't seem to particularly care. They're rather more interested in leading her somewhere-- and it's pretty much impossible to determine where that somewhere might be, though there is a brief rush of cold air, and afterwards, a definite damp, fishy smell. Eventually, she's dropped into a chair somewhere, and only then do they tie her hands behind her back, giving her no room to pull away. The sack stays on, and a new voice-- deeper than the others, and slightly less harsh-- says, "Now. Why are you here, girly?" Blind, Jo is forced to use her other senses as she's dragged around to determine where she was being taken. She remains deadly silent the whole time, listening and sniffing the air until she finds herself being dropped into a chair with her hands being tied behind her. She struggles a bit, of course, not making it easy for them, but the unfamiliar voice has her pausing in her struggles, the sacked head turning in its direction. To that question, "Cuz ya brought me here, man," she answers archly, the frown going unseen. "Look, Kait didn' put ya up to this, did she? Is some naked, oily man's about to come out and straddle me, cuz, I told her the last time that if I end up cuttin' someone, I'm not takin' the blame." Pause. "Maybe ya can take this sack off so I can see where I am?" Such an innocent, simple suggestion. It smells like she's underground somewhere, though at no point did they go down any stairs. Curious. The man, unseen, but probably sitting somewhere behind her, laughs. "I've no idea who your 'Kait' is, and honestly, I don't give a flying fuck. Why did you come to the bar? And don't give me any more stories about missing brothers. I don't take terribly kindly to lies." A finger traces the skin at the back of her neck; a calloused finger, hard with work. "It's a brave thing, walking into a bar like that on your own, asking questions like those." Jo is silent, seeming to be listening to more than his words and tone. The echoes, maybe, if there's any? Chin lifts to his touch, the woman tossing her sacked head back - which would have been far more dramatic if it could have been seen. "Oh, that," she states, deadpan to his explanation. "What, I don' look like I have a brother? I've got many, in fact." The sack head turns a fraction as if she could see him before she adds, "All I asked about was me wantin' check ya'll out. That's assumin'," she's quick to add, "yer the ones I was even talkin' about, which, accordin' to that nice barkeep back there, are currently locked up. Seems like," and her tone is pointed now, "I've reached a dead end. Ah well." Deliberate, mechanical shrug. "As to the whys? Cuz I'm curious. Ya sack girls for bein' curious these days?" There are echoes. There's also the occasional drip-drip of water. The man's fingers wander over her bagged head, now, quite at home. Even through the bag, his breath is warm on her skin, his head held close. "Oh no, not for curiosity. For curiosity about those who walk the dark path... that, my dear, raises rather more questions. What is it you wish to know? Why do you wish to know?" He's rather better spoken than he ought to be, somehow. "I'm curious about those who walk the dark path?" There's sarcasm here, or, at least Jo seems to be playing that up to her handsy stranger. It's rhetorical, too since she continues. "Who's to say I don', either? Like attracts like, doncha hear? But really," and she shifts in her tied-to seat, "I wanna know who ya are. If yer really pirates. Who ya work for. Is that blunt enough for ya?" The smile could probably be felt in her tone. "Cuz ya know, I know folks that were there when ya attacked that boat. I get around, and I hear things. And why I wanna know?" There's a pregnant pause here, before she says, "Why do ya think?" The man laughs, and his laughter echoes through the cavern. He's moving away from her, now - his hands have abandoned her, and his breath is nowhere to be felt. Plus, there's the sound of footsteps, and somewhere, the gurgle of liquid escaping a bottle. "You have spunk, I'll give you that. Did you honestly believe someone would simply... give up secrets? Pass you information? Would you, if someone started nosing around your business?" He doesn't wait for an answer. "Why does anyone ever steal?" And then, "And, beyond that... why should they work for anyone in particular? Work for yourself. Earn for yourself. That's the way to live it." There's a splash, as though his foot has hit a patch of water. "What you really want to know is what was in that ship that was so worth stealing. And I don't know the answer to that. But I do know that I don't want anyone poking around in my business." To his laughter and comments, "I'm pretty handy with sharp objects, too," Jo drawls to her having spunk. "Would I? Of course not. I wasn' expectin' it to be easy. Ya sound far more civilized than I am," she now voices her observation through her ears, her head moving as if she could track his movements. "Yer voice. Yer tone. Holdbred?" Beat. "Folks steal for all manner of reason," she answers that one easily. "Some, it's the thrill. Don' give a shit what the item is. The harder to get, the better. Others? Cuz they have to, to survive. Sounds to me like the second option ain' needed around here, is it." But something said has her adding almost dryly, "So, stealin' from boats is yer business, then? Ya gotta go through this whole song'n dance just to tell me that? Shit, ya could've told me to back the fuck off back there in that dive. Unless ya were expectin' something' else from me." If that sack was off, her look would be pointed right at him. Perhaps the expecting silence afterwards will work in its stead. "I haven't said what my business is," says the man, though that's debatable. "I don't like people nosing around in anyone's business, not in a place like this." He's approaching her, now. His hand slides down her arm, then up the other. He's toying with her, and from the sounds of it, taking the occasional sip of her glass. "Who are you?" he says. Somewhere, there's the sound of a knife sliding out of a sheath. "If you knew people who were there, you're... Weyr? Or you knew people on that boat, in which case you know better than I what it had for cargo. Speak." There's a knife being sharpened, somewhere in the cavern. Somewhere nearby. "Of course ya didn'," Jo counters on that first, the sack head shifting as if she could hear him approaching. His questions don't get answers right away, the woman far more interested in the sounds of a knife. There's forced calm now in her tone, or, maybe she's just twisted since she states, "Aww, darlin'. About to get on that foreplay with me already? We haven' even exchanged names or anythin'." Yeah okay. She probably is a bit twisted. Then, "I don' do boats well, darlin'," she notes, finally answering on that score. "Shouldn' I be askin' you what that cargo is? As for who I am?" There's quiet laughter for that. "Who are you?" she turns back on him. "I tell. You tell." "Weyr," says the man, sounding abruptly satisfied. "Interestng, very interesting. I've already told you I don't know what the cargo was... though I would've been interested to know, if you had known." His hand is creeping over her shoulder, now, as though he rather does intend for it to go wandering into more personal places - but it stops. "If I knew something, perhaps we could make a deal. Or if you did. But it doesn't seem that way, does it? If I were you..." It's sudden: the hilt of a knife to the back of the head, enroaching blackness. "See what he does with the ones he caught." ... And then everything is black, and when Jo wakes, whether she's found by others or rescued through Tacuseth's intervention, she's a long way from where she started. Should she try to go back to that particular bar, there will be no familiar faces, not even the barkeep. As though it were a dream... except for the lump on the back of her head. Not answering to anything figured out, "Deals could still be made," Jo seems to jump on that one, her sacked head turning a fraction. "My hands reach far beyond," but she doesn't the 'Weyr'. Perhaps she doesn't have to. Perhaps there was more to say, but it doesn't get realized - there's sudden lingering blackness, catching his last words until she's out. When she wakes, her blue is there, of course, to be the sole viewer of her shame for getting the drop on. Rubbing the bump at the back of her head, "That fucker..." is all she gives to Tacuseth's major « I so told'ja so, » and now, the convict rider had another score to settle: that dive and its men and that whiskey-hoarding barkeep and that faceless man with the cultivated tone talking about cargo. She did go right back to that dive once she was able to, and she did find it completely changed - which, only infuriated her more. No amount of questioning got her the answers she wanted this time, but with a burning ego, she didn't leave the place empty handed: the information she gleaned did cost her a bump on the head. |
Comments
Comments on "Logs:Pirates Don't Like Nosy People"Azaylia (Dragonshy (talk)) left a comment on Tue, 18 Jun 2013 11:59:06 GMT.
Ha! Loved it. My favorite was Tacuseth's worry and his arguing with Jo when she agreed to put the sack on her head. It was interesting getting to see more of what our naughty bluerider gets up to when she's got the urge. ^^ The NPCs were really cool, and added a genuine flavor to the place.
Aishani (Brieli (talk)) left a comment on Wed, 19 Jun 2013 00:45:23 GMT.
I'd be pissed if I were Jo too!
Alida (Alida (talk)) left a comment on Fri, 21 Jun 2013 08:05:40 GMT.
I was thinking - as I read - Jheebuz, Jo! Alida would throttle you for letting anyone purposely put a bag on your head! Aiyeeee!
Zian (Zian (talk)) left a comment on Sat, 22 Jun 2013 02:49:54 GMT.
Alida isn't the only one who would throttle her!
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