The journal of Sabre Seesaw
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I hate this town, I really do. I'm sitting in a quiet corner of the Boardshead inn writing this, my hood pulled way down over my head and my neck hurting like hell. That drunken dwarf had better not approach me again, or I'll stick a knife in his fat belly…and that dim-looking barbarian can just forget about coming my way, I'm -not- in the mood.
I'm never in the mood, in Norwick. This frozen cowpat of a town seems to have a decidedly detrimental effect on my lovelife so far, apart from the general gloominess of the place. The rumours of us moving base to Norwick had better not be true, but there is a sinking feeling in my gut that says otherwise. Too much whispering between Deacon and Milshot, too much training suddenly located to the Rawlins for me to feel at ease. Gah, Norwick! Norwick where it rains and snows all at once, Norwick, where the woods are crawling with goblins and worse, Norwick, home of the brute and the sour. Please not Norwick.
My un-love affair with this place must have begun with the termites... There was me, Drelan, Mercy and Grak. We'd been scouring the forest, looking to scrape together some coin and especially looking for goblin grenades for a scheme Mercy's cooked up. Things had been going unusually well, with me not getting beat up by the stinking greenskins quite as badly as I tend to and Grak taking a satisfying number of hits instead. We were leaving the forest, packs bulging and spirits high, Mercy cheerily chopping her axe into the nearest living thing she found along the way. Unfortunately, what she found was a termite mound...
The salty wench proceeded to chop the top off the mound and then deftly stuffed the insect-ridden thing down my backside! Words cannot describe the horror and torment of feeling angry ants crawling, biting and stinging places where no ant has any business being. I screamed like a banshee and headed for the nearest stream of icy water, Mercy and Grak cracking up with mirth behind me. Drelan remained as stoic as ever, though I could have sworn I saw the corners of his mouth twitch upwards, if only for a second. The termites were properly drowned (a small offering to Umberlee, curtesy of her loyal priestess Mercy), but the pain was crippling. I could barely walk, and no one seemed overly keen on carrying me up to Peltarch.
In the end, Drelan of all people had to tend to my sore backside. No way in hell was Grak going to get to lay his grubby hands on me, and Mercy I was still livid at. So it had to be Drelan. He escorted me to a room at the inn, had me drop my britches and and then rubbed some cooling ointment over my back and rear. Of course he treated me in manner both gentlemanly and professional, but then he's Drelan. That man has a strange way of making me feel like a such child sometimes. Ogling and leering would somehow have made the situation more familiar and less humiliating. My embarrassement seemed to puzzle him, especially as I'd previously been generous enough to offer him practical lessons in the art of seduction, stressing that my nude classes were particularily instructive. All to better help him with his frosty girlfriend, of course. I have no plans to snare Drelan, none at all, but if I did wish him to see those sides of me, I'd prefer them to look less red and swollen...
We managed to get back up to the city, with some considerable soreness on my part. I had made plans to see Aarron that evening, but in the state I was in, there was little point in it. I couldn't sit, let alone have tea. I ran into him at the Commons, but somehow I couldn't quite bring myself to cancel our meeting. He just looked so good, so un-Norwickian that I invited him along to the bath house, where I planned to soak for the next hours. I'd predicted that he'd laugh at me, and he did...a lot..but what I'd forgotten was that he does in fact have some useful skills. He's actually a cleric and not just a spoiled nobleman. Aarron healed my mauled behind right there in the bath house, using a very hands-on approach and smiling benignly to the gawking onlookers. An act of simple charity; it is a cleric's duty to heal, he claimed. Apparantly it was quite a severe injury, as his hands lingered for a considerable time.
That time the Norwick effect was just a temporary setback. This time was far worse and recovery will take at least a month. Bloody bugbears, and bloody stupid so-called defenders! I remember the bugbear rushing at me, huge axe swinging. I remember hanging from that huge, hairy hand, I remember his coarse, barking order: Stop firering or I'll break her neck! Then the world went dark.
I woke up at the friar's feeling strangely limp and crumpled, like a rag doll tossed aside by an angry child. "Don't move", someone said, K'yaria I think it was. "Don't move, don't talk Sabre", the voice continued. "You'll be alright..." Then there were hushed whispers, anxious tones discussing something. Deacon's voice, ordering someone called Nyda in, Paci leaning down over me with thinly veiled concern, promising a lollipop as soon as I felt better. I just lay there, feeling strangely distant and somehow angry that they should see me so weak and helpless, especially Deacon.
A blonde, beautiful woman kneeled beside me, firm and sure hands gripping my neck. Blinding pain, then the world slowly shifted back into focus. The crew were all standing around me, looking worried, like they really cared about me almost. "Gimme that damn lollipop already Paci", I grumbled, watching the relief spread on the faces of my crewmates.
Nyda has ordered no training, no lifting, no strenuous activities of any kind in fact...meaning no tea or rum either. I'm convalescing, and I'm bored out of my mind. As soon as I feel up to it, I'm off to Peltarch to at least share my misery with a less dreary crowd.
-
I met a stranger in today, someone startlingly familiar yet alien to me. She was thin and small in stature, yet appeared curvacious thanks to the cunning cut of the shimmering silver and blue dress she was wearing. A beautiful woman, her expression haughty and confident, her posture elegant, one hand delicately placed on a nobleman's arm. Something jarred suddenly, something about that hand…calloused, sinewy, a worker's hand. Blue-green eyes, raven hair, golden studs and hoops decorating her face...the woman was me, but she was a stranger.
"You can go by the name Lady Sabina", Aarron whispered to me. "I'll introduce you to the right circles, teach you how to move, act, think like a noble. By the time I'm done with you, I bet not even your crewmates will recognize you. We can fool them all Sabre, Peltarch society and Sails alike. Manipulation and deception, my dear, that's what politics are all about."
I stared at the lady in the mirror, saying nothing. Aarron had dragged me off to the seamstress without saying a word as to the purpose of the visit until we arrived. I tried half-heartedly to back out, but frankly I was too curious about the result to put any real effort into it. "Oh, you have no choice, my dear", said Aarron in that infuriatingly arrogant tone that makes half of me want to kick him in the privates, and half of me want to do much more enjoyable things to that same area.
Could I be this person, did I want to be her? I looked long and hard at the stranger infront of me. If I did choose this, it was certainly not for Aarron's sake, or for the reasons he outlined for me. Power, he said, ambition, bettering yourself, reaching higher then your station... I want none of those things, and I will certainly not change myself to please anyone but me. I'm simply curious to know, is there a Lady Sabina in me?
I've kept the dress, hidden away at the bottom of my pack. Ironically, as soon as I changed back into my sailor's garb, Aarron's mind was suddenly on whole other topics than courtly behaviour.
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It seems I'm off the hook. I've spoken to Deacon, or rather, he taunted me mercilessly about tea-drinking, but there seems to be no more repercussions than that for now. I can't really tell if he was upset or not - perhaps there was a certain sharpness in his jokes, but I might as well be imagining things. He never actually ordered me to stop my little fling, just warned me to caution, filling me in on the history of rivalry between the Sails and the Seafarers, between the Ashald family and himself.
According to Deacon, this is far from the first time an Ashald has taken a keen interest in the female members of the crew. I wonder, should I feel upset, cheated or used, hearing Aarron may have had ulterior motives for sleeping with me? I've given the matter some thought, and decided that I don't really give a rat's arse. I'm not a bloody victim, I got exactly what I wanted out of our tea time. I should stay away in future though…I should.
I was never very good at shoulds, musts or ought to's. I bumped into Aarron a few days ago, and things very rapidly turned torrid. He snuck me into the Seafarer's guild, to his private room there. I recall we had words... I know he talked about his family, about ambition and expectations. He talked on and on while I made a pretence of listening, but all the while, all I could think of was how disturbingly neat and perfect he looked, and all the possible and enjoyable ways in which to ruin that perfection. As Aarron's mind is significantly less clean-cut than his looks, he soon caught on to what I wasn't saying.
Fascinating, that difference between proper outwards appearance and the things that man says and does to me. Fascinating also how soft his hands are, the clean fragrance of him and how he manages to be so sharp and so utterly stupidly arrogant all at once. I guess that's nobility for you. Reversely, Aarron seems fascinated with the seedier side of the block - the brash, gritty, salty sailor side of me. I suppose I count as forbidden fruit to a man like him, and therein lies the attraction. I'm quite sure that it isn't my great beauty and culturered manners that enticed him, just as it wasn't his warm and caring nature that captured my attention. Aarron fits perfectly into my no-nice guy policy. Come to think of it, I don't even like him, but the tea...oh, the tea is hot.
-
The third degree and other side-effects of tea consumtion
Fark.
Dammit.
Sod.
Crap.
Farkfarkfarkfarkfarkfarkfark, bleeding hells and sodding feck!
Drelan pulled me aside earlier today for a private talk, concerning my "tea" with a certain Senator, who apparantly belongs to a family and an organization considered as our competition, and as old enemies of Deacon himself in particular….fark.
How Drelan found out I don't know, I can only assume the crew onboard Aarron's ship gossiped like bloody fish-mongerers. Word is they only -just- returned to Peltarch, I guess like most sailors they hit the inns the first thing they did and talked their stinking little gutter-mouths off. How matters little though, the fact remains that I had to explain my own, very -private- affairs to the Lieutenant, trying to assure him that they are just that, private.
Oh, I've been interrogated before, scolded and shouted at, even beaten up on more than one occasion, but this...this was worse. There's just something about Drelan, something about that piercing blue gaze and that seemingly infinite calmness that is very unnerving and made me feel about five years old again, caught with my hand in the cookie jar. The fact that I was telling the actual truth didn't matter, I still felt like a guilty child, and I'm not entirely sure I convinced him of my sincerity. He finished the talk with the rather omnious words "the captain knows"... fark, just fark.
Afterwards I sat on a bench outside the Inn, feeling like all the wind had been knocked out of my sails, when Drelan, damn that man, comes and sits down next to me and tries to cheer me up! He was so nice that I couldn't even be angry at him anymore, so nice that I abandoned the treacherous thoughts I'd been consoling myself with, so nice that I seriously considered skipping out on future tea times...but we'll see about that last part. He asked me why I was so upset, and I told him it's because I treasure what little privacy I have. That's true enough in its own way, but the real truth is that I hate how small I felt and how easily my confidence crumbled. I hate how someone can still have that effect on me, hate that I'm not stronger than that, hate... no, I don't hate him, not Aarron either (who undoubtedly knew -exactly- what he was doing), just hate myself and my disgustingly weak nature.
The captain knows...the words still ring in my ears, though I've padded my senses with enough alcohol to stun an oxe. Perhaps it won't be so bad - it's not like I've been crew long enough to know any secrets worth telling, and I rather doubt that Deacon is the type of man who is possessive of his bedmates. But then again, he's unpredictable and often hard to read. He told me this about the bard fellow Elor, who tends to cling to me like a household cat at times, mistaking me for someone who would actually feed and care for him: "Either you kill him or I will." There might be a story behind that statement that I'm unfamiliar with, or he was just yanking my chain again, but still...can't say I'm not dreading having that talk with Deacon.
One might think that after all this, I'd have some serious regrets about that tea, but I don't. Even if I'd known all the facts beforehand, I'd still have done the same thing, just a bit more discreetly. I'm itching to see Aarron again but perhaps it might be wise to wait until I hear what the captain has to say...but meh, since when have I been wise? I'm bloody dying for a cup of tea.
-
Another night, another ship, another lover. This one was no other than a Peltarchian senator and nobleman by the name of Aarron Ashald. I met him yesterday in the commons, and being bored, I struck up a conversation. He looked handsome, very neat and well-groomed, his armour so immaculate and shining that I just had to ask him if he was a paladin (shiny armour being a key to proper paladining according to Caling). That seemed to amuse him endlessly, and from there we started chatting about Peltarch, about shipping and sailors, about the art of blushing and about many different things, but really it was all about ending up where we are now. He stressed his family's wealth and riches, his fondness for the ocean and for the seafaring folks on it, and finally he invited me over to his ship for tea, as he called it. He is an incredibly arrogant man, but I reckon he's both good-looking, clever and rich enough to get away with it more often than not.
As my crewmates arrived, he invited himself along shamelessly on our journey south to Norwick, first gifting me with a rather mean-looking bow. Throughout our trip, I could feel his eyes on me, watching, lusting, wanting…and upon our return to the city he repeated his invitation for tea, adding (somewhat superfluously) that there was no -actual- tea involved in the offer. I accepted for a number of reasons - he's rich and influential, which might come in handy in the future, and his wit and arrogance amuses me. Also there was the sheer curiosity of sleeping with a nobleman, and yes, there was quite simply an attraction between us that was hard to resist.
Aarron was sleeping soundly when I snuck out of his quarters, looking significantly less tidy than when we first met. His hair was in a state of disarray, his lower lip swollen where I'd bit it and there were quite a few lovemarks scattered over his naked body. It would seem tea-drinking is a far less civilized past-time than you'd think, but I for one enjoyed it immensly. Whether or not we decide to brew a second pot remains to be seen, but I would have no objections to a refill. For now though, he's off on a trip on the Ice Lake and I'll revert back to my familiar pirate rum.
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I need more rum. I've finished a whole bottle by myself, and still my nerves are twitching all over the place. Today's training revealed something about myself that I didn't know, something I'd just as soon not know actually: I really, -really- don't like spiders…
I made my way down to a place called the Gypsy Camp with Mark, hearing rumours of a possibly profitable mission of sorts for a woman living there. The camp itself wasn't a bad place, lively and pleasantly chaotic, if a bit too rural for my taste. Of course, the rumours of drow attacks and that sudden inpenetrable darkness that fell over us had me a little shaken, but still that was nothing compared to what was to follow...
The woman, Tala I think her name was, told us to go out into the forest and collect some spider parts for a concoction she was brewing. Kinda gross, I thought, but hey, she said there would be a reward and I foolishly thought it couldn't be that bad. Sure, spiders give me the creeps with those long, far too many legs, but they're only small critters, quite easily squished...I was so wrong...damn, I need more rum.
We headed out, spirits high, into a seemingly quiet part of the woods. I was strolling along on Mark's heel, when I suddenly heard a rustling in the canopy above and then...then...then this farking -huge- spider -leaps- down from the tree and chitters menacingly, all them hairy legs twitching, giant, poison-dripping jaw snapping at me! I swear that thing was big enough for a grown man to ride on, and I totally panicked when it hit the ground. Mark made short work of it though, and then....guts the disgusting thing, acting all cool and calm about it. I'd have legged it out of there in no time if it hadn't been for him and his confident attitude, and the sure knowledge that he would tease me endlessly if I chickened out. As things stood, I trailed along with my heart pounding in my ears, firing my bow at anything that moved as the woods got thicker and the spiders bigger and badder. Only some stubborn, slim sliver of dignity kept me from latching onto Mark's back and just closing my eyes until it was all over.
Somehow I made it out without soiling me britches, and with hardly a scratch on me from standing as far from the fighting as possible. Tala then brewed this nasty looking, thick stuff that reeked like poison, but is supposedly a strengthening tonic. We each got a sample of the stuff, though I can't say I'm eager to try it. Better than that, I was given a bottle of some -very- strong booze...I probably looked like I needed it. That stuff's strong enough to put hairs on your chest, someone said, and of course I had to try it.
It did have a real punch, but careful study of my chest revealed no hairs afterwards. Mark helped look, kind, considerate man that he is. The findings seemed quite to his liking too, and I couldn't help but feeling that small thud of desire again. I think my no-nice guy policy is safe though, he seems far too loyal to his girlfriend to ever actually get in the sack with me. So we flirt and tease each other, and I pretend to be all hurt when he (predictably) rejects me. He is nice though, in fact so nice that if he didn't have a girl already I'd have to avoid his company to maintain my sensible new policy concerning bedmates.
I'll stop rambling now and get back to drinking myself into a stupor, so that I can finally get some sleep.
-
Peltarch by night. I'm sitting on the deck of Deacon's ship, a small lantern giving me just enough light to write by. The night is cool but not cold, the breeze pleasant against my skin. Around me in the distance are all the typical ingredients of a dock-side soundscape: loud, drunken singing, glass breaking, seagulls screeching and the occasional muffled scream of of someone who walked into the wrong alley. Nearby it is largely quiet, there is hardly a soul onboard apart from the captain and myself. He's in his quarters, probably still sleeping or plotting another way to take over the world.
I had counted on him being impatient and demanding, and I was right. Rusty as I am, I had to struggle just to keep up. He's not a bad lover though, experienced, resourceful and quite intense. I think I've just rediscovered muscles I forgot ever existed, as if I wasn't sore enough from running up and down the nars pass…but I feel good, calm as I've not felt for a long time now.
I'm fitting in nicely with the crew too, even made a little progress with my training. Corana, the high priestess of Umberlee took a few of us all out into the kobold-infested caves nearby to kill and plunder to our hearts delight. She's an imposing woman, cool to the point of icy, but nontheless quite concerned about the well-being of the crew. Her fellow priestesses are K'yaria, Mercy and Taria, all in all some of the meanest and loveliest Umberleans around.
K'y may come across as being cold like Corana, but has a wicked sense of humour and is a joy to watch around men. The way she toys with their minds and manipulates them makes me feel positively harmless in comparison. She's a real gem, hopefully a friend in the making as she's new just like myself. Taria is as yet an enigma, enthusiastic, bubbly and sweet, but will happily slaughter any unfortunate wildlife that crosses her path.
Mercy....ah, where to start regarding Mercy? She's a dwarven sailor, and that's about the least unusual fact about her. I've been around sailors all my life, but I don't think I've ever come across anyone ruder, lewder, cruder, more unintelligable or with a more questionable attitude to personal hygien. Yet somehow, inexplicably, I can't help but love such a character. Life is never dull with Mercy around. Painful yes, when she gets it into her head to jab my arse with her trident for reasons unknown, but never dull.
The breeze is picking up, I think it's time to call it a night and go warm my hands on the nearest part of my captain's anatomy.
-
My life is getting busy, I haven't touched this journal in quite a while now. At long last I have a moment to myself, sitting in this hovel of a so-called town known as Jiyyd. Just me, my bottle of rum and this journal…and that doughy farmer in the corner can just forget about eye-balling me with such hope, it aint gonna happen.
I've met most of the crew by now, been given some starting equipment and travelled pretty much all over the region...by foot. My feet are sore, my legs, my back...damn, and Deacon would have me running everywhere too, the mean bastard. Builds stamina he claims, but really he's just too impatient to ever wait for anyone. I can't help but wonder if he's impatient in bed too, though I suspect I'll soon find out. We flirted outrageously enough to make a hardened, scar-faced warrior blush like a school-girl just the other day, and I am now invited to spend my nights at Deacon's ship, to enjoy the "rocking and rolling motions" as it were.
My role in the crew will be smuggling, Deacon's suggested. This suits me fine, although it means I need to learn a lot more of the local trade-market first. To aid me is a fellow new recruit called Caling, a pretty elven lass with a wit as sharp as her rapier. She's quite a character, weaving tales wherever she goes and even creating a persona for herself as a paladin of Sune. I've been teaching her whatever skill I have at swordsplay, though which one of us is worse at it I can't tell.
Next in line from Deacon is Drelan, his right hand man and the classic type for a first mate. Calm, practical and reliable, whereas Deacon is more the visionary type. Drelan strikes me as hard, but fair, and has these eyes that seem to see right through people. Not the sort of man you'd ever want to mess with, for sure...but he's more than passably attractive. Damn my weakness for red hair...
Luckily there is another redhead that seems a safer target to persue, namely a burly type called Mavado. He's head of the Church Guard, and is quite an excellent man to hide behind in a scuffle, unless his fine rear distracts me from the fight that is. Mavado is a good sport, a mean fighter and surprisingly also a rather excellent cook. Gurt, a big and bald half-orc is another great chef, and is quite the sweet-heart. He has these shockingly pink, tight pant that he calls Hot Pant, apparantly a real danger to other orcs as it makes them hot to the point of bursting into flames.
Another sweet one is Mark, an annoyingly cute crossbowman and strangely also a Defender up in the city. How he ended up with us seedier types is anyone's guess, he seems an actually decent man though he has a fair bit of sass at times. He's engaged to another Sail, a pretty and slightly unbalanced blonde called Celina. I'd better keep my hands to myself, or I might lose them...but Mark has that boyish charm that is hard to resist at times.
I've made a promise to myself though, to steer clear of the nice and decent men around me and stick to the ones as corrupted emotionally as me. It seems safer all around, no feelings hurt and no need for guilt to seep into the fun of it. Besides, I can't take the risk of actually liking a man I'm about to sleep with too much - I can't be sure that my heart is dead and buried altogether. The last thing I need is another mess like the one I left behind me a year ago.
Hm, more crew...there is Fedar, a shifty-eyed hin who leads the more sneaky part of the crew, there is Grano, a sharp-tongued sarcastic mage, then there is Paci, a daring and sort of dashing militia man of Norwick. Grak is a fat half-orc who seems especially gifted at pissing off every single woman in the Nars region, including our own crew. I guess being called female doesn't strike me as much of an insult really, but I sense we're about to clash sooner or later. Hawk is a quiet type, observing and saying little, but seems to have a good eye for me.
The priestesses of Umberlee are a chapter in themselves, and will have to wait for another day, as my bottle is empty and my eyes weary.
//bound to have forgotten some crewmembers, it's a little hard to keep track of who Sabre met in the beginning and who turned up later on, but bear with me, you will all get a mention eventually
-
//::demands more, with certain dwarf sailors featuring!::
-
I'm in. The captain's last words to me were "ye'd look good in black and gold". I'm to meet the rest of the crew the day after tomorrow, in a little village further south called Jiyyd. Deacon Sterr…he looked so smug as we parted, thinking he was the one to recruit me, just as he'll no doubt think he's the one who seduced me when I sleep with him...and I'm going to, I'm sure of it already.
He's no fool though, and his questions had me rattled more than once during our verbal jousting this evening. He was testing me, challenging me, and yes, flirting with me also. At first I was nervous, intent only on keeping my charade up, but then...something about that pirate grin, the flash of interest in his eyes and possibly the very strong rum we had egged me on. I felt a sudden lurch in the pit of my stomach, like a frozen lump melting, unfurling, a small beast waking up and arching its back. I flirted right back and watched that grin spread all across his face. I decided there and then, one year of celibacy will be more than enough for this sailor. The little beast inside will have her fill after being starved for so long. I feel fit for fight again, finally.
-
Found myself in idle flirtation with a nobleman down on his luck today, sitting in the Peltarch Commons. I'm admittedly rusty at seduction, but it seems I haven't lost my touch altogether - I had the man's moustasche curling decidely upwards without much effort on my part. That small affirmation aside, the days are dreary and uneventful. I seem to spend most daylight hours running menial errands for the Seafarers Guild and have even dared the kobold-infested foothills once or twice to try to scrape two coins together. My nights are spent here at the Ferret, drinking and scouting out the local riffraff for possible job opportunities. I need something suitable to my particular talents…and I think I've found just the thing.
Captain Deacon Sterr - the name is frequently mentioned at the Ferret and indeed all around the docks. Pirate, smuggler, ruthless killer, ladies man - these are just a few of the things I've heard about the man who is undoubtedly -the- man to talk to regarding any kind of profitable career in shipping. I've seen him at the Ferret a few times now, always surrounded by his black and golden-clad crew known as the Black Sails. He is an attractive man in his own way, older but with a rogueish charm and a certain sense of flair befitting a pirate captain. If my self-confidence wasn't still less than solid, I'd have walked over and charmed my way into his good graces days ago, but as it is I've concocted a different strategy. He has a son, one that I've even met briefly once or twice in port. I'll spin a tale about working for said offspring - hopefully this'll be enough to get me some kind of employment.
Aha, time to put my journal to rest, here he comes now. Wonder of wonders, he is alone...and he's heading my way.
-
Chaos…smoke covers the Docks district, warehouses are burning, people screaming, crying, dying...
The ghouls have laid waste to the harbour and my ship is nothing but ashes and smoking debris. Most of the crew are dead. Not that I'm all that heartbroken over that rabble of drunkards and knuckleheads, but I had pay to collect that I aint never gonna see hide nor hair of.
I stay away from the Docks for now, the stench and the misery are hard to bear, even more so the sad sight of burning ships. Instead I've rented the cheapest room I could find in the Commerce district. Here I'll try to start my life anew. I've just dressed up in my brand new suit. There's a small, cracked mirror on the nightstand, perhaps it's time to give Sabre Seesaw a once over before I head out.
I stare into that damned mirror for what seems like an eternity.
I used to consider myself attractive enough at one point, before what little heart I ever had was stomped on, before....no, that is in the past, another's past, those are not Sabre's memorys and hurts. Suddenly I catch a glimpse of my mother in my reflection - beautiful, dazzling, ruthless and manipulative. I'll never be half the woman she was, truthfully I don't even want to be, but the image gives me strenght somehow.
Ready or not, here I go.
