Deviation Actions
Literature Text
2
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Cliff Renfield took another long pull at his beer, the icy cold drink burning the back of his throat, and then sighed. Aelwen, their financier (and spoiled Elven “princess”), had all but demanded they stop in Ferrosia for a drink, in spite of Renfield’s protests. Feeling the balmy chill soothe its way from his throat down into his lungs with a refreshing breath, he decided it wasn’t such a bad idea after all. He nodded his appreciation to Grimmel, his ship’s engineer. The Frost Dwarf grinned wide, slipping his thick gloves back on his hands. Grimmel, with his ever-present rime of ice and ability to chill anything with a touch, was always a favorite when the crew went out drinking.
His first mate, Isis, cuddled the stout engineer without a hint of shame. Not content with just cold drinks, it seemed, the sprightly girl had draped herself over Grimmel, cooling herself as the crew swapped stories. Isis was a Koress; one of the batlike people from the condemned continent of Toum (“The Tomb”, most called it), and shared her people's tendency to become lethargic in the heat. Her wings were folded up under a cloak, denying her the leisure of wearing only her normal diaphanous (some would say indecent) attire while in this port, so the Dwarf had become her accessory of choice. Grimmel, for his part, had a sort of “slushy” look to his cheeks- closest thing the fellow could come to blushing, Renfield reckoned.
Renfield didn’t much like stopping in Ferrosian ports anymore, not since… well, not since better days. He regarded right arm, his “bad arm”, as he called it, with a sullen expression. Blasted off at the elbow, he had paid to have his arm replaced with a Koress prosthetic some years ago. It was elegant, powerful, and unobtrusive, but the heavy mechanical limb was a constant reminder of why he loathed this place, his homeland. Renfield took another sip of beer as the tavern door swung open. He glanced at the newcomers and nearly choked when he saw them.
The fellow holding the door open was big; hell, big barely even did him justice. Nine feet tall at the very least and clad head to toe (from what could be seen under that mainsail of a cloak) in some of the finest armor Renfield had ever seen. Polarized crystal lenses -by themselves probably worth a small fortune- were set into the man’s helmet, in lieu of a visor, and the sheer bulk of the suit, Renfield surmised, hinted at some kind of mechanical enhancement. Very interesting, Renfield thought. But that man in front...
Well now… that man in front was even more interesting, if that was who Renfield thought it was.
Renfield tugged his hat down tighter on his head and watched them, calm as he could over the rim of his flagon. The Old Man exchanged a few words with the publican, who gestured to the center of the room. The Old Man nodded his thanks and walked to the center. He stifled a loud cough, gathering the patrons’ attention.
“Ahem,” The Old Man began. “We are seeking a ship and an enterprising crew for a voyage of adventure and exploration. The pay is…” He looked around at the gathered crowd over the rims of his glasses, pausing for effect, “Substantial. Are there any takers?”
Renfield leaned back against the booth, taking an inconspicuous swig of his drink. He looked to Isis with intent until she glanced over at him. “We’re taking this one.” He said.
Isis blinked and roused herself, tousling Grimmel’s frigid mane of hair with affection. She tossed an uncertain look over her shoulder at the Old Man and then looked back to Renfield. “Cliff, are you sure?”
Renfield gave a hint of a nod, “Yeah, I’m sure, and I think we can milk this one for every crown.”
Isis raised an eyebrow and then a sly smile washed over her face. “Gotcha.” She leaned to the center of the table and whispered, “Alright, you lot. The Captain says we take it, so we take it.”
“Aye.” They whispered back in unison.
Isis nodded to Aelwen and then to Chaelim, the ship’s sawbones. “You two, go and persuade the other captains in port not to touch this one.”
Chaelim grinned and Aelwen gave a curt nod as the pair slinked out of their seats and exited via the dockside entrance. Isis swirled her drink and leaned down next to Renfield, her lips brushing his ear as she got close to whisper.
“So, you got a good feeling?” She asked, her excitement bubbling over.
Renfield looked down into his drink, pensive, “Can’t say it’s good exactly…” He replied, looking over at the Old Man, certain now that it was who he thought. “But definitely more than a feeling.”
The Old Man looked around the room; book clutched in one hand, walking stick in the other, and spread his arms wide. “So, no takers, then…?”
Renfield pounded his flagon on the table as he stood up. The Old Man looked at him, hopeful.
“Forget it, old timer! Nobody’s going to buy that line; not around these parts, anyway.” Renfield said for everyone to hear.
The Old Man arched an eyebrow, “Oh no…?”
Renfield strode up to him, taking center stage, and went on. “Not a chance! Everyone’s scared, and rightly so. There’re pirates, Rift-Riders, Spirit Beasts and worse out there.”
The Armored Man stepped forward, towering over Renfield. “Worse? Like what?” He asked. He sounded more curious than confident, Renfield thought.
Isis’ small hand found Renfield’s shoulder and she stepped past him, letting her cloak fall to the floor. Her wings swept upward, the delicate looking mechanical struts glinting in the pub’s dim light. As the digits of the wings unfurled, the fleshy membrane between each caught the light of a nearby lamp and lit up, glowing like an oiled paper lantern.
Isis smiled, delighted to be rid of the burdensome garment, “Like me, or so they say.”
The pub goers’ whistles of appreciation at Isis’ display of bare skin were cut silent by a harsh growl from the Armored Man.
“Godless.” he said, like it was a curse.
