- Markshire PCs:
“Well, Sun, this where we part ways then?” It was the first time Thrakh had addressed her by that name, and she tilted her head curiously at him, then nodded. Thrakh, watching the unloading of the ship onto Malkir’s wharf, was oblivious to her curiosity, but assumed her assent from the small bag of possessions she carried. “Ratsnuh’s given ye some rations, I’m sure, probly a dirk, too.”
He turned and looked at her, considering. “Ye won’t want to stay ’ere in Malkir—it’s a pit, filled with lowlife proper bastards like them.” He pointed to two of the stevedores on the dock, who had dropped the cask of almonds they carried and now faced each other with knives drawn. He shrugged, shaking his head as the two began to circle. “No place for a nice, softspoken lass with no meat on ’er bones.”
“Damn right, Cap’n.”
Thrakh turned to look for Nils, stifling the curses he was preparing for the drunken ex-acolyte when he noticed the wide grin on the girl’s face. He barked softly.
“Well….Marco’ll take ye to the caravans. After that…hmmm. Remember that second map—one we’re on now?” She nodded, and he went on. “I know a few folk ’ere—sometimes we winter here and travel a bit. Only one on that whole map I trust though—chum o’ mine in fact from when I was a wee Thrakh.”
While the captain paused a moment with his memories, Sun-Ok tried to picture him as a small half-orc child. She failed, and Thrakh continued.
“Name’s Drelka—Cap’n Mahal to you—loves the water like me, but ’as a stomach like you. Decided to stay ’ere after we made the Crossing, runs a riverboat now up north. Sent word to ’im, he’ll be waiting for you in Starcroft. He’ll set ye right up in Markshire. Er—don’t mention ’is stomach—probly rip yer ’ead clean off.”
She digested this, then nodded.
“Well, off with ye then, lass.” He turned to look around the ship. “Canvas is in good shape—pity.” This last he seemed to say to himself, so she simply nodded again and turned to leave the ship. Marco, broadsword at his hip, joined her at the gangplank, and they joined the steady procession of almond-filled barrels being rolled ashore.
“Marco,” Thrakh called as they stepped onto the wharf. “After the caravan, see if ye can find any hands to hire, ’specially helmsmen—we’re short. Not much to pick from ’ere, but do what ye can. And see if ye can get a store o’ purple thread delivered—we’ve a new tradition to keep up.”