Buccaneer's and Blades: A Tale of Cutthroats and Cutlasses
The thick blanket of rain pummeled the now dispersing streets of Seacliffe, the Faire of Storms ironically being silenced by the rough weather. Some of the more hardy partiers still mingled and rutted in the streets and alcoves however, even as the thunder rolled and the lightning began to arc. But not you and yours. The crashing of the enraged waves and the storm's roar would turn suddenly faint once within the Knife's Edge, the mot cutthroat Tavern of SeaCliff's Dock section.
Within, merchants sat with figures hooded and cloaked in the corner while muscled and hard men arm wrestled, testing one another's mettle. Buxom barmaids overseen by a paunchy and leering barkeep served the patrons, and the festival goers that fled within still staggered and sang with revelry, looking for further debauchery to reap while they still had their relative wits about them. However, none of these characters fit the rumors that had reached your ears. None of them stood out so much as the calm and collected, and very dangerous rogue that sat center table near the back of the tavern proper, lamps framing the table with wafting flames within as men lined up to speak to him.
He was handsome to be sure, with an easy smile and a lean but fit form, wrapped in a fashionable frock coat and leather breeches, sword at his hip. His left ear had a golden stud, and his fingers were bejeweled, drawing the gazes of those around. They were nearly as attractive as his own dark eyes, his well groomed but wavy brown hair tied at the back. He had the look of a young, adventurous lordling, the man's fine chin fit his mischievous and charismatic smile well.
Beside him stood three figures.
The closest and more curious figure was a squat but overly muscled Dwarf. His straw colored beard reached his belt, past his bare chest, mirrored by the massive mohawk of hair that lifted above his head like a backwards shark fin. He had a mug of beer in his ham sized fist, and oddly enough his other fist seemed to be missing. Halfway down his right forearm, the arm ended in a studded bronze cap, with a curious mechanism at the end, as if the Dwarf would screw things onto it. He had a crazed glint to his eyes, and his bare chest was covered in Dwarven woad tattoos, and four pistols were strapped there was well.
The next member of the group was covered in similar tattoos, though the structured Dwarven runes were replaced by the flowing script of Kaelic Elvish, which suited him. If he wasn't pure Elf, he had plenty of Fey blood in him. With eyes blue like the sea and unkempt red hair, he had on a wide grin that showed his teeth. A hand axe and a wicked dirk was tied to his sash belt. Stocky for an Elf, though still very lithe and fit compared to most men, he seemed to be in high spirits this night.
Off to the side was a foreigner, not the tallest man, perhaps a few inches shy of six feet. His eyes were fierce and his long black hair was tied in a rough ponytail. A brown vest and hakama trousers covered his toned musculature. His skin was sun tanned and riddled with faded scars, and a ronin-style sword was strapped to his hip. It was plain to see he wasn't much of a talker.
The Elf and foreigner stood while the central, noble-looking chap lounged on a chair and calmly told a ruffian trying to sign up that he wasn't needed for this venture. The Dwarf sat next to the man, sipping his beer while muttering at how watery and bad human beverages were, scanning an old map as he did it.
"Next," the handsome man asked, waving forward the next in line and raising his brow to gauge who strode forward. "Tell me friend, what's your story?"
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