As Portus Cruor grew steadily larger on the horizon, Emel decided to retreat to his cabin below-decks to prepare for landfall in his own way. The dark belly of
Nathair stank of blood and sweat, but such unpleasantness had no effect on Emel, who stepped through its dimly-lit holds with steady purpose. Crewmen coming and going stepped aside to give him passage, and Dark Elf calmly stepped over those crewmen that had passed out in the holds or fallen out of their hammocks. The captain's cabin in the ship's stern was marked by its door of rich, dark ebony, with images of dragons and other monsters of the sea picked out in gold leaf and tortoiseshell. The door had no lock; there wasn't a single man aboard the
Nathair stupid enough to trespass into their master's sanctum, but an unseen blood-seal warded the cabin against nosy intruders or opportunistic thieves.
As soon as his cabin's heavy door slammed shut behind him, Emel breathed deeply, taking in the scents of incense and herbs that he kept burning at all hours to ward off the odor of the ship's holds. As he exhaled, he allowed the tension to leave his body, and he realized how tired he felt. Elves did not sleep often, perhaps a night or two every week, but Emel often got by with less than that. Just as Elves did not often sleep, even less frequently did they dream, and so dreams were remarkable occasions, often rich with portent. Emel dreamt every hour of every night he slept, the Black Sword assaulting his mind with visions of annihilation. Thus, he spent most nights awake, either cloistered in his cabin or staring out over the inky blackness of the sea.
The interior of his cabin was as rich as the door leading into it; the woodwork was hand-wrought and delicately detailed, rich furs lined the floors, and Emel's many treasures and mementos lined the walls and shelves. Weapons forged by long-dead masters, the crown jewels of forgotten kingdoms, or tools of strange artifice unseen for centuries crowded his chamber, along with such mundane treasures as paintings, rare manuscripts, and other trinkets that caught the Dark Elf's fancy. There was enough treasure in one cramped cabin to buy a small kingdom, but Emel ignored these rarities in favor of what he considered even more unique and priceless: his own memoirs.
Emel perused the leather-bound volumes on his bookshelf, searching for the correct tome to suit his needs. He eventually decided to pull down three and hope he was at least roughly correct. Setting them down on his desk hewn from rare, dark wood, he gingerly set aside the current volume that had been laying open, and flipped through the first of the books he had withdrawn. The pages were penned in the delicate script of Elvish, of course, and though he forced his crew to sing in Elvish, none of them actually knew the tongue. There was probably not a soul alive that spoke the language outside of his homeland, much less one that could read its flowing characters. Not finding what he was looking for, Emel paged through the next volume in sequence, and found what he needed quickly enough.
"Portus Cruor," an entry logged nearly forty years ago. Emel leaned back in his chair as he read by lantern light, regaling in his own exploits from decades before. He wanted to refresh his own memory on this damnable port and the land beyond it before he took a single step onto its misbegotten soil. Emel found that as the decades of his exile became centuries, his memory was not as sharp as he would have liked it to be, and so kept detailed accounts of his travels and travails. His mind was as quick and clear as ever, but the years ran together for him, and he could not control what memories stayed distinct, and which ones blended into the morass of centuries. Yet another of many ways in which the power of the Black Sword was inferior to the sanctification of Ywengoch.
After a few minutes spent reading, Emel felt that he had gleaned all he was going to from his logs, and set the book aside. The Dark Elf shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. He resented the Black Sword for robbing him of restful sleep, and thought an insult at it to demonstrate his displeasure. There were no particular words or ideas expressed by this mental discharge, merely the raw emotion of scorn slung at it like a stone. The Black Sword pulsed a barb of contempt back at him without missing a beat. This was a common enough exchange between the two of them, and Emel merely sighed and rose to his feet. He rang for his steward and began to disrobe, finalizing his preparations for making port.
Emel flung his salt-stained clothes over his desk chair, and retrieved a pearl-handled ivory comb to work the tangles out of his long, snow-white hair. He sat on his down-filled, four-posted bed as he worked, staring at himself in the full-length silver mirror across the cabin from him. His flesh had barely had any more color than his comb, but as far as he knew he was still healthy and strong. He had a wiry musculature that spoke of grace, fluidity, and clean-limbed strength. However, the intricate markings on the skin of his trunk and upper limbs spoke of something else entirely. They were not tattoos, as Elvish flesh did not scar and could not retain ink, but they much resembled tattoos. The same searing crimson as his albino eyes, many lines weaving into knots and runes across his chest, shoulders and abdomen. Emel tore his eyes away from them, instead meeting his own gaze in the mirror. He didn't like looking at the markings, as he did not care to be reminded of the reason he wore them.
His steward knocked timidly on his door, and Emel bid him enter. He did, poking his gnarled head into the cabin. Emel's steward was a wretched, elderly creature; a hunch-backed, one-eyed, seven-fingered eunuch, whose tongue had been cut out long before Emel had ever met him. Emel was not given to forming attachments to members of the younger races, but he considered this single member of his crew to be nearly irreplaceable. His steward was the only member of the crew permitted to enter Emel's cabin, and his profound usefulness had earned him more than one extension of his paltry, mortal lifespan.
"
Have those laundered." Emel barked, gesturing to the clothes hanging over his chair. "
And have water boiled." The steward made a sweeping gesture with cupped hands, accompanied by a croaking noise that was the closest he could come to forming words. "
No, I haven't the time for a bath," Emel replied, after a moment's consideration. "
Enough for a pot of tea. That's all." The steward croaked again, bowing his head before departing, shutting the door behind him.
While he awaited the water for his tea, Emel dressed. He threw open the hefty wardrobe next to his mirror. It was a matching piece to his desk and bedframe, and truth be told Emel had forgotten where he had gotten them. Possibly raided from some merchant sailors or stolen from a seafront palace, he couldn't say for sure, and didn't care to read through his journals to remember. He fingered through his various accoutrements, all precisely tailored, all very fine, and all black. Emel had very specific tastes in fashion. He decided quickly enough on some silken robes that were cut just at the knee, paired with sturdy boots he preferred for rougher treks. At first he tried on a mantle of black ermine to accompany the ensemble, but changed his mind. He instead took down off its place near his bed a heavy cloak of pitch-black hide. Its exterior showed the ebon scales of the beast Emel had skinned it from, but it flowed like chainmail as he moved. His dragonskin cloak was one of Emel's most prized possessions; hard-won in a battle against an ancient serpent, and the beast's dark hide was proof against blades and spells alike. Only one sword had ever broken its skin, and he hung it at his side as he finished fastening the cloak about his shoulders.
Emel busied himself by trying on various rings and amulets that had been plundered from their last season of victims, before his steward arrived with a whistling brass kettle. He took it and ordered the man to have the first mate sent to his cabin before he left, which he affirmed in his usual fashion. Another of Emel's personal delights was his collection of exotic teas, which he found as curative to his own ails as they were to mortal men. He perused his collection, various jars of desiccated fruits and leaves, before selecting one to brew in one of his porcelain cups.
He was sat at his desk, sipping his cup and trying to relax when the loud knock of his first mate sounded at the cabin door. Emel leaned forward to open the door, which swung wide enough for his aged half-orc officer to duck down to see into the cabin. The man stood at the threshold, clearly knowing better than to enter the captain's cabin.
"
Drop anchor as far from any other ships as you can manage." Emel gave orders between sips of tea. "
I want cargo offloaded, fresh provisions, the deck waxed and the hull scraped. I can't say how long we'll be in port so make yourselves busy." He raised a slender finger in warning, staring at the much larger man with his blood-ruby eyes. "
I don't want any men leaving the ship that needn't do so. This is not shore leave."
"Yes, lord." The burly man grunted. He hesitated, before starting, "Captain, I-"
Emel cut him off with the slightest crease of his brow. "
I know the crew is testy. Keep them in line." Emel silently considered finding a replacement for his first officer while he was in Outremer. Possibly even another Orc; this was one of the few black corners of the world where they still lurked. "
Here." He said, setting down his cup and retrieving the implement slung over his bed's footboard.
He retrieved
Yongje, tossing it to his first mate. The man caught it gingerly, careful not to let its barbs touch his skin. The threat of the lash itself, combined with the obvious favor its bestowal signified would hopefully cow the crew for the time being. It had been a long time since they had last been cut loose, and Emel could feel their black desires fermenting in them like a open grave after the rain. The work Emel did on his men's minds to press them into his service sometimes carried this side-effect, the bloodthirst of the damned, but it usually was not much trouble keeping it under control. He hoped it would still not be an issue, despite their waning respect for his first mate.
The half-orc bowed and departed, and Emel pushed the door shut after him. He downed the rest of his tea, and made his final preparations. His clothes and cloak were fitted with many small, hidden pockets and other compartments, wherein he stashed various trinkets and reagents. Small blades, poison powders, various denominations of coin and currency; he had little idea of what to expect ashore, as it had been most of a mortal lifetime since he had last sailed into this port, and many things could change in that time. "Preparation was the enemy of failure," was an aphorism he had heard in some other foreign port, Emel could not remember which.
Emel felt the ship rock as the anchor dropped, and departed his cabin for the ship's deck. The hold was far busier now than it had been earlier that day, and he could hear his first mate shouting orders, punctuated by the hissing of the Agonizer. Men unloaded their cargo, the plunder of dozens of kingdoms and navies the world over. Silks, spices, curios, caged beasts from exotic lands, and men and women clasped in irons were hauled up from below decks, and Emel eyed the procession of each with the same level of interest. The sale of these goods would be more than enough to cover the costs of refitting the ship and restocking its stores, even at the cut-rate prices Emel sold them at. He didn't care much for getting the full value of his rare goods, as he had stolen them to begin with and his crew did not receive wages. He simply wanted the holds cleared for their next season of piracy.
The sound of gulls and laboring men greeted Emel once he was above decks again, and he closed his eyes once more, taking in a deep breath of salty air. When he opened them again, he was ready. His entire body was taut and filled with the anticipation of violence, like a drawn bowstring. His ruby eyes missed nothing, from the sweat rolling down a workman's back, to gull feathers drifting in the wind. He stepped down the gangplank, weaving between his men offloading their plunder, and marched down the pier toward the port's buildings.
A stillness crept into the air as Emel walked the pier, as more and more of the sailors and workmen along it took notice of him and the ship he had departed. A black ship with black sails was as ill an omen that ever sailed the sea, but the dragon-prow of
Nathair spoke of something else entirely. Some men uttered oaths and prayers at the sight of the man and his vessel, while others dropped what they were doing to stand aghast. It was likely that none had ever seen that bedeviled ship sail into their port, much less for the devil itself to walk among them. While Emel had sent no word ahead of his arrival, it would not be long before word spread to the entire port: the Black Corsair had come to Cruor.
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