"Well, shit..." Wes muttered as he stood on the crooked wooden pier, noticing the evident slant that had occurred during the destruction of the town. He wasn't there to mourn a dock, though. Wes came to see the remains of the Vieja Perra. Like a lot of the other boats that inhabited the harbor of Sintra, it was destroyed. The sails were burned, the mast smashed to pieces, the deck torn up by the gouging claws of some great and wicked beast.
It wasn't a pretty sight, not in the slightest. While others mourned the deaths of family, friends, and the people of the town, Wes only really felt sadness for the boat. It had been a good ship and kept him dry on the seven seas. Or maybe he was mourning the Captain of said ship, one signor Francesco degli Bortoletto. The two of them hadn't gotten along very well, but at least they respected each other. It was the crew Wes disliked. Bunch of lazy-ass puta madre who left all of the work to him and drank up all the good beer.
On their journey to Sintra, they had picked up a shipment of Germanic bier and Francesco had been kind enough to give a small cask to the crew. Of course, when Wes had settled down later that night, the blokes had drunk all of it while Wes had been working hard. If there was one thing he cared about, it was booze. Let's just say things got a little rough and several people ended up receiving broken arms and busted skulls, in an unrelated accident that totally wasn't Wes simply beating the shit out of them. So, the captain being the captain he was, had to kick Wes off the boat.
Either way, that morning, Wes had found the charred up corpse of signor Francesco. Tried to run to the docks to save his ship, but had been caught in the hell fire that swept over the town. The only reason Wes knew it was him was by the simple bronze cross that marked his faith. Said corpse lay several meters behind Wes as he stared out to the sea, simply watching the gulls swoop in the updrafts of the salty wind.
At least he had something to look forwards to. Wes had been in the middle of the town while the meeting had taken place, listening intently to their message. They had lied about the dragon of course. It wasn't no divine fate, or message from God. It had been a winged reptile swooping down to consume their livestock and take their gold. The one glimpse Wes had stolen was surprisingly similar to the strange beasts he had seen once while in a bazaar in the city of Barcelona. Those Dragon de Komodo were only lizards, but they still were large, easily three meters in length and weighing around ten stone.
This wasn't no lizard they were dealing with.
Wes found himself later on the deck of The Burned Bitch, staring out onto the horizon and listening to the beautiful voice singing, "O Maria, me." He knew the song well, no sailor worth his spit wouldn't know it. A classic like O Maria wasn't to be trifled with. Either way, Wes had quickly found a good position on the boat with the laborers who carried the supplies needed for their 'mission' aboard. It was simple work, and he enjoyed simple work, it required no thought and his bulk was more than up the task that was at hand.
Though, once work had been done and they had set sail, Wes found himself without a job. Too many riggers, too many deckers, too many people in general. It was damn crowded aboard the ship, and they had not enough work. At least the food and ale was good. He had to admit that Portuguese cuisine was damn fine in its own respect. Their wine wasn't half bad either, but it still didn't beat German Bier.
It was then he heard a voice congratulating the singing of their local Bard. His eyes caught two women, one looking quite the blue eyed beauty. No offense, but he grew tired of the darker skinned women of Spain and Portugal. The other one he supposed was the songstress. Continuing off of the European one's compliment, he added. "Aye, you were good, lass. Couldn't help but notice you botched the pronunciation of entrampado. Oh, and exuberante as well," he said in Portugese, rubbing his chin slightly.
"Might want to work on your grammar, lass. None of the boys'll go for a girl who only goes half the distance in her wooing."
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