This is an experiment for me, a cross between a campaign, an illustrated (in places) story and a series of battle reports. Something like I have done in several past web based campaigns. I enjoy the writing and it should allow me to play some fun games. Anyhow, here it begins ....All That Glistens, Part OneMap of Tabriz TownThe Bent Cutlass Inn
Port of Tabriz Pirates’ Commonwealth
Bubaqua Isle off the western coast of the southern Southlands“Ho, Grijalva!” shouted Captain Bartholomeus Pasterkamp across the smoke filled room. He could not see where the innkeeper was, or even if he was there at all, so he made the shout as loud as possible. It woke several of the drunken denizens snoring nearby and startled the remainder, easily done considering there had been nothing more than muttering for the last quarter of an hour.
“What?” answered Grijalva, himself one of those woken by the cry. “What?” he repeated, this time more angrily as he came to his senses and annoyance replaced his initial surprise. “Who is that shouting?”
“Here! It’s me!” said Captain Bartholomeus almost as loudly as before. Several rum addled men scowled at him, including (he noticed) some of his own. “You know me. It ain’t as if we ain’t sailed together. You gone deaf or are ya just riddled with wax?”
“Neither, Captain,” came the answer as the smoke, a mixture arising from tobacco pipes, the ashes of the fire and the blackened remains of a wild pig upon the spit, parted like threadbare stage curtains through which the innkeeper emerged. He had upon his head the woollen hat he always wore, a garment entirely out of keeping with the close heat of Bubaqua. His beer belly stretched tight the linen of what was intended to be a baggy shirt, as well as ensuring his leather waistcoat’s buttons had not seen service for years. Little, round eyeglasses sat upon the top of his nose. He only used these when reading or writing yet never removed in between, thus the rest of the time he peered over the top of them.
“Now you tell me, old friend, what ails thee? And if it’s thirst, why not call for a wench?”
“I’m always thirsty,” answered Bartholomeus with a distant look in his eye, “ever since the sun got to me that time, burning right into me and turning a portion of my brain into brawn. Cooked I was, and not rare but well done. Braised by the bright rays and the jungle steam, boiled in my own sweat …”
“Bart!” interrupted the innkeeper. “I’ve heard it all before and have no wish to hear it all again. I know you didn’t call me over here simply to wax lyrical about old injuries, so I’ll ask again: what ails thee?”
Captain Bartholomeus pretended to be hurt by the innkeeper’s words. He pulled himself up straight and tugged at his long, blond wig to make it sit a little more squarely upon his head. He had always been a proud man when it came to dress, often claiming that one could surely tell a proper gentleman by his attire. He himself took the lesson to heart. His long red coat of finely patterned damask was trimmed with golden braid and bound at his waist by a silken yellow scarf and at his neck he sported an almost clean cambric cloth, a whiteness rarely seen in Tabriz and only spoiled by a line or two of yellowish stains from the sweat.
He reached out so that his hand emerged from the large cuff upon his coat sleeve, uncurled a finger to point at the table immediately next to his, then he corrected his aim to direct Grijalva’s gaze specifically at the man sprawled across it.
“Your question, my kind if impatient host, should be directed not at me but at him, for if I am not mistaken he’s dead.”
Grijalva peered at the recumbent patron in question, making no move as yet towards him, and attempted to ascertain if the fellow was indeed breathing or not.
The Captain, meanwhile, went on. “But then, unless he was one of the accursed undead, you wouldn’t be getting much of an answer out of him would you? Even if he were such an unholy thing, then any words his rotten tongue might try to deliver would be, no doubt, completely indecipher ... incomprehend-idabible… in … un … What’s the word I’m after?”
“Don’t know,” said Grijalva. “I can’t tell what you’re saying.”
“I didn’t ask for a definition,” said the Captain.
The innkeeper was not really listening to the Captain, being quite distracted by the appearance of a corpse in his inn. Then it dawned on him who it was - Webbe Nijman - because that was where he always sat and that was the lousy shirt he always wore. This realisation settled him considerably, and he gave a snorting laugh laced with relief.
“If he’s anything, then it’s dead drunk, not plain dead,” he said more to himself than the captain. “Let me take a look.”
Now feeling much more confident he strode over, grabbed the man by his matted hair and yanked his head up to take a look at his face. It was Webbe alright, and he appeared to be just on the right side of the seam that separates the quick and the dead.
“He’s alive. Drunker than I’ve ever seen him, granted, but alive. He can sleep it off here and not in the Doss House, after all it’s me he owes for the punch he’s had and I don’t want him slipping away all quiet and forgetful.”
He was just about to lower Webbe’s head back onto the table to let it lie there in a puddle of said punch, when he stopped. There was something around Webbe’s neck a- coin by the looks of it, like a lucky gold piece touched by some king and now hanging on a cord.
“What have we got here?” asked Grijalva. “Webbe Nijman, you rogue, you owe me for a fortnight’s drink and promised me you’d pay in silver when your share came in. And yet here, dangling from your own neck, there’s gold.”
Turning to Captain Bartholomeus, he pulled the coin out to show him. “You’re witness. He owes me and I’m taking this for payment. When he sobers up you can vouch for me. This ain’t theft, but the collection of monies owed.
The Captain, however, was frowning, staring at the coin hanging down over Grijalva’s fingers. When the innkeeper noticed Bartholomeus’ strange expression, he too looked more closely at the coin. It was gold, that much was true (and was all he had really bothered to take in before) but it was bigger than any minted in Bretonnia or the Empire, heavier than any from Marienburg, Araby or indeed any port in the entire Old World. Furthermore, there was no monarch’s head impressed upon it, nor coat of arms; no god or even a denomination. Instead there was a blazing sun with stars set about it in a neat circle. He flipped it over to scrutinise the reverse, where he discovered the face of a serpent surrounded by geometric swirls.
A voice suddenly broke the reverie that had ensnared him.
"What is that?” asked the Captain, having got up to walk over to Grijalva’s side.
The innkeeper held the coin up for Captain Bartholomeus to view and even managed to take his eyes off it to see what the fellow made of it. The Captain paused a moment to rub his good eye, then squinted at the coin. A smile manifested upon his face.
“Ahhh! You know what that is, my friend,
andwhere it comes from.”
“Aye, I do,” said the innkeeper.
“Then let’s wake old Webbe up and see about having him explain this to the Pirate Council. If he can show us whence it came, it’ll take a lot more than me and thee to get there and collect the rest. There’ll be a very mountain of gold no doubt, enough to keep every Tabrizian happy for years to come. No small sum, no small sum at all”
"We’ll do that,” said Grijalva loudly. Then much closer to the Captain’s ear he whispered, “And the Six will be interested to. There’ll be more than gold there, maybe even what our master wants.”
Bartholomeus appeared to have sobered up instantly. His face flared with anger at Grijalva’s words, but he kept it turned so that no one else in the inn could see it. Loudly, and in a voice almost as jovial as before, he said, “Gold, you say! The council
will be interested, and will indeed want mastery of such a place.”
With that the Captain grabbed a goblet, leaned down and used it to scoop out some of the contents of a pot under the table, then threw the stinking stuff in Webbe’s face.
Webbe woke to see his gold coin dancing before his eyes and could just make out someone talking about ‘doing some explaining’. Just as he began to wonder whether he had his knife on him, he found himself being lifted and dragged by two of Grijalva’s heavies. Still befuddled he was unable to summon the energy to protest, never mind to fight.
Captain Bartholomeus and Grijalva leading the way to the Council Fort as Webbe is ‘escorted’ behind by Grijalva’s hired thugs Goncalo Po and Alonso de Ovando.