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"There are some tales that should be shared amoungst others. There are also tales that should never get the whisper off the lips from its beholder. The reality of 'Mermaids', 'Ghost Ships' and the like from these soggy sailors you believe experienced such wonders. Half fish, half human?! Poppycock, aye!? I believed in none the latter until I witnessed it with my own eyes." There was a brief pause in the soap box speech only filled with coughs and the disgusting sound of a ball of mucus being hocked up and spit to the side. "Open yer eyes! Or 'eye'! Whichever of ye' lost one in some fabled battle of yer's." Another cough forced paused before resuming. "I hold here in my decrepit hand the only evidence that what I say be not lie nor fable!" The beggar was holding in his three-fingered hand a book nearly falling to pieces from overexposure to being submerged in water.

The beggar himself was old and manged with a grotesque beard that had bits of filth around the mouth from him rummaging and eating garbage to stay alive. His rags held no promise to his word either so all of the civilians just passed him by without a second glance. The clothes he wore stuck to his flesh like glue with all the grime and lack of bathing, stitched of no more than what would have been a plain white yeoman's shirt and beige pants. The other arm clung to a fairly sturdy stick to keep himself standing. For weeks he'd been preaching these nonsense about the Thirteenth Sea. People have spat on him, pissed on him and even assaulted him for testifying what he's seen. The 'experts of the sea' shun him and bad mouth him as the 'Rabid Seashell' for kicks.

Aside from this estranged Beggar the remainder of the port town was fairly at norm. Ships docking and setting off. Markets making their sales and even a few trademark products like the Salted Eel and the 'Sea Spiced Turtle Soup' that no one to this very day but it's manufacturers know the secret ingredient to making the dish so scrumptious. The pier was just one of the numerous nests of commotion within this merchant's trade route built of line stone and crude metals attracting much attention from around the known globe. Much so, a peculiar ship even sought to dock here.

Within the ship was a crew of four. "Bakir." A gruff sounding creature standing amid the captain's quarters staring out at all the hurrily moving people through the window. "This is the most frequented trade city in all the world. See if there is anything about the Thirteenth Sea you can find here." On the short dresser in front of him was a sheet of parchment paper with some finely written wording on it. "Have Narla steal another ship's manifest and Desecra pillage us some cargo to avoid suspicion being drawn to this ship. Done excellent so far since the hijacking of this thing. Let's try to keep it, ey'?" A toothy grin of fang and maw decorated his deep blue face of scales. "There's bound to be something in this filthy town." From where this nefarious amphibian stood he could see the beggar preaching about something, but what? The windows definitely blocked enough sound from the outside that even the clamor of the town's daily chores and sales were completely shut from his senses.

Bakir was the only one who he'd allow in the chambers at this present time, leaving Narla and Desecra on the top deck to keep watch over the cannons stationed there; despite possessing Desecra's contract which he carefully picked and rolled up to tuck it away nicely in the inner linings of his tattered leather and cloth stitched vest. "Captain's orders." Were his last words to Bakir before raising a hand in a dismissive manner. "Come see me when you've found something out there. There is much daylight to be had." This was true. The sun was high in the sky and not a cloud to be seen for as far as the eye can see.

Bakir's gaze lingers upon the floor, his expression drawn into a thoughtful neutral. The unsheathed, hiltless blade within his right guantlet was rotated with his thumb, the reflection of messy black hair and dark skin upon the blade's side. Bakir's back rested against the wall, nearest the door to the captain's chambers. The elongated blade's tip rested upon the floor, as Bakir's left hand drifts upwards, forming a fist which covers his mouth. A heavy, rasping cough rattles through Bakir's lungs, before his hand lowers, as his gaze drifts towards the Captain, "Yes?" Bakir's voice grated itself through his throat.

Bakir's leather sandal takes a step forward, the light collecting upon the dull metal breastplate, which featured its own artwork of a winged rat with sword and shield. Bakir's dasdar covered his neck, hanging loosely over his right shoulder. Bakir's right hand lifts the blade, settling it flatly against his shoulder, "I will see to it, on your command." Bakir's lips pull into a show of white teeth, "I will inform them. Wouldn't want to waste our efforts, captain." Bakir's left hand lifts up and forms a fist to cover his mouth, as his throat rattles in a raspy cough. Bakir's gaze dulls, before he nods, once, his leather sandals carry his form to the door of the Captain's chambers, his left hand pushing it open.

Outside the Captain's chambers, Narla's tan-clothed form stood. Her amethyst gaze drifts upwards, watching the birds seemingly hover within the air. Narla's gaze follows and shifts her veiled expression with the movements of the birds above. Then her amethyst gaze drifts between each of the sailors, in turn, before her veiled face snaps its attention towards the door to the Captain's chambers, her hands remaining at her side.

The tales the old beggar spun were not in the slightest disregarded by Pelagia. She'd paid extra mind to listen intently each time, however hidden in the background she may have been. She did have her doubts, but hardly felt like disregarding him solely because he was what he was. She knew these creatures in which he spoke of existed because she was one. Well, in a sense. She had some uh... physical abnormalities, to say the least.

To avoid confrontation from others, she waited until he was no longer crying out his fables before she would approach him. This wasn't usual for Pel to do. She was an introverted individual who was far too shy to normally approach just anyone, but he interested her. He had information that may lead her to learn more about her father's side of the family - one she'd never laid eyes on before. If he was telling the truth, she wanted - no, needed - to find this Thirteenth Sea.

"Ehm, ex- ah... excuse me?" she muttered, tugging awkwardly on her clothes. She had a terrible habit of doing that. And was it really so necessary? She was very modestly dressed, her attire consisting of a long dress with a modest collar, the hem of her skirts brushing the floor and even dragging a bit. Topping it all off was a thick furred cloak, wrapped snugly around her neck and left to drape over the rest of her.

Should she gain the beggar's attention, the young woman would pull at her sleeves, sheepishly avoiding his gaze but intending to try to meet it despite that automatic response. "I uhm... I've been listening to your stories for a while now and, hm...," she paused to think. How should she word it? Her eyes fell down and her brows pinched together, lips pressed tightly into a fine line. Finally, she lifted her gaze, another coy smile crossing her features before she spoke again. "I just wanted to say that I believe you. And that I'd like to know more... if, uhm, if that's alright with you...?"

Suddenly, she looked panicked. "Oh! Ah-- I can compensate you of course! If only a little, heh... I'm not doing so well financially. But I can offer you enough for food! Even a night at the inn. W-would uhm... would that be enough?" While she was speaking, she was digging at her side in her coinpurse, taking out just enough to cover the expenses mentioned. She only had about that much left, maybe a few copper more.

The fourth member of the crew, the great goliath Desecra, obediently lingered on the top deck. Her perpetually pissed eyes scanned the docks as if to set them ablaze with a glare.
She felt horrible.
One wouldn't be able to tell, given the gargantuan gladiator's nonplussed expression and mighty build, but she couldn't swim. The stress of being at sea already had her stomach in knots, and the seasickness didn't help either. She had emptied the contents of her stomach long ago. The hunger and illness only fueled her fury, but then again, there were few things in the world that didn't anger her. "I grow tired of waiting," she boomed to no one in particular, though Narla was present. The half-giant folded her arms and spat a glob of snot off the side of the ship. It landed with a sickening splat on the head of a random passerby, who turned to eye her in outrage, but she bared her teeth and snarled in an animalistic fashion and he continued on his way. Snickering, Desecra leaned back against the wall, standing besides the door to the captain's cabin and rubbed a bit of dirt off of her war-hammer with a calloused thumb.
When Bakir emerged, her grin faded. "What word?" she prompted impatiently.

Bah! The sea was truly no improvement over the fields. He had been in town for five minutes and already Sylass was grumpy. He didn't need much to be ticked off, but smells are a sure fire way of getting him in this state. His long tail constantly smashes into the floor like a whip.

The figure seemed dressed like a mercenary. His armor was made out of hides, furs and a few bits and pieces of chainmail, though it was the creature's dark green scales that would offer him most defense. The most notable about him were his weapons though. On his back was a small satchel where five throwing axes rested, and from his belt hung a strange combinaton of weapons. A sharp looking axe and crude mace, made out of a strange dark green steel. They gave him a ferocious look indeed.

Much like how flowers such as roses and tulips had a smell that penetrated the Lizardman's nostrils uninvited, the salty smell of the sea was even worse. The smell was so strong he could taste it on his tongue. And yet he did not leave! His curiousity of the sea was stronger than his urge to run away from a scent. After all, how could he call himself 'the greatest warrior of his clan' (according to only him) if he can't even stand against the salty air?

It didn't take long for the Blackscale to come across the same raving beggar people have been calling the 'Rabid Seashell'. Sylass hadn't been in town long but apparently this man was the talk of the day. A beggar not asking for money? This fact alone was curious enough to Sylass. Who knows what else he might say!

And there Sylass stood, listening to what others would dismiss as mad ravings. But the Lizard didn't see it quite like that. He had too much conviction in his words. Sylass could sense a truth behind his ravings, despite how strange they might sound.

He did not leave when others did. He stuck around. He was about to approach the beggar, but someone else already did! Sylass was not one for friendly manners. Soon after Pelagia offered compensation for his tale, he just barged into the conversation."Rabid Seashell has Sylass' attention. Talk." Was all he said. He was not about to offer anything in return.

Foy was a very long way from home, and it was ever present in the looks people shot down at her as she passed them in the streets, in what had to be the biggest town she'd visited thus far.

It was an odd sight indeed, to see one of the country dwelling hobbit-folk so far from their slice of quiet normality, they were not a race known to lust for travel and adventure, just the simple type of life only small communities could provide... and yet here she found herself, lost it the streets of a port town, and seemingly enjoying every second of it. After all, to be lost in a strange town was a grand adventure, and Foy was no typical hobbit.

No, she would much rather foolishly bumble through a dangerous adventure, then grow old in the peace of knowing she'd done nothing of importance at all.

She was dressed in simple clothing, comfortable enough to wear long periods of time, and sturdy enough to keep up with the demands of foot travel. A plain dress with thick and plentiful stitching, made of heavy wool to stave off cold nights under the stars, and covered by a warm cloak, in soft grey, under the cloak, along her back was a large bump, likely a travel pack of some sort. She was shoeless, and her feet poked out from under her dress oddly large, and covered in the same red-gold hair she had on her head.

It was during her directionless wanderings of foreign streets that she stumbled upon the beggar, or rather, it was the Lizard-man that had caught her attention immediately. She'd never seen such and odd creature, and she'd paused for half a moment, simply to take it in.

Of course, she couldn't help but notice the crazy man, spinning his tales about his thirteenth sea. Her eyes widened, as they were drawn now to this man, and his wonderful tale. To be honest, if it was lunacy, Foy probably would have believed it anyway. She'd lived her sheltered life among good people, with no reason to lie, sane people, with no fanciful tall tales. She was quick to believe this man as well, though she'd no reasoning for it.

As the others approached the man she stood back, small and unnoticed, listening to what the man had to say to the two prodding for information. She'd no money or goods to offer and no brute force to extract information, but listening in from the sidelines was free, so long as no one noticed her nosiness. She couldn't pass up the opportunity, simply because it seemed exciting... though in all truth, she knew nothing of the other twelve seas either.

True to his beliefs he'd expected many more months to elapse before gaining any tangible attention beyond the sickening title of 'Rabid Seashell', which realistically he saw it as a better means of acknowledgement than a name. It stood out. "The ---" His next chapter in his ranting was cut short by a female of peculiar appearance. His head shook from left to right quickly. "No, no, no, no~~!" Raising the hand that was clamping down on the book as if his very life and existence depended on it. "You belie--" Another. Desperate eyes averted to the impeding scaley venturer. "Two?! Hoo-haa!!" The smile that lit up his face was one that not only one, but two were captivated by his words. Then again, it would not be the first time someone was trying to play a prank on him by getting his hopes up high, but he was the optimistic type and being let down was not unfamiliar.

"I'm pleased to have grabbed the attention of some fine adventurers such as yourself, BUT!" There's always a catch, isn't there. "The only way to the Thirteenth Sea is what only I know. The rest of these fools who walk around with d'ere heads held so high in their money and wealth that I can only pity them by their ignorance." The beggar plopped down to take a seat where he stood and brought his withering old legs in to cross over in front of him, the hand that held the cane slid down the ridged stick where he laid it across his lap. "I need you--" From his lowered posture he eyed Pel, "-- And you." Averting his eyes back to the scaled individual standing too before him. "To know that I am a dying man with no more than this stick and this book to my name, the 'Rabid Seashell'." A chuckle propped up and bounced his torso once or twice in the comedy of it all before releasing a dreary sigh. It was then that he released something. A short figure wasn't moving just a short distance away from he and his audience of two. Something solid amid shifting bi-pedial motions. "And it appears we have a third listening to my words of the Thirteenth!" Waving over to the femme hobbit to come closer. "Come! Come! Hee-hee~~!! No need to be shy, little one!" Mistaking Foy for a child at first glance but the more he focused he had come to notice that it was not a child he was speaking to, but a hobbit. "Ooohh~! Well aren't you a spectacle in a town like this." There was a sudden pause, whether Foy took to approaching him or not that caused his eyes to drift down to the book he situated in his lap. "Maybe it's about that time, 'ey, Sharall?" Mumbling to himself. "I have a request. The curiosity shown by you three had been told to me many seasons ago." Looking up at the two that still loomed over, or if they had even taken the liberty of sitting with him when he did he'd still give acknowledgement. "Sharall. Remember this name as it will most likely save your life in your coming ventures. Today is a day of prophecy for me. That I may finally pass on and join the lads at the depths of the sea. "Heed my words and honor my request. The Thirteenth Sea is not a joyous place nor will the trip there be any different. This book I hold here will detail key landmarks of the Thirteenth Sea and ultimately be your guide to, but not from. The entrance and exits are much different from one another. The perils you will face are things I cannot describe by mere words." Extending his hand out toward Pelagia with the book. "You. You were the first to offer me something, it did not sound like you had much in your coin purse with how light the jingles of metal were, but I reward you with also the last I treasure for your kindness."

Should Pelagia attempt to take the book she would find it fairly difficult to pry it from his hand as though it were glued there with bones and joints stuck in a holding position.

"The book it not something to take lightly. Abide by the words it reads." His voice suddenly took a serious turn. "My time here is done and I ask of all of you to fulfill my dream of.." The beggar's head bowed as he began to cough up foam and water into his own lap. "Proving that the Thirteenth Sea is a real place.." Another cough brought up more water from his throat that filled his mouth. If the book wasn't taken he'd hold it against his chest as his flesh began to bubble and boil, bursting into wet sand that bled from the open welts. "Find a ship. Go north. You will find what you need..." His left eye hardened and rolled out of his skull followed by more wet sand. With what strength he had left he'd huddle against the lime stone building behind himself. "Please.. Sh--a--rall" The wet sand continued to bleed from the continuing boils surfaced and popped. Eventually any signs of life his body held ceased until his body bled into a mound of wet sand that hastily dried to be blown away by any shifts in the wind direction and speed.


Witnesses to the beggar's suspicious death were shocked, appalled and even glad that the ongoing rants and ravings were to finally come to an end! "Ha! About time the old geezer died off!" One passer-byer shouted. "Ha! Who knew that the Rabid Seashell would be full of something other than tales of nonsense!" A sailor said that was hauling a cargo crate. "One less diseased filth." The insults went on and on and on. The growing crowd that surrounded the scene of the beggar's death was in fact the most attention he'd gotten all at once.
From the ship the blue scaled Captain took strange notice of the dying beggar. "H'mmmnnn..."

Bakir's left hand pushed open the door to the Captain's quarters open, his gaze drifting towards the half-giantess, his left hand lifting to form a fist, as a rattling cough escapes his throat, the grating sound of his voice thus, "Captain says he wishes for someone's cargo to go missing. I would suggest visiting a warehouse, if you travel in the daylight. Or a ship, when it is dark." Bakir's right gauntlet tapped its pointer finger idly upon the side of the hiltless blade, his gaze turning towards Narla. His left hand makes a beckoning gesture towards her, as his leather sandals carry his form towards the side of the ship.

Narla's amethyst eyes snap to the large female, her form stopping still, until Bakir appears. Narla's eyes dart to the gesture, before her veiled expression nods once, her right hand tightening the slack of the cloth that held the mahogony bow. Narla's form descends the walkway, behind Bakir, her gaze settling upon the nearby death-spectacle, her left foot taking a step towards it, before Bakir's left hand rests upon her shoulder. Narla's gaze snaps towards Bakir's dull gaze, witnessing his subtle shake of the head. Narla's gaze casts one more glance towards the dying man, before her cloth covered feet carry her form after Bakir's.

The two walk through the city's bustle, before Bakir's form stops in front of one of the local taverns, his right hand pulling down upon one end of the hiltless blade, raising the opposite end for a passerby. His left hand pushes the door to the tavern, his gaze drifting towards Narla's form, as her gaze flicks towards his, "Are you hungry, Narla?" Narla's head nods, once, her voice firm, yet melodic "Narla hungry." Bakir's lips pull back into a wide show of white teeth, "Then come, we'll have lunch."

Pelagia grew awkward when Sylass appeared. She inched away, but only because she felt too close to the individual. He had an imposing aura and she felt far too meek compared to him. Hell, the beggar would probably disregard her now. But no.

He didn't.

She cracked a genuine grin when he seemed so pleased to have them listen. Even if he was just a lunatic, he looked genuinely happy to be able to talk about this without judgement. If she could make the man happy, even without getting any real information in return, that would be alright with her. She turned to look to Foy when she was mentioned. The girl was only about a foot shorter than her, but it felt strange to be taller than something for a change. She was a rather small person herself.

The man was going on now about an adventure. Something more than just a lead, but a full-fledged adventure! Was this it? The task she'd been looking for? A way to be seen as heroic or important without the fear of judgement she had for what exactly she was? Was this really it...? Pelagia was excited now, and hopeful on top of that. She wouldn't sit, but would continuously shift a bit downward and back up again, tugging on her dress to keep every inch of her hidden. She wanted to sit, which explained her strange movements, but she didn't.

Dying...

She remembered him say he was a dying man, and that caused her some discomfort. He looked like he'd been through so much. Why should he die? She frowned, but tried to ignore that. He would likely live for years before he passed. Hopefully by then he found comfort here.

"Sharall," she repeated quietly. There was a lot she was taking in here. How did he know of three curious individuals? Maybe he was making it up. Regardless, he seemed serious, so she'd remember the name. But prophecy...? Were they part of the prophecy he spoke of? Maybe not exactly, but he seemed to reference them as such. But now this was a request. Something he wanted to see be done.

But what exactly was it they needed to do? Was it in the book? Her head perked up when he extended the thing out to her and spoke. Her skin flushed a bluish violet and she looked sheepishly to the ground, a little smile on her face. Awh, was being broke really that embarrassing? Nah. It was just he was being so sweet! Oh so sweet. It made her miss her mother something fierce. Her head lifted as she gathered the drive to take the book, though looked confused when it wasn't released. She assumed it to be that he had terrible arthritis and couldn't open his fingers. Perhaps they were glued to the book itself? She didn't know. She wouldn't play tug of war with it, but if she could easily pull it without hurting him, she'd take the thing.

Regardless of if she had the book or not, when he began to speak again, her eyes widened and all semblance of a pleasant expression faded into a little fear and concern. His coughs were curious, but she didn't pay them much mind as far as what he was spitting up. It was what else was happening with his body that concerned her. "Hey-- what's...--" she cut herself off to collapse nearby, hands hovering over him momentarily, almost afraid to touch. Her cloak offered enough of a shield so she wouldn't need to tug on her dress, so thankfully she was still perfectly hidden.

"No, no, no, no don't die right now, not right here-- p-please, come on...," she whined, laying her hands gently on his upper arms. With his last utterance of Sharall, he passed, his body now nothing more than sand that was being steadily blown away. Should she not have the book in her lap by now, she'd look at it through teary eyes and take it from the sand. Whether she had it already or not, Pela would wind up hugging it close to her chest. She was a sensitive thing, who'd never seen death. She was sad and confused - was dying like that really possible? Something did happen to this man. She wasn't sure what, but she was determined to find out.

Her want to do something big wasn't just for herself now. She wanted to find out about this Thirteenth Sea, both for herself and to honor the old man's dying wish. He chose her to carry his book, so she would.

It was important to him, thus it was important to her. Her free hand moved to her coinpurse, fingers dipping inside to wiggle the thing open and deposit her other coins. She'd scoop up what sand may remain before bringing the pouch up to her lips and pulling the string with her teeth to close it. After putting it away, she kept the book snugly pressed against her chest, raising carefully, taking one arm and pulling down on her skirts to keep herself hidden. When she stood, she looked down to where the man once lay. "If I find it, I want you to see it, too," she whispered. With that, the girl turned, confident at first until she saw Sylass again. Pela felt like she shrank a few feet, but forced courage again.

"You uhm... you two, he mentioned you two, too. Ehm... that... was funny-sounding, I'm sorry. I suppose I should ask if you had any intentions of coming with...? I mean! Considering he said you two were part of his prophecy, too! Sorry...," she mumbled, trying oh so hard to play Leader. She'd be fine doing it alone, but he seemed convinced these three were part of that prophecy for him.

So she wanted them to come.

"My apologies! I am Pelagia. Who may you be...?" she canted her head after she introduced herself, shifting a little in her spot. "Oh... I also go by Pel or Pela, if my other name is too much of a mouthful..."

She looked around. Where would she find a boat? Especially one cheap enough that she could rent with what little she had here. Her expression turned somber though when she continuously heard them heckle him in his death. "What is wrong with you people...?" she whined. "What about this man dying is so funny...?"

And of course her confidence was only there until someone steps in.

Live it up, Pela. Live it up.

"What if it was your grandfather? A friend? Would you still act the same way, even if they were said to be insane? It's so much different when it's a loved one.... And who are you to...to... to laugh, to say that you're happy he's dead? You're s-sick...! He's not the one that's filth, here.... Under your polished, lovely exteriors you're all dirty, disgusting things on the inside. Something less than him...."

Huff.

Okay, she was done now.

These orders caused a malicious grin to form on the half-giant's face. She enjoyed stealing, even if it was only by the captain's orders, because in a way she felt a sensation of empowerment. She'd take whatever she pleased and there was no one that could stop her, she felt.
As Bakir helpfully proposed a couple of tactics, however, Desecra's expression slowly fell into a teeth-baring scowl. "Dinnae be talkin' oot yer fanny flaps as if I dinnae me job," she grumbled dangerously, spitefully adding "dunderheid" under her breath. She unfolded her arms and fell in behind the two, towering over them as she proceeded to follow them off of the ship. "Gotta lairge drouth. Need me a peeve 'n scran. Droppa jobby." Her demeanor calmed to neutrality once they reached the dock. Just being on solid ground made her feel a great deal better.

Desecra didn't "like" people, but she seemed to tolerate Narla. Perhaps it was because she was quiet, which didn't irritate Desecra, or perhaps she liked her barbaric mannerisms. Whatever it was, Narla was rarely the target of Desecra's anger issues. The half-giant believed her to be more intelligent than Bakir, even though she didn't speak much. She'd come to trust the kaftan-clad female's instincts. When her attention shifted towards the dying beggar, Desecra would automatically follow her gaze. She swore silently in astonishment, adding "Lookit the auld bastard melt... ye seent the way 'e dee'd? A quality deith! HA!" She'd continue chortling quietly as they continued.

When Narla admitted to being hungry, she'd nod in agreement. "Nothin' lika halesome piece 'fore a job," she announced, encouraging the idea in that horrifyingly heavy accent of hers. The beggar's spectacular "quality" death had done nothing to curb her appetite.

Sylass kept his frown during the story. Part of him was sceptic, but in overal he believed the Rabid Seashell well enough. It simply seemed so much more than a lunatic and a pretty story to him. Not to mention the honor and renown he'd gain from discovering this Thirteenth Sea and revealing this to the world.

The Blackscale had no idea what to make of Foy. He had never seen a Hobbit before. Hobbits didn't live in places he traveled to, or perhaps they did and he had mistaken them for children, as he is mistaking Foy for one right now. The Lizard gave her a look, but decided not to dispute her presence. Children were curious beings after all.

Sylass refused to sit. After all, this beggar was a weakling in his eyes, and hell needs to freeze over before he sits at the same level as a weakling. But even someone so dense as Sylass knew to respect the word of anyone. He couldn't read the book, but he could only hope that Pelagia could. Just because of that book he realized that he would not be doing this alone. He'd need help.

Sylass' demeanor changed though when the old beggar was turning into... sand?! Sand and water? This wasn't right! This was simply not how people died. There was magic involved with this! The Blackscale took a step back out of instincts and hissed a little. He was dead, and manner of death distressed him. To Sylass this was the proof he needed that he wasn't lying. The Thirteenth Sea might very well be real!

The Lizard's nostrils flared."Pelagia speaks to Sylass of clan Blackscale. Old Beggar wished three to come with. Shall honor request. Sylass needs at least person who can read. Will child come too?" At that last question he nodded towards Foy.

Much like Pelagia, Sylass got very angry at the surrounding people making fun of the Rabid Seashell's death. Sure, he was a weakling, but what was even worse than being a weakling was picking on a weakling. Especially a dead one. Sylass roared much like a monster would. He turned around, drawing his weapons, axe in left hand and mace in the right, his arms spread out and baring his teeth at the passers-by."Maggots!" He cried out in anger."Pathetic fools! Speak no ill of weaklings who can no longer rise to challenge! Pick on Sylass! Shall cut out hearts of all brave enough!" His tone had something monstrous about it. Probably the strange accent he spoke in. If this didn't make the crowd disperse, the Lizard would take a few steps forward, pretending to be charging towards them.

Hopefully that would be enough to keep the most of them at bay.

Foy was embarrassed to be caught so quickly, eavesdropping in such an uncouth manner, but she supposed she should have seen it coming, after all, the man had been searching for attention to his story for a while, of course he would notice if someone had stopped to listen.

She joined the group then, since the man seemed unconcerned with payment for his tales, and sat with him readily. She gave both Pelagia and Sylass a sheepish nod and a friendly smile in greeting, before turning her attention back to the beggar, and what he was saying to them.

She committed the name Sharall to memory, though she had no idea how a simple name could be of any importance. She had to trust that it would be though.

Her eyes, widened with wonder and excitement as the man spoke of prophecy and perils, became slightly concerned as the man began to speak of his own death.

...more so when he began to cough foam, and his flesh began to boil.

Foy had very little experience with death, as young as was within her own community. She was barely an adult, and so far, had not experienced any death, other then that of village elder earlier in the year. It had been almost joyous, his passing of old age, in a comfortable bed, in the home that he'd built, surrounded by a community of people who cared for him, and sang him to his rest.

...This was nothing like that. It was terrifying, and disturbing, and not at all peaceful. It brought tears to her eyes, and a feeling of illness to her stomach. There was no time to sing this time, it was over far too quickly.

Pelagia had turned to them, introducing herself, which the lizard-man did as well in turn, both affirming that they would honor the man's last request. Foy could never have said no, and she didn't want to either. Sure the death had frightened and disturbed her, but surely the rest of this adventure would involve less death.. at least, that was what she believed.

It took her a moment to collect herself, and then she too would offer her name. "I.. I'm Foy, and I would really love it if you would allow me to come, it sounds like an amazing adventure."

When Sylass made his assumption out loud, that she was a child, she would wave her hands, with a nervous little giggle, trying to clear up his misconception. "Oh no, no, I'm not a child, just short." The year that had passed since she'd come of age seemed all the difference to her.

Conversation was cut short as the crowd of people passing by, began to get rude about the old beggars passing. The others shouted, but Foy did not. Not that she tolerated that sort of cold behaviour, simply that she did not believe yelling would do any good. She'd always been told to fight animosity with kindess and though she could find no words of kindness for these cruel people, she would only go as far as to shoot them all an openly disapproving glare.

With the sudden death of the beggar the town was in quite the uproar. Word spread like wildfire. The townsfolk wasted no time with hurrying over to their neighbors and family to spew the news. Heck, some were so excited to inform about his death that a teenaged boy barged into the tavern right after Narla and Bakir and shouted. "The Rabid Seashell who was raving about his Thirteenth Sea is finally dead!" The bartender in the tavern was in the middle of cleaning out a tankard, but paused when the news was delivered to the entire populace within. "Gwhaa-haa!" He bellowed heartily. "Free round for everyone! About damn time that old bastard died off!" Raising the freshly cleaned tankard which brought the entire tavern into a standing ovation of cheers. "'ey! Boy!" The bartender called out ot the teenaged boy through all the roarous cries of joy. "Where did the old geezer die, hm?!" The teen shouted back. "By the docks, good sir!" Raising up a tankard of his own that he'd snatch from a nearby table to raise in toast. "The Docks?! Ha! Shame for all the sailors that have to deal with a body in their way!" The messenger lowered the tankard after taking a mouthful of the brew. "There is no body from what I here! Old man turned to sand!" The bartender waved off the details of the death. "Bah! Someone probably jus' tossed it into the sea!"

Meanwhile, back to the docks people were being backed away by the scaley clansman; having given absolutely no heed to Pelagia's words nor Foy's stoney glare. At first his words were overlooked with little show of worry. It wasn't until his aggressive half-charge forward did people quickly begin to flee the scene, but in low whispers kept audible to themselves and the companion(s) they walked with. Sylass' attempt was in fact quite the success to remove the encircled crowd.

From the ship the Captain could see all of the commotion and witnessed the passing of the mysterious book. "The ol' Rabid Seashell turned into a pile of sand..." Mumbling to himself before immediately barging through the cabin doors to race up to the top deck to get a better look at all those involved in the time of his death. Two figures he could see amid the constant sporadic motions of the crowds. A female and a beast of scales. The hobbit he could not see due to her being towered over. Marching over to the railings to lean on, squinting even to try and see what exactly was it that was handed to them. "Looks like the search is over." He grumbled with a toothy grin.

Bakir’s lips pull back into a show of white teeth, his gaze remaining steadily forward. Raising his left hand to form a fist, he places it before his mouth, a raspy cough rattling through his lungs. Bakir’s gaze drifts towards Narla’s, who in turn, glanced towards him. Bakir’s head nods towards one of the empty chairs, as his form turns slowly, his right hand holding the hiltless blade downward with one of the dull gold gauntlets.

Narla’s veiled expression moved towards and up, at the larger female, two quick nods given. Her cloth covered feet carried her form towards one of the stools, her right hand holding the cloth strap of her bow, until her legs swung underneath the countertop of the tavern bar. Narla’s hands remained at her sides, her veiled expression tilting her head back, as Bakir approaches.

Bakir’s sandals carried his form towards the countertop, a few strange silver coins placed upon the countertop, his white-toothed smile meeting the bartender’s words, “The sea accepts even the poor, friend. One breakfast, for her.” Narla’s veiled expression snaps to the bartender’s form, watching patiently.

In the corner, a rather thin man sat, his skin a healthy tan and his hair a slicked back black. He wore a sailor’s cap, jauntily tilted over one eye, his eyes a bright hazel. His high-collared shirt had the collared flipped upwards, an off, if not light, blue with obvious wear. His pants were a neutral grey, cut off below the knee. His right hand tapped idly upon the table, while his left hand reaches outward to accept the offered drink, his lips curling into an almost perfect smile, “Thanks.” The man’s lips return to their idle smile, his left hand lifting the mug upwards, as some of the froth sloshes upon the table, “Here, here!”

Bakir’s form drifts over to the tanned sailor’s seat, placing the hiltless blade upon the table, his reflection showing within the blade’s shine. The tanned man leans back in his chair, his eyes casting their glance upon the blade, then towards Bakir, his charming smile returning to his facial features, “Well hello, stranger. What brings you to my table?”

A cough and a clearing of the throat, with the rattling of lungs, “You look like you’ve been well, friend. Enjoying the town’s perks?”

The sailor leans forward, his mug rising to coat his upper lip in froth, “Now I am. A man can’t sleep without the constant yelling of the mad.”

A show of white teeth, and a pair of dull gold gauntlets placed within their respected lap, “I hear it’s going to be much quieter.”

The tanned sailor nods, his gaze drifting towards the form of Narla and the large female, “I’d say. But, turned to sand! What a way to leave, huh?” The tanned sailor’s gaze returns to Bakir.
A slow nod, “It is. Were you close to him?”

A playful shove of the air, and a charming smile, “Nah! I offered a piece of bread once. He downright refused, even after I insisted that I wasn’t hungry. Shame that he had to go up and die, just as you arrived. Downright inconvenient, as he told the best crazy stories you ever heard.”

The lifting of dark eyebrows on dark skin, “Is there anyone else that knows those tales?” A raspy cough and a raised fist, covering the mouth, “Travelling by ship is a long pass of time, and there are so many tales that tend to be told.”

The tanned sailor takes a swig of his mug, placing it back upon the table with a steady thump, “Heavens, no! I’ve had enough of the constant jabbering, and should I ever find the book that he was always holding, I’d throw it in the fire to warm my feet by.”

The show of white teeth, and the idle tapping upon the hiltless blade with a dull, golden gauntlet, “A book? I wonder if he wrote it himself.” A hand rising to form a fist over his mouth, a raspy cough rattling through the lungs. “How is your brother? Is he well?”

The tanned sailor’s expression softens, his eyes casting downward into his drink, “Aye…lost him at sea, not too long ago.”

The dirtied, dark locks and darkened skin dip in a slow nod, “I’m sorry, friend. I had one last request, a well-paying job for a pair of hands to unload some cargo. But I guess we will unload his coffin into the water, instead.”

The tanned sailor’s head nods, his voice lower, “Aye. I guess it’s time to get a ship of my own..” He stands up, holding his mug upwards, before taking one last long pull, his arm wiping away the froth from his lips.

Bakir’s form rises to its feet, his right hand grasping the hiltless blade with a dull, golden gauntlet, lifting the blade to settle itself flatly upon his right shoulder, “I would suggest finding those officials and their ledgers. Your father was a rich man, and not all of his coin went to the bottle, I believe.”

The tanned sailor lifts his hand and places it upon Bakir’s shoulder, patting twice, “Aye, I’ll do that.” The tanned sailor lifts his hand upwards in a wave, before his form exits the tavern.

Pela's mind was distracted from Sylass' words by his actions. Even she scampered back a few inches when he thrust himself forward, scattering the crowd in the process. Although it frightened her, she couldn't help but feel a little jealous by the influence he held. She brushed it off, though, knowing that a girl of her stature and demeanor would never achieve that. This was why she was going on this thing, too! Another reason? Yep. To make a name for herself so she had some manner of influence, or... well, just so that she could be taken seriously. That's all.

When things had settled down a little bit, she turned back to Sylass and gestured to the book. "I can read," she replied at last. "We need to find a ship," she said, though trailing off into thought. "I really don't know who to ask, though... Should we head to the tavern and see if there's anyone there who knows? Most of the time, the 'keep does. We could ask him or her...?"

This was so foreign to Pela. Making suggestions, suddenly thrust into the adventure of her dreams, but still quite teary over the very strange death of the old man. She wondered if he was part merfolk and that's just how they died.

As a result, she wondered if that's how she was going to die.

Shaking her head, she'd wait to see if the other two would agree with her and head off to the tavern. If not, she'd still head there, but only after making a final suggestion (again, should they not jump on the wagon right away): "Then perhaps we should look separately? And meet back here at dusk?"

Again, regardless, she went for the Tavern. When inside, what caught her eye the most was how jovial everyone seemed to be. She didn't catch that they had been granted a free beverage, but she also didn't feel everyone was happy because the man was dead. What did bother her was the fact no one seemed to care. That they continued on their way into drunkenness without so much as a bothered expression or hint of hesitance over the public death of an elderly man. Especially since it was such a strange death.

Had she went insane? Pelagia looked down at the book she clutched tightly and squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. No way. She saw it. The proof he existed was here in her arms! With that, she would walk up to the counter and quietly mutter, "Ex-ahh... excuse me?" Not that one would hear her easily through all the hubbub surrounding her.

Desecra would duck into the doorway and seat herself besides Narla at the bar, immediately ordering her "peeve 'n scran", or as one would say in common, her food and ale. Her stay would not be long, for despite being rather peckish, she had a job to do. She took the orders of her contract holder very seriously.
The mug of ale she was given tasted watery, and the hunk of meat that was served was questionable, but the goliath paid no heed. It was all [messily] devoured within mere moments. The mug was emptied in one go, and she would only be distracted from her meal long enough to look and see who Bakir was speaking to.
Kildra scowled as the barkeep announced the cost. In her opinion, it wasn't worth nearly that much, and she'd slam half of what was owed on the bar before muttering to Narla "Seeya on tha ship" and departing before the man could count his coin.
Desecra would once more crouch to pass through the door, coming face-to-face {well... waist-to-face, just about} with Pelagia. Should the girl not move quickly enough, Desecra would nonchalantly shove her to the side, grumbling "Outta th'way," paying no heed to her companions should they have chosen to follow.

The crowd dispersing came to no surprise to Sylass. Weaklings never accepted a challenge when it was given, and this town was full of them. After a few flares of his nostrils, Sylass rejoined the group, sheathing his weapons. Those weren't needed anymore.

Sylass gave Pelagia a nod."Good. Will need you." He then turned to Foy, from who he wasn't completely convinced she was an adult yet."Short child Foy, hope you read too, in case other book reader dies." Boy, not giving much credit, are we?

Pelagia's suggestion was a good one."Sylass likes idea. Tavern good place to start. If search ends up failing, we look for ship in harbor. Possibly steal one." He was not a man of many words. If he liked an idea, he'd follow up on it, and so, he would follow Pelagia to the bar.

Once inside, Sylass emmidiately grumbled something angrily in Draconic. It stank in here! Not exactly like a poorly kept tavern, but the smell of sweat was much stronger in here than he was used to.

Though Desecra didn't pay any heed to Sylass, he did pay attention to her! He'd never seen a Goliath before, and by the gods she looked strong. It was tempting to challenge her to one-to-one combat, right here and now, but luckily even Sylass' tiny brain knew now was not the time. He would let either Foy or Pelagia speak. They were a lot better at this than he was. Sylass was the brawn, not the brains.

Foy's smile faltered ever so briefly as it became clear that Sylass still regarded her as a child. "Not a child..." She muttered, as the subject was turned to what they were going to do to make this adventure happen.

First though, she was taken aback at how easily Sylass suggested that one of them might die. She didn't really want to think of the possibility of more death on this journey.

She agreed that the tavern was a good place to start, and would follow the other, only pausing to scramble frantically out of the way, as a very large woman barged through their group, less she get stepped upon.

She turned afterward to see Pelagia trying to get the bartenders attention in a soft voice, better suited for a church then a rowdy tavern. Foy was happy to help, familiar with the tavern atmosphere. She would join her at the counter, and called loudly for the bartender, hopefully that would at least get someone to pay attention to Pelagia, since it was unlikely they could see much of Foy from the other side of the counter.

Greyonji had been in the tavern a little bit before the announcement of the old man's death. He sat at his table occasionally lifting his mask just enough to sip from his mug. After each sip he was quick to return the mask to it's original position, from the glimpses people could get there was nothing wrong with his face that could be seen. The purpose of the dark blue mask was to make his face so plain it was boring to look at so people would look either at his hair or clothes. If some one did look him in the eyes the usually quickly looked away anyways as his eyes- scary to some. A darker shade of red while the irises were dull yellow.

Greyonji wasn't new to traveling, and therefore not unfamiliar with death. The only time that people seemed to celebrate one's death was when they deserved it, this man didn't seem to have deserved death from what he heard of him. "His stories will be missed eventually," he muttered to no one in particular. Sighing he leaned back and pushed his black hair over the back of the wooden chair he sat in, his hair hanging half way down the back of the chair ((Sephiroth hair)). I doubt he was hated by so many.

Grey once more scanned the room for- something, and one thing did catch his eye a flicker of magic. A girl had come in carrying a tattered book and had worked her way to the barkeep, her lips moved but he couldn't hear her and it was doubtful the barkeep could either. A moment later a second voice rang out for the attention of the same barkeep. There had to be a third one of them as he doubted the voice belonged to the green lizard-man behind her, but he couldn't see where it had come from.

Greyonji decided to go up to 'get another drink'. In all actuality he wasn't thirsty he just wanted to get closer to try and see what the magic had shone from. So he got up and brought his empty mug with him and took a seat near them.

((not too used to doing posts this long hope this is okay))

The Bartender's backside was what Pelagia spoke to in her attempt for attention. Being faced to his wide variety of drafts in the center of the the circular counter that rounded a collection of barrels containing the different ales. "Hopefully now that he's d---" Then a sudden voice caught his attention. Turning around quickly in hopes of some new customers he'd open his arms wide to the surprise of some fairly new faces. "Ey'~~!! Welcome, welcome! What can I get ye'?!" His voice was powerful, overpowering much of the joyous roars within their proximity. Approaching the counter, the fairly large bartender placed the freshly cleaned tankard on the counter in front of the three, although he was unaware of Foy's presence due to the...er.. lack of height. "What'll it be, ey!? Today is a day of joy for us Portland folk. That ol' beggar finally gave into death, so the first drink o' th'day is on the house!" The masked individual snatched the bartender's eye for just a brief moment before snapping his fingers for one of the waiters to tend to the mysterious customer. A slimmer male rounded the tower of ale barrels to the owner. "Yes'r?" He leaned in quick and nodded his head toward Greyonji. "Help this fella' eh? Seen many a traveler, but none of'em wore a mask."

The slim male nodded and quickly rounded around the owner to plant a hand down before Greyonji. "Eyyy!! Can I help ya'!?" Imposing bruntly and loudly.

On the ship, the Captain could see the femme goliath walking down the port strip toward the ship. "Ahh.. Let's see if she found anything." Pacing himself toward the gangplank that bridged the ship to the mainland with one hand behind his back and the other gliding along the polished railing. "Did y'find anything!?" He called out preemptively due to lack of patience for her to really stop foot on the wood bridge.