Luckily for all involved not only did the merchants escape with their lives, but they had answers to some of Malark's most pressing questions. Malark got to hear the stories of Hookhand's most recent atrocities, and through the exaggeration and the patterns he heard, he had a good idea of where the pirate might strike next.
After confirming the merchants were well on their way and refusing a reward, Malark set off on a hard, two-day ride towards Daggerford. He reached the city just before nightfall and was grateful for his previous travels as he managed to track down one of the more reputable inns and paid for the boarding and care of the hardworking Emerald.
Though exhausted himself, Malark knew that he would have much better luck asking around the taverns tonight. He armed himself lightly as always, but with a few extra surprises in case things went sour. Daggerford wasn't the deepest slum in the realm but it had a reputation as sharp as its name. Malark carried only the coin he would need to ply information from willing hands and left the rest with his pack, locked and warded in his room. Throughout it all he tried to keep M out of his mind, while little flashes of violet would make their way into his thoughts, Malark knew that exorcising the demon from his past came first.
The first bar he came to was a raucous affair; the kind he knew instinctually wasn't his best shot. But he stayed for an ale, greasing the palm of the bartender to get locations of Hookhand's former crew. But none of the names seemed to gain any traction. After narrowly avoiding a falling drunk belting out an off key dirty ditty, Malark decided to move on.
The second bar was closer to the ports and more promising by far. Sailors here were huddled and secretive. Discussing routes and silencing their drunker counterparts before conversation could be overheard. Piracy had clearly raised the tension for seamen everywhere. Malark could remember back in the days of old the first mate would threaten all talkers with a particularly sharp dagger. A swift smile of remembrance for the man was dashed with the vivid memory of the storm that took him and many others from Malark's life.
As he stared into his second mug of the night and watching the ripples form, he wondered if he would ever truly stop the Lords. Despite his power, despite his knowledge, despite his fury, they evaded him. It seemed like just like with the merchants he would continue to be set off course by each passing trouble until he grew old and withered. To weak to even hold a mast line…. But then the crew laughed behind him and he remembered the smile on the merchant's face as he held his daughter safely, he remembered Mataman's singing and Thad's booming laugh, he remembered Zuriel's constant faith and M's smirk. One more swing of ale banished the mood for good. What good was vengeance if another darkness still won? He would drive them all back with the righteous fury of a storm and not even the hounds of Hell could keep him from port much less the withers of time.
He swung around to the laughing men as he reached into his coat to pull out a secret weapon. "You jolly men are having a good time, but what say you to a round of dice, eh?"
Drunk, happy and gambling sailors were as gossipy as schoolgirls and Malark knew the game well. He would win some hands, lose some hands, curse good naturedly and make fast friends. By the end of the night he knew two things: Piracy was on the rise now that the winter storms had cleared and there were camps outside the city "a good lad like him should stay away from."
The rumor mill had failed to confirm Hookhand's name, though there were mutterings of some sort of chief among the bastards and many calls for his head on a pike. Malark also couldn't find out anything about M without tipping his hand further. When he spoke wistfully about a lass with purple hair, he was only directed to a brothel and a dye shop (in whichever order he fancied).
As he made his way back to the inn, his purse a little lighter, he drunkenly stumbled into a bit more luck. On a pole he was leaning lay the scraps of a wanted poster. A bit more scavenging led to a tossed ball of paper that showed a drawing of the man they called Hookhand. As Malark studied it under magelight he could only come to one conclusion. It was a different man pictured than the one he sent sinking to the depths. His distinctive scar was nowhere to be found. The wizard breathed a sigh of relief and got his wits about him. He got back to the inn in good order and collapse to a deep sleep.
Malark passed two more days this way, waking up and shaking dreams of violet eyes out of his mind, scouting enemy camps, and gathering information at night. On the third night, he confirmed the arrival of the supposed pirate chief, and luckily the chief was expected a camp he had already surveyed. This particular camp was in a defensible cove, a perfect hiding spot for pirates looking to set sail at any moment. Now he had to make a plan of attack, for he didn't have any half-orcs fighters or half-angel clerics watching his back. Hiring sellswords sounded appealing but with the reputation of Daggerford, he would likely attract too much attention. Not to mention Malark could fall to a dagger from an ally just as easily as a cutlass from the enemy.
But there was no way around it, stealth was not his specialty, a solo infiltration was a long shot, and while he could talk his way around most sailors, he despised pirates and wasn't the best at hiding his emotions. A frontal assault was the only way he could properly employ his specialties, but that could lead to needless slaughter and he didn't want to kill anyone until he heard an explanation from the imposter.
There was no solution, he would have to wait and see if opportunity presented itself. As he climbed the stairs once more, ready to sink into his waiting bed, he felt a tingle of apprehension as he reached for the doorknob.
After a moment of hesitation, he turned the knob and walked into the room, where a not unwelcome guest awaited him. She was decked out in black leather stealth gear, weapons put to the side, lounging there without a care in the world. One strand of purple hair was twisting in a lazy finger as the rest lay spread across his pillow.