Volume 2, Part XXI: Grug and Grog

Sand exited the captain's quarters and slowly made his way to the galley. The sailors gave him curious looks as he passed them but Sand merely nodded politely, walking as quickly as the swaying ship would let him. The galley was a cramped space, with barrels of salted meats lining the walls, sausages hanging overhead, and tins of a hard, white pastry. A netted bag in the corner held oranges and other citrus fruits. A wizened old man with a hook for a hand was busy chopping potatoes for a stew and Sand couldn't help but be impressed by the efficacy with which he was spearing the spuds and slicing them.

The old man didn't even look up from his work. "Comin' to beg Old Carmen for scraps like the sharkbait worthy sprog that ye are? Fetch me that thar sack o' taters. The Cap'n may judge a man by his coin but I says show me him pullin' a line b'for I make my call."

It took Sand a moment to translate. Ah - he wants me to help him to prove to him I'm of value. I can do that.

He walked over to a bag of potatoes leaning against the far wall and carried it over to the table, wincing slightly at the weight pulling down on his shoulders. The ship hit a wave and Sand nearly toppled over. A sad looking potato rolled out onto the uneven table and Old Carmen jabbed it with his hook, before gesturing towards a keg. "Grog and earn yer sea legs, master wizard."

Sand went over and poured two pints of a golden brown ale. He put one glass in front of the cook and took the other for himself, sitting across from him. He took a sip and gagged. The ale was positively one of the nastiest drinks Sand had ever had the displeasure of drinking. Even Duncan's worst ale was leagues better than this. Old Carmen tossed a potato his way. "Make yerself useful, ye son of a biscuit eater."

Sand wasn't going to even try to understand that insult and began diligently cutting the potato. He had no idea why he was even bothering with this; normally he'd be quick to return the jab and be out the door, but something about the cook stayed with him. Probably the hook, Sand mused. Every time the ship gave a jolt, Sand yanked his fingers back from the knife. He could slice up one potato to Old Carmen's five; even then, his pieces were uneven, crooked, thick and thin.

Carmen moved in a flurry, tossing vegetables onto the swaying, shifting table expertly; when the ship rocked, the various accoutrements slid across the table, and yet the wizened old man never missed a beat, sliding them back the other way with his hook and continuing on as before. After a moment, he reached over and lightly rapped Sand on the hand with the curved back of his hook. "Yer not cuttin' them right, ye land lovin' monkey; 'ere, ye've got to flick yer wrist! Flick it!" The hook-handed pirate demonstrated, slamming the sharpened point of his instrument across a hapless carrot.

He pushed a loose strand of hair back, "Sweet Mystra, I'm trying. Does it really matter if I'm cutting right or not? It'll all end up in the pot anyhow!" When the cook began berating him and yelling "Flick it", Sand had a nostalgic moment of remembering him yelling those very words to Torio in the tiny safehouse. Why hadn't he realized just how annoying it was? He was amazed she hadn't stabbed him in the throat with the wand. He would have to thank her later for it.

The old man watched the elf shrewdly. "Yer that old magic-spewin' landlubber the Cap'n took on, aren't ye?" The ship lurched once more and the hook slid across the table again, keeping the chopped food from dumping onto the deck. Old Carmen took a long, contented draw from his ale glass and smacked his lips appreciatively. "Don't look like a seafarin' type; what are ye doin' on me ship, then?"

Sand wondered if he should bother lying to the old sailor. Maybe he just wouldn't tell the entire truth. "I'm seeking a safe passage home for myself and my companion, to Neverwinter. I had the coin, your Captain had the ship. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement." He watched, fascinated, as the old cook managed to chop vegetables, drink ale, and keep it all from landing on the floor. "How long have you been sailing?"

"Ha! Ye've got a slick way of talkin', boy," Carmen cackled, expertly goring a hunk of meat hanging from the rafter and yanking it down onto the table with an earth-shattering thud! "Fancy wizards and fancy words, begad!" He shook his head despairingly and began ripping strips of meat and sliding them off to the side, repeating his precarious balancing act every time the ship lurched. "Been sailin' fer me whole life," he cackled. "Me mother t'was said te have thrown me on a ship durin' a battle, wit' one o' the vilest ragin' storms screamin o'er 'er head through the lot of it." He grinned at Sand, revealing gold-capped teeth. "They says I leapt from a'twixt 'er legs, grabbed me a cutlass, and threw meself into the fight!"

The man tossed back the rest of his ale, and then subsequently tossed the ale glass towards Sand; apparently it was the elf's job to keep the cook thoroughly quenched. "Been on the sea e'er since, so I 'ave! 'Ere, get that pot blazin, while yer at it, matey." The hook gestured towards where a pot was swinging precariously over a small iron pit, a grease-slathered grate covering the charcoals.

Sand caught the glass and nearly fell over as the ship gave another jarring jerk. He went back to the keg and poured Old Carmen a drink, teetering back to his seat. He put the glass down in front of the cook and then stumbled gracelessly to the cooking fire. At least with his alchemical experience and all the time keeping the fires going when they were on the road, he would be good for something in front of the old man. Sand cast Burning Hands and watched as the fuel lit up brightly and warm. He stoked the fire with a nearby poker. "Don't you ever get tired of the sea, all this rocking and swaying? What about a family? Wife? Children?"

Old Carmen whistled appreciatively as Sand lit the fire. "Ha! Sink me, ye'd be a useful dog durin' a storm, mate! These ol' bones be gettin' stiff in the cold and wet, lately." He began flicking vegetables into the air, sending them sailing expertly over his shoulder and splashing into the swinging pot. He spoke as he chopped and threw, chopped and threw. "An old sea dog like me t'ain't fit fer a wife, ha! Aaah, but t'were a lass once..." Old Carmen sighed wistfully, twisting an end of his ragged, greying mustache for a moment. "Lovely green eyes, she 'ad, and the roundest ale'cups ye ever coulda seen." The old cook waved his hands in the air, drawing a shape in front of him and grinning. "Ah, but it t'weren't meant te be, mate! I love th' sea, 'ornery mistress that she be, and my lovely lass ne'er could abide the competition. Garn, but it t'were a shame; she could sail better'n half the men." The old pirate began caught a stray strip of meat as it flew off the table and flung it disdainfully into the pot. "Ha! ye almost got me there, scallywag."

He turned, and for good measure, poured a stint of his ale into the pot. "Ah well, all's history, ye know." He winked at Sand. "What about yerself, fancy posh wizard castin' spells and the like; ye've got one o' them 'arems, do ye?" His eyes became wistful. "Blimey, we 'ad one o' them red wizards on ship once...the wimmin 'e 'ad with him, cor!"

Sand gave up trying to stand on the swaying ship and just sat himself on the ground, poking at the fire to keep it high. "No harem for me. Just the one wimm- woman. She's quite the handful; I don't think I could handle a harem even if I were offered one with her around." He jabbed hard at a piece of coal, watching it crumble and the orange flames lick greedily at it. "She loves her work; not one to settle down either - like you I suppose. I told her I'd follow her but her work takes her dangerous places; I may not be able to follow her everywhere." Sand pressed his lips into a thin line, staring at the glass of ale. Shrugging, he emptied it, choking on the bitter brew and then continued speaking, "And she has lovely...uh...ale cups too."

"Hahaha!" The old cook slapped his knee. "Sounds like a right prickly lass; Aye, what can ye do wit' em; tie 'em to the bed, I says, and that'll keep 'em in one place." He winked roguishly at Sand; his foot kicked out expertly and flipped a stool onto the deck beneath him before sitting down, leaning forward conspiratorially as he stabbed a slim wooden plank into the pot and began stirring.

"See, the tricks is..." he said, whispering loudly, "Ye gets someplace nice 'n pretty; 'ard te catch yerself a bonny lass when yer on a ship and ne'er in one place, ye know." He winked at him. "Or if she t'ain't, either. Then, ye's slips a ring on 'er finger, spout a few pretty words and she'll be slaverin' over ye like a dog come for supper!" He reached out, clapping Sand heartily on the back, before turning towards the pot. "And speakin' o' supper, go hollar fer the crew; this won't keep all night!"

Sand's lips twitched and he fought back a laugh. "Tie her to the bed? Somehow I suspect she would get other ideas, my sailor friend..." In fact, Sand knew she would and knew exactly what those ideas would entail.

He tried to picture Torio's response if he took her somewhere nice and pretty (which may have to be limited to the Keep and its surrounding lands so his options were severely limited), gave her a ring (another piece of jewelry, ironically enough, binding her to a person, a place or a thing) with words of fluffy Elven love poetry (well that actually was a good idea since she did seem to rather enjoy it, without ever admitting it).

He could hypothesize, even as he stood up and went to the galley door to call the crew down for their meal, that her reaction would not be one of "slaverin' dog". "Angry bitch"? "Irritated cur"? "Cornered hound"? He stopped himself when he realized he was comparing Torio to a mere mutt. The lovely seafaring metaphors would have to end here.

Sand stuck his head up on deck, blinking in the sudden coolness in the air. The sailors were busy scrubbing the deck, adjusting the sails, climbing up and down the riggings like large spiders. He cleared his throat, "Uh...supper?"

The sailor nearest to him looked up and grinned a toothless smile. "Nay, mage, ye best be doin' this way." He stood and cupped his hand around his mouth and shouted, "Grub in the galley! Grub and grog, me hearties!"

Sand jumped back and pressed himself against the wall as a stampede of sweaty, sunbaked sailors rushed past him to the galley doors. He made his way back to the captain's quarters, using the walls as support, and slipped inside quietly. Torio was slumped over the desk, sleeping soundly, a map in her hands. He knelt by her feet and gently took the parchment from her fingers, laying it back on the table. He nudged her with his mind.

Helkaer. Food's ready. Wake up.

Torio's eyes snapped open; she sat motionless for a moment before her conciousness-ascending mind registered where she was. She sat up, winced as her neck creaked in protest, and pressed a hand to her table-creased cheek. "Mmmm...how long has it been?" She stretched, standing up and arching her hands up towards the ceiling. She eyed him sleepily for a moment, smirking. "Give me a minute, Bodaes; I'll have to get 'ready' for supper, I suppose."

She moved to where the various pieces of her disguise lay, and picked them up; she slipped her tunic up over her shoulders and began wrapping the webbing around her chest, tying it off a little awkwardly. The tunic came back on, followed by her surcoat and boots. She pushed her hair back and held out her arms, open for inspection. "I doubt anyone will look closely enough at me to raise any questions." She swept low in a flourished, affected bow. "Shall we, Master?"

Sand couldn't resist peeking as she got into her disguise, watching her flatten out her obvious curves. "You were asleep for likely the better part of an hour, dear girl. The cook was rather adamant that I help him prepare the meal tonight. Consider it a trial run of my abilities as a house-husband."

He studied her critically, his face cool and detached before he nodded, satisfied. "Ever much the young androgynous boy. Come 'Jacob'. You mustn't keep your Master waiting." He weaved towards the galley again and pushed the door open. The small room was cramped full of sailors, drinking, laughing. There were good natured shouts as they entered and two seats were cleared up for them. Plates of food were shoved in front of them, as were glasses of a dark rum.

A sailor clapped Torio on the back. "Lad! Yer pretty handy with a knife in a fight. Did the old wizard teach you that? The crew aboard the Lusty Luskan always be needing a good man in a pinch if you find life as a privateer to yer liking."

Torio followed Sand into the small, cramped chow hall, keeping her head ducked low. She sat, reached for the glass of rum at her place setting, and nearly knocked it over as a hand slapped her back, nearly realigning her spine in the process. She glanced at the sailor and shrugged, non-committal, her voice back to the mumbling, uncertain tone she had used for Drakken. "Learned it at the docks." Well that much was true, at least.

The men seemed to be yelling at each other even though they were only a few feet apart; they jabbed fingers at each other, swore violently, laughed loudly; one of them was expounding on the virtues of Rashemian gambling dens, inciting a near riot as two of the sailors on the far end of the table objected. One of the men was puffing on a sweetish-smelling rolled cigar at the far end of the table and watching them both closely, his expression sour. He seemed intent on catching her eye, and so she kept her eyes turned away from him. The stew seemed somewhat nondescript and...questionable in its contents. She dug a spoon into the concoction, nudging Sand's mind...You helped make this, Bodaes? She sent a quick prayer to Denier and thrust her spoon into her mouth.

Sand realized that eating with the sailors was much like eating with several Khelgars and Neeshkas, only with more questionable table manners (if that was possible). He watched Torio try a spoonful and when she didn't immediately spit it out or keel over, he tried a bite as well. I did the potatoes and started the cooking fire. I don't claim responsibility for anything else.

The stew tasted like a salty concoction of watered down ale with vegetable thrown in for good measure. Sand realized belatedly that that was exactly what it was and made no pretense of being otherwise. He chewed and swallowed, the food seeming to clump agonizingly in his throat. He took a drink of the rum to help wash it down; as awful as it was, it was hot food and it wasn't poisoned, two things to be grateful for. Sand nearly snorted derisively when he realized his standards for what constituted a good meal had fallen sharply in recent weeks.

Sand looked down the small table, his ears alert. The sailors were now talking loudly about Drakken, still tied to the mast and still on board. One sailor, with a full beard and a long scar running down his cheek was waving his hands about adamantly, "Nay! The wiser course of action would be to slit his throat and dump the body to the depth. Dead men tell no tales..."

A thin sailor with a hooked nose was frowning as he replied, "That be short-sighted, ye waister. Ye throw him to the fishes, sink or swim to Luskan, and he'll be in yer backpocket for the return. As it stands, Luskan will never let the good Captain back in her waters."

Sand spoke up, "So the Harbor Master is still aboard the ship? How would we return him?"

The thin sailor grinned at Sand, his teeth blackened and gray, "Aye! Ye tie the poor soul to a barrel when the tide be headed in, let him drift to shore. If the chase was on, ye can leave him for his mates to find..."

Sand scooped up another spoonful of the questionable food and said, "So what does Captain Abelor think?"

The bearded sailor shrugged but his eyes shone brightly at Sand. "Ah, master wizard, it appears yer influence aboard the ship be great indeed. He awaits your opinion."

Torio nearly choked on her food as she tried to swallow; a big, meaty hand came out of nowhere and slapped her on the back, and her glass of rum was shoved in front of her face from somewhere else by a much bonier, gnarled hand. "'Ere, lad, don't go breathin' yer chow!"

She managed a swallow with the burning help of a drink from her rum, and said, her voice hoarse, "He waits now?"

The men laughed, the table shaking as multiple hands slapped against the wood, causing bowls and glasses to tremble and skid across its surface. "Lookit 'is face!"

A rather grubby looking sailor reached across the table, ruffling Torio's head in what she assumed was an affectionate manner; her skull felt like it was being ground under a pestle and she winced as she imagined what manner of filth was being deposited into her hair. "A reg'lar advisor te the Cap'n, that's what ye are, lad!"

THUNK!

All eyes darted towards the entrance to the chow hall. Old Carmen's hook lay embedded in the doorframe. "No one leaves until ye finish yer grub, ye swine! Yon wizard slaved o'er it for hours...ye wouldn't want te let the Cap'n's honored guest feel bad, now, would ye?"

A table full of interested eyes swiveled towards Sand.

Sand's eyes widened, "Oh goodness, no no. I was really only here for about an hour and it was no trouble at all, really. I won't feel bad; if you all have some place to be..." He waved his bent fork in front of him in what he hoped was an offhand manner. The last thing he wanted was a shipful of rogue sailors to decide him and Torio weren't worth the trouble and throw him overboard with Drakken.

"Bah! These sea dogs could learn a thing or two of class and decency from you." Old Carmen extracted the hook from the wood. "Show him yer manners and yer kindness." His lips twitched a bit as he leaned against the wall, "He tells a sad tale about a difficult lass; she be breakin' his heart, she is. She has the call of wanderlust. So offer yer sympathies, men."

Torio's spoon clattered noisily into her bowl, even as stools scooted back against the floor and bodies leaned over the table, crowding around Sand. "Tell us, mate!"

"'E don't look 'eartbroken te me!"

"Bah, what do ye know, Chancey, 'e's an elf, they always look the same! And ye only 'ave one eye!"

One of the sailors, a spindly man with a bandana pulled so tightly around his head his hair seemed to be trying to poke through the fabric, scooted next to Sand and slid an arm around Sand's shoulders. "C'mon, tell us the tale! Old Carmen won't budge an inch, 'e likes te tease us, 'e does."

"What's she loike?"

"Is she rich?"

"Is she on o' them rich elfy type princesses?"

"Cor, what in the hells 'ave ye been reading, Forswooth? Elfy type princesses?"

"Well, I heard once from the Cap'n..."

The argument erupted around them, loud and good-natured...beneath it, a constant, rhythmic pounding began on the table, and soon voices were chanting "Tell, tell, tell, tell!"

Torio carefully pushed herself back from the table, slipping under one of the arms and passed the bodies that blocked her escape from the chow hall as they swarmed around the wizard; her face was rather stony as she slipped past Carmen and out the door; the cook gave her a rather shrewd look as she escaped the chow hall and walked out into the deck.

Sand felt Torio's warm presence beside him leave; he looked up and followed her disappearing back as she slipped quietly, unnoticed by the other sailors, from the room. He could only catch glimpses of her, through the tattooed arms, and weathered, beaten bodies of the men as she left. Torio was quickly replaced by a large, swarthy sweaty sailor, who shoved the rum into his hands.

"Ah...Thanks, friend." He took a sip of the harsh drink, blinking as it burned down to his stomach. "She's not an elfy type princess." Sand mentally added, You ignorant, one tankard drunk - I really am aboard a ship of fools. "She's human. Not rich but she has a mind you could cut with." He stared back at the doorway before continuing. "She's quite beautiful." Sand fought back the urge to describe her fully, realizing that it would give away her entire disguise. "Um...lovely ale cups?"

Loud, raucous laughter erupted from the table and multiple hands patted his back.

"So ye drink well at night, do ya master wizard!"

"Don't let the lass git away with her ways! Ye tell her how ye want it done."

Old Carmen squeezed into a seat. "Wimmin like her are rare gems, wizard. Ye be a sprog to let 'er go and go off then there be no accountin' who she'll meet." He half-turned and stared at the doorway as well. "Don't lend an ear to these waisters. Ye follow her for her life time; ye'll have yer freedom far too soon, elf, and ye'll be wishing ye ne'er let 'er outta yer sights."

"Bah! Ye don't know what yer talkin of, Carmen!" One of the sailors laughed uproariously and slid another drink towards Sand. "Come on, elf! Here's te the wimmin that eat our hearts out!" He lifted his grubby glass and the room was filled with raucous shouting and cheers as the sailors tipped their glasses back. One of the men began recounting a tale, describing a Waterdhavian courtesan and her multiple talents to the delight and rampant disbelief of his fellow sailors.

Difficult.

Well, Torio couldn't deny that. She thrust her hands in her pockets and walked out across the wooden deck, frowning and glancing up at the near-midnight sky as sea spray flew languidly over the tops of the sails. She saw a flicker of flame across the deck...a flame flickering against a familiar face as it lit a pipe...

Abelor.

She wandered over to him, hunching her shoulders against the breeze. "Hear tell you need advice on what to do with a certain Harbor Master, Captain. Where is Drakken now?"