A Decent-Ish Proposal
Wayne gets a less desirable proposal than the one he was hoping for.
“You know, this is not what I expected when you asked me to escort you back to your ship.” Wayne said in an amused tone that masked his disappointment. Her answering smile fell between the facade of indulgent tolerance and a more honest predatory delight.
He hadn’t been sure what he’d been expecting - far too distracted by Mâhríann’ah’s friendly overtures giving him hope of a magical and unexpected liaison of the more sensual variety - but this half baked hope quickly evaporated when he saw the Targannian cutter.
This post is a continuation of the story arc that includes Wayne & Sylvie - in order…
Mâhríann’ah’s ship was a sleek design, built for speed rather than cargo capacity, and was absent of any house insignia. To most people, this lack of a feature wouldn’t be a matter of noticeable significance… but Wayne had been around long enough to know that it was a rarity to see such a vessel that wasn’t explicitly claimed by one of the merchant guilds or noble families of Targannon.
What it suggested, but did not explicitly say, is that Mâhríann’ah was travelling aboard a ship that belonged either to a Targannian pirate… or a spy. At the moment, he was leaning more towards a spy than pirate, for the simple fact that there were sailors aboard the ship, waiting to greet Mâhríann’ah and her guest, in the midnight hours.
A time that any self-respecting pirate would be deep into their cups in the local pub. Such a state of readiness suggested real discipline and unity of purpose. Probably not pirates then.
“No? Do you like my ship?” Mâhríann’ah said with a flourish, implying that this ship was not just what she was travelling on, but actually belonged to her. She had clung to his arm like it was a lifeline for the trip back to her boat, but now her grip felt more like an incredibly beautiful shackle dragging him to an uncertain and likely dangerous fate.
“It’s very clean. I’ve always thought that women captains kept tidier ships,” Wayne said, staring down one of the ‘sailors’ who was keeping a close eye on them, armed with a pair of the short curved blades Targannian duelists were famed for. The ‘sailor’ looked well fed and fit. Better than he’d expect a sailor for a Targannian merchant ship. Probably not a merchant ship either, then.
“Hmm…” She said with a thoughtful tone, “Have you… known… many ‘women captains’?”
She was leading him towards the companionway. Wayne stopped moving, and she came to a rather comical halt, while still managing to maintain her vice like grip on his bicep.
She shot him a look of disapproval with just a hint of a pout, and let go of his arm.
“A few, though not in the way you’re implying. And just about all of them are pirates. And one sea witch. Though I don’t think you’re a witch. I’m less certain you’re not a pirate,” Wayne said, crossing his arms and standing in a manner that cried out ‘no more games or I start hitting things.’
He could feel the ripple of tension go through the crew, which he noted was more than was needed for a night watch in the relatively quiet port town of Miraan. There were at least eight armed sailors on board, all lounging around, in an effort to ‘look bored.’
Mâhríann’ah laughed, waving her hand in a dismissive gesture. “I’m no witch, nor am I a pirate. Just a travelling Avâzgar with a wealthy enough patron to provide me with my own ship.” Wayne didn’t move and raised his eyebrows.
He looked at her, saying nothing. She crossed her arms and glared back at him.
“What. It’s true. I’m not a witch, I’m not a pirate, I am an Avâzgar, and this is my patron’s ship - which he has so graciously given me,” she looked at him with a concentrated burst of annoyance.
Wayne still said nothing. Statues showed more emotion and dynamism than he did. Mâhríann’ah, not one to be outdone in a staring contest, glared back.
The gentle pulse of the ocean's waves, and the wind blowing into the harbour were all that could be heard, as everyone aboard the ship collectively held their breath.
The silence dragged on, the tension became awkward, and then slightly confused.
One of the sailors leaned over and whispered to his colleague in hushed Targannian, “Should we… do… something?”
His companion shrugged, “She hasn’t ordered us to do anything.”
A third whispered, “My money’s on the old man breaking first.”
Some fierce betting and setting of odds started taking place, and a couple other of the sailors got in on the action. Professionals though they may be, they had been having a very boring night up until their ‘Captain’ brought back this recalcitrant local to the ship. In lieu of anything exciting to do, gambling is always a good way to fill the time.
Through all the minor disruptions of this impromptu betting house, Wayne and Mâhríann’ah eye’s were locked in a contest of wills that increasingly seemed pointless, if entertaining.
It occurred to Wayne that Mâhríann’ah wasn’t intimidated by his looming, and she was doing an admirable job of maintaining her part in this glaring contest. And now he had an audience to this contest, with money riding on the outcome. Not his money, but money nonetheless. He internally lamented the lost youth and superior looming skills of his early thirties.
He heard the sound of the flutter of wings on the ocean winds. He gave a grim smile, and Mâhríann’ah’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“I think it’d be best if you told me what you’re up to now. Because I *thought* I was just helping a Targannian woman in trouble with an entitled local noble-brat, but my opinion on that has changed. I’d rather not get murdered or poisoned, so let's just have the truth out here and now,” Wayne said, doing his best to sound amused and in charge.
Mâhríann’ah’s eyes remained narrowed, and her arms remained crossed. “I *was* telling you the truth. And if you’d like to know more beyond that, perhaps you’d like to come inside where we could talk without the gossiping busy-bodies listening in and betting on everything we do here?” She said all of this without breaking her gaze, and managing to inflect a great deal of sarcasm into her words.
Wayne looked back at the small pack of sailors who were furiously discussing how the change in dialogue affected their betting. When he made eye contact with the small group, two of them threw up their hands in victory and started chattering excitedly in Targannian.
Apparently, Wayne had just lost the staring contest.
He rolled his eyes and turned back to face Mâhríann’ah, whose eyes were now glittering in triumph. He smirked at her obvious glee.
“Congratulations,” he said dryly. “However my past experiences with getting into private quarters with secretive Targannian women has typically ended with me naked and unconscious, and not in the fun ‘I’d like to repeat that’ kind of way, but in a ‘where the hell is my stuff’ kind of way. You’ll have to give me something better than ambiguous promises to explain everything privately.”
Her look of triumph morphed into genuine amusement, “Ah, I see my fellow country-women have done a real number on you,” and shook her head.
“Oh, they’ve done many things to me, not all of which I’ll complain about,” Wayne said. This time she did laugh.
“But give him half a chance and a bottle of wine, and he’ll probably find a way to complain about all of it,” came Sylvie’s voice from behind Mâhríann’ah, who to her credit, didn’t spin around in terror at the high pitched sarcasm coming from two feet behind her. Instead Mâhríann’ah’s eyes narrowed again at Wayne.
“You were stalling,” she accused, and he grinned in response. “I’m not used to men stalling for tiny women to come to their rescue.”
“Oh, I’m sure he’d be fine without me. There’s only nine of you,” Sylvie said. One of the sailors coughed at this, and Wayne turned around to look at the crew standing there, looking a lot less casual than they had been a couple minutes back. Hands were on weapons and the men were trying to get a look at where the mysterious high pitched voice was coming from.
“Yes, he’s a very mighty hero who isn’t afraid of fighting eight armed sailors, but is afraid of entering into a private room with a lone woman,” Mâhríann’ah said dryly. Sylvie laughed, while Wayne frowned.
“What’s so shocking about that, the lone woman is clearly more dangerous,” he said, only half joking. There was some grumbling amongst the sailors, who didn’t even see half the humour.
“Well now that you have a chaperone to protect your honour, NOW will you come inside where we talk things out in a more civilised fashion?” Mâhríann’ah continued.
Wayne said, “By all means, let's go be ‘civilised.’ After you,” and gestured to the causeway.
The captain’s quarters were the nicest Wayne had seen in his long years of travel. Spacious, larger than the standard for this class of ship, and well laid out with quality wooden furniture of Targannian and Montaignian styles. Rugs and wall fabrics from all over the Armavirian continent showed that either Mâhríann’ah’s patron was very wealthy, or Mâhríann’ah herself was well travelled. In all likelihood, both these things were true.
But Wayne did not like how quickly Mâhríann’ah and Sylvie got chummy with each other. Sylvie had gotten deep into her cup, figuratively and literally, in short order after Mâhríann’ah’s initial shock at being asked to pour wine for the tiny fairy had worn off. Her polite hostessing had taken over, and she poured Sylvie a generous helping of Montaignian wine in a very fancy silver goblet.
A goblet large enough that Sylvie could use it as a hot tub if she was so inclined.
Even more shocking to Mâhríann’ah was Sylvie’s capacity for drinking - which should have been anatomically impossible, unless Sylvie had an external stomach to hold all that liquor. Mâhríann’ah watched in awe as Sylvie picked up the goblet five times her volume and started chugging expensive wine like it was a Tyrsday’s noon special penny brew.
When queried about this physical impossibility, Sylvie had replied with an indignant, “What. I’m freaking magical. Why is it so hard to believe I can drink thirty times my body size? Ants can carry twenty times their body weight and no one is shitting bricks over that.”
“But where does it go?” Mâhríann’ah asked in astonishment, pouring Sylvie another cup - who burped, and shrugged. Mâhríann’ah looked at Wayne, who also shrugged.
“I’ve learned not to question Sylvie’s secrets. They’re too confusing,” he said smiling, and continued, “Though she does make an excellent drinking buddy as she’s the first to notice if the beer is tainted or poisoned.”
“That’s because I have standards, you barbarian!” Sylvie shouted, a little too loudly. And then burped again.
“Can all Pari drink like you?” Mâhríann’ah asked. Sylvie, again, shrugged.
“Probably. Don’t think any of them do though. They prefer ‘natural’ or ‘organic’ drinks or other bullshit like that. Don’t know any other fairies that drink human booze. They think it’s rotten grapes or grasses or some shit. Can you believe that?” Sylvie said scornfully.
Mâhríann’ah opened her mouth, then closed it - then looked at Wayne with a baffled look on her face. Wayne just shook his head.
“Why don’t you tell us what’s going on?” he said, changing the subject.
So she did.
“Ha!” Sylvie shouted, in triumph.
“You know I was starting to doubt there was a Necromancer out here,” Wayne said, eyeing Sylvie who had gone back to slugging back her drink.
“Yea me too,” Sylvie said, “Particularly since I made that up to get you to stop whinging about your ex.”
Wayne’s eyes narrowed, and stood up and shouted at her. “You made that up!?” The little fairy barely seemed to notice, even while Mâhríann’ah cringed back at his angry outburst. “We travelled for two weeks in the accursed rain to find a Necromancer YOU MADE UP?!”
“Well it turns out I didn’t,” Sylvie said smugly. “I just didn’t know that I knew. And it was only six days in the rain, and a week of clouds.”
Wayne paused at that, frowned, and sat back down. Mâhríann’ah looked at him with part alarm, part curiosity. Given the volume of weird things that had happened in his life while travelling with Sylvie, her having limited pre-cognition wouldn’t be the strangest thing for him to believe.
“You are… recently single?” Mâhríann’ah asked Wayne. He blinked in surprise at the question, and turned his gaze to her.
“Yes, but let’s not talk about that thank you,” he said gruffly, not wanting to be subjected to any inauthentic sympathising.
“Good,” she said, “Because this Necromancer is likely dangerous and devious, and it’s better you be unattached.” He looked blankly at her. “In case you die,” she continued.
He frowned, not having expected such a bluntly honest answer. “Not where I thought you were going with that,” Wayne admitted as Sylvie stifled a laugh.
“I like her,” Sylvie said, sounding half cut. Mâhríann’ah beamed at the fairy, who smiled back in a shared mutual understanding of the utter disposability of men. Wayne sighed, used to this side of Sylvie, and not thrilled about her expressing such open admiration of Mâhríann’ah.
“And your interest in this Necromancer is stopping them from acquiring this artifact…” Wayne continued, trying to get the topic away from either his love life or bodily death.
“The Gríma Hels. It was locked up in my Patron’s vault, and was his responsibility to keep it hidden from the world lest some irresponsible and vile wizard use it to raise an army of the dead,” Mâhríann’ah explained. “He was very embarrassed when it disappeared.”
“I understand the Princes of Targannon get quite angry when embarrassed. And these thieves stole it and smuggled it here?” Wayne asked. Mâhríann’ah nodded in reply. “Why here?”
“We didn’t know for certain where they went, which is why I’m not the only emissary he sent out searching. As for why? We assumed they had a buyer. I thought with the Vauderhelm jungles so close across the strait from here… that if *I* were a wizard looking to raise an army of the dead…” Mâhríann’ah trailed off.
“Why not go to where the dead are already walking and spare yourself the effort of raising them,” Wayne finished. She nodded.
“When I arrived, I was greeted by rumours of a Necromancer in the neighbourhood,” she said, “Which both validates my prediction, and gives me great concern that there won’t be much time to get it back before they sail across the strait to begin their reign of terror.”
“Well that does sound like a problem,” Wayne said, frowning into his cup. “And you need someone more local to help you track down these thieves, or the necromancer, before the exchange takes place.”
Mâhríann’ah said, “Yes. And of course, I can pay you for your help.”
“I’m a genius!” Sylvie said, standing on the edge of her goblet and raising her arms in victory.
“It seems so,” Wayne said flatly, and took a long drink from his cup. “If only all your lies turned out to be this true.”
Editorial Note;
Writing this story ran away on me before my trip to the mountains to catch the best snowboarding weather I’ve had the pleasure of in the last 6 years. I usually shoot to publish by Saturdays (in this case, the last one), but this story came out longer than usual, and I ran out of time to do a proper edit and illustration of it.
Ce la vie. Je fais ce que je peux avec le temps dont je dispose.
Which apparently includes the best snowboarding I’ve had in 6 years. Weeeee! Except for the face plant on a double black diamond mogul. That wasn’t my best work. But the rest of it was excellent.
I’m currently debating a trip to the chiropractors.
I had a reader/friend comment that I hop around a lot with my stories - switching from character arc to character arc, without referencing any of their previous adventures.
Right, not everyone has read every story I’ve posted several times - like I have.
I thought this was a *highly* reasonable criticism, so I’m going to make an effort to include a link to any previous stories that includes characters of the existing story. So if this is your first post you’ve received of mine, you can go back to earlier story arcs and read those first if you prefer to do your reading in chronological order.
But this also brought to mind… I don’t have a good way of learning your perspectives on these stories. I’m writing in the dark, imagining how these stories must land in your experience. And since I’m not very imaginative, this has proven difficult.
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