The smell of salt had always been present, yet now it was more so. It used to mean a long day rigging sails and manning cannons, maybe casting lines. Now, it was representative of gazing at the ocean through iron bars and cured meat.
Devon was an adventurer at heart. A good one at that. However, he always wanted to squeeze every last drop from the lemon of life. He had sailed with the Marines, the Legion, Redwake ravagers, Frostmill foragers, Blackwater bandits. He had worked with freelancers, men of honor, and those without it. All to make sure he didn’t miss out on a thing.
When reports of ships lost at sea began becoming more frequent, and rescue forces more common, he found his new challenge.
He stowed away on a merchant ship headed to Sailor’s lodge, pecking at grain and sipping ale below deck, away from all eyes. When anchor dropped, he headed over to the stairs. He moved his head from side to side like a shark scanning the waters for colossal squid. When everyone was looking away, he made a run for it and dove.
While Devon had regretted things before, this was the newest one, and 2nd coldest. In his rush to be unnoticed, he had forgotten that it was late into the winter. The water was slushy with a thin ice layer. He broke through it easily, and the cold did the same with him. He gasped for air and swam with some difficulty towards the nearest wooden stilt that supported the beating heart of trade, villainy, heroism, and adventure.
As Devon emerged from the water, grasping for loose nails and dents to provide hand and foot holds, he felt snowflakes upon his brow. Then his nose. Then his cheeks. All until he appeared as though he had been smashed in the face with a snowball. He put both hands on the flooring of the main Sailor’s lodge platform. He lifted himself like a wet dog coming out of a pond, rolled onto his side, and spit out the water back where it belonged. He rolled onto his stomach and hoisted himself to a stand.
He quickly dried himself at the fireplace inside, put on a discarded sack as a makeshift poncho, and looked for his target. He was scanning the lodge for a job posting or advertiser for a Dark Sea expedition. He looked, he asked, he found.
In a corner, with grizzled men, green-beards, and part-timers huddled around, there was a man with a wide brimmed hat, two eyepatches, and a pipe that stretched halfway across the table, pushing up fungal smoke. He was speaking to his group as Devon approached. Devon waited for a second, then took his chance.
“'Scuse me mate, I’m gunna talk to the cap’n, you’ll have to take another job.” There was a fat man with long hair and rough coat, which Devon had a hard time deciding weather it was made of hide or his own hair, that spoke to him. “No, I really need this, plus I was here first”, replied Devon. “Well I don’t give Moby Dick’s ambergris about your needs or wants, so step aside young buck”. At this point, the eyepatch wearing captain had heard the commotion, and had asked his apparent right hand man to tell him what was going on. “Fellas, quit it. To me, it seems one was here first, and the other was here first. How about we do a little competition to settle this? But first, let me hear from you both.” Devon and the sailor both stumbled over their words to introduce themselves first. Devon managed to get back on his vocal feet first. “I come all the way from Frostmill, I am looking to join your crew, my name is Devon Baptiste”, the sailor answered quickly after “Well cap’n, my name is Gimbo Norris, or just Gimbo. I ran with one of your other crews when the Empire put out a bounty on that one wind mage and his crew, and I know you be one of the best in the trade.” The hatted man thought, and decided.
“To the abyss with a challenge, brawl. An whoever wins joins my crew. Bartender, pour out some Vasili.”
to be continued twice, hopefully
Part two 
