Welcome to Gaia! ::

He was short. Which seemed to be the first and last thing people noticed about him. The long red hair, the eye patch, the leathery brown skin, the artificial arm perpetually puffing steam into the air… all went right over their heads. If he were six-foot-two and had all those features, they’d work in tandem to paint a picture of a chiseled sky warrior, baked by the pure, unfiltered sun into a dangerous, respectable foe. But he was four-foot-eleven, so all those features, combined, made him seem more like a caricature than a chiseled sailor, some actor in a political cartoon who represents the misguided masculinity associated with piracy. His height reeked of youth. Made him ‘cute’.

So when he volunteered himself and his crew for this mission, the amount of shallow entertainment the officer drew from his suggestion really pissed him off.
“You sure?” The captain insisted, leaning back into his mahogany seat. “It’s not just an easy paycheck.”

“Yes.” He grimly replied, a nonnegotiable scowl pouring from the sides of his lips. “I’m sure.”

He was dressed in his best: trying to make a good first impression with military types was important, and the clothes made the man. In this case, he wore his red leather trench coat, frilled white undershirt, and a clean pair of elegantly laced leather chaps with Buffalo-hide boots. Naturally, a pistol hung from his side, an ornate holster made from sewn willow bark holding it in place. He was a sharp dresser, proud of his sense of fashion, so he made a point of rolling up his right sleeve so that the steam and gears didn’t ruffle the outfit.
“You seem a bit… how to phrase this diplomatically… inexperienced. You’re young. Fresh-faced. Green blooded.”

“If I wanted a thesaurus I’d have gone to the library.” He grunted—not that this room wouldn’t make for a nice library, mind: the walls were lined with ‘royal’ style bookshelves, carved from living oaks from the St. Bertrude holy grove, gilded with silver leaf across its edges with ivory plating on the shelves themselves: allegedly the ivory helped preserve the books but it was nothing more than an old wives tale only the fabulously wealthy could indulge in believing. The carpet was a creamy velvet, like someone spilled gallons of rich red wine across a long strip of wrinkled vanilla silk, and the curtains behind the polished walnut desks were a barely transparent purple, just thin enough to catch the sunlight behind it and glow. Even behind the thick glass and the concrete wall, you could barely make out the sound of the city as it propelled itself into another busy day.

“Well, regardless of what YOU were looking for, WE were looking for someone a little more… battle-hardened. Maybe a few good scars to show for his accomplishments.”
“Why take the man with the scar when you could take the guy who gave it to him?!” The pirate, Judath, protested, slamming his palms into the desk with an increasingly irritated voice—the metal tips of his artificial fingers threatening to scratch the polish.

“Well, calm down sailor.” The captain smirked, eyeing the artificial hand—more irked about the threat to his furniture than any perceived threat to his well-being. “I can tell you really want this job… care to tell me why?”
“I might throw it into your eulogy if you ask nicely enough.” He spat—despite his size his voice was quite a tenor, a brassy tone spiced with hints of passionate heat—like an unfinished bell being shaped by a blacksmith.

“Well, I guess it hardly matters. But you should know you don’t have the job yet—the prince wants to meet with all potential applicants himself.”

“What?” Judath raised an eyebrow, lifting himself from the table somewhat—and easing the pressure he was putting on the desk. “What’s a pampered mama’s boy got to do with the mission?”

“As I understand,” The captain recalled, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs, casually inspecting his nails, “He wants to test your worthiness personally. I never bothered to ask what this test was, but two other pirates evidently failed spectacularly. If you feel inclined, you could write Eulogies for THEM…”

Judath slowly straightened himself, a peculiar eye resting upon the comfortably arrogant man in front of him. Something seemed off, but staying in a comfortable zone was never terribly comfortable for the young pirate—it was the exploration of the strange and dangerous that renewed his lungs with fresh air, and if he had to undergo this trial to get this job, then he’d do it ten times over.

“Fine. Take me there.”

“To their funerals? I’m pretty sure-“

“No, you dumb ponce, to the prince. I’ll take his damn test even if it kills me.”

“I believe the word you WERE looking for was ‘unless’.”

“Shut up and take me there.”

“Fine, fine, fine.” He pushed his chair out, standing, then gesturing to the door. “He’s right down the way. By all means… follow me.”

The walk to the throne room was something of an agony, thanks to the fact that his guide was very intentionally taking rather large strides with his significantly longer legs, and therefor moving at quite a clip. This meant he either had to stop and wait for Judath, which was an insult, or Judath had to lightly jog behind him, which was humiliating.

He really didn’t like this man.

The fortress was elegant, however, and there was no lack of elegance for his eyes to enjoy while they underwent their journey: the stone walls were decorated with the arms of the noble families of the kingdom, and decorative armors, designed more for fashion than functionality, stood effortlessly next to the coat of arms that represented them. The doors were all closed, however—probably because the people of the fortress were tired of the cruel looks of the pirate captains who had been summoned to deal with their little problem. There was a little venom in his glare, he’d admit—but in such small dosages it tended to only tickle the blood instead of poison it.

The door was opened while Judath was still a few paces behind the captain—when Judath walked in himself, the prince was already standing, pulling his a** off his elegant throne to inspect the pirate himself. Judath was silent, scowling but still, as the posh pompous prince looked him over like he was livestock.

Eventually, he extended his hand—no bows. He could respect that. One point for the Prince—now he was only negative 82.

“Pleasure I’m sure.”

He met the man’s hand with his artificial one, giving it a firm but unaggressive shake, lest his gesture of goodwill be mistaken for attempted assault, since he technically had to register the arm as a weapon. He let go as Gethin made mention of this ‘test’, and he had to admit, unless they shot the pirates who gave answers he didn’t like, he had a hard time seeing verbal interplay being the source of two deaths.

Or maybe the Captain was just trying to scare him off.

“Why did I come here today? Honestly?” He spat, gently sliding his fingers into his jacket pocket. “Honesty is an overrated virtue, and a terrible judge of someone’s ability to do a goddamn job. I’m going to say I came here to get the contract, and if I’m honest or not isn’t going to change the fact that I’m not leaving until I get it.”

He stopped… at first satisfied with that answer, but after a moment of silence, he spoke again, having reconsidered his comfort ending his thoughts prematurely.

“An example. If I told you St. Sherspire took my arm, lopped it off with one mighty swing of his axe, four possibilities exist. If it’s the truth, and you give a damn, then we’re all good—you understand I have a purpose and drive and I get the contract. If it’s a lie, and you give a damn, then we get the same results—you trust I have a purpose and drive, and if I was motivated enough to think of a lie like that, then it means regardless of the TRUTH I still want to see the man dead. If it’s the truth and you don’t give a damn, then you’ll judge me on my other merits, like my impeccable sailing skills, and if it’s a lie and you don’t give a damn then I can just tell another lie until you DO give a damn. Either way I’m getting what I want.”

He breathed, a bit of a sigh and a huff combined, and disengaged eye-contact with the prince to look around the throne room… damn, there was a lot of marble.

“Wait, wait, excuse me?” Judath started—he was all prepared to answer the Prince’s first question with some more of his unique personal flare, but just as he was finishing his thought, Gethin threw in that last bit how this particular pirate wasn’t suited for the task—because, let me get this straight—he was rude? The smaller man stomped over to the prince, a rather crude frown on his chapping lips, “I’m sorry, were you looking for a f@$king diplomat or were you looking for a killer? Because I was under the impression that when you said you wanted St. Sherspire dead, how cordial I am to him before I slit his throat wasn’t really a priority!”

While glaring angrily up the Prince, still in the throes of his rant, he very casually pulled his pistol out of his holster and shot the sniper who had his rifle trained on the royal—like hell he was dying before Judath was finished. Of course, the fact that he was able to make such a difficult shot at such a long range with a pistol without breaking eye contact with the prince alone might be impressive.

“Do you think a tempered polite man could have shot your assassin without a second thought? If I had hesitated for even a moment longer you’d be dead! You want a killer, you got one right in front of you, you want a civilized gentleman to talk sh!t over and maybe politely suggest St. Sherspire retire somewhere quiet and leave you alone, by all means just do the damn job yourself!”

He holstered his pistol again, hooking his fingers into his pockets. After a moment’s thought, his face smoothed out somewhat and his glare grew softer.

“…oh, right. You were about to get shot. You probably didn’t realize it. Sniper’s outside, bleeding somewhere.”

There was nothing quite as obnoxious as the slow clap. Not that he hadn’t deserved it, at least—it was while the heat rose back in his forehead at the gesture that he realized this prince figure had been playing him for a fool this whole time, intentionally getting him riled—again, something about short people getting angry was just irresistibly funny to some people. He’d have to try harder next time not to be so easily manipulated.

The prince applauded Judath, congratulating the pirate on “saving his life”, and in doing so, passing the test—wait, so when the Captain said there were funerals he was talking about the prince faking his own assassination. Well. It seemed he’d been had more than once today—no wonder he was getting the job, nothing was more appealing than a gullible pirate.

He grunted—whatever. Pride mends. He crossed his arms and leaned against the window frame, staring at the prince with a slight irritation—residual resentment from the whole ‘being tricked’ thing.

“Whoa, whoa, slow down. All I knew coming here was that you needed someone to kill St. Sherspire. I don’t know why, and I certainly didn’t know you were coming ALONG… or that we were using YOUR ship. What the hell am I supposed to tell my crew, that they have to learn how to run a new ship in two day’s time?”

He paused, then remembering something else, continued.

“Also, when are we getting paid? Now, or after he’s dead or what?”

“Gah, why do you political types need to make everything so damn complicated?” Was the first thing out of his mouth, although he almost immediately regretted saying it. Still, he wouldn’t show any regret or remorse in his body language—he merely tucked the bit of shame he felt into the back of his mind for later consideration—and continued as if he hadn’t uttered such a thing.

“Well, I’ll need to consort with my crew on the ship business, they’re the ones who will be most effected by it. In the meantime, the hell are you talking about, going with us? Last time we had a princess like you on board he was walking funny for days by the time he got off. The boys get frustrated, you know?” He lied in an effort to possibly dissuade the prince from joining them: this job was a dream come true, and while he was… grateful for the opportunity, he was by no means eager to spend the next several days or weeks on a small confined ship with Captain Cocky here.

He signed, looking back over the distance while he drummed his fingers over the handle of his pistol—getting all these details sorted out before the actual killing started was always the worst part of taking these contracts, but experience has taught him first hand that skipping these formalities can turn around and bite you in the a** later…

[[sorry if this is short/poorly-written. I'm in the middle of listening to you rehearse your speech. ]]

Judath pondered.

He had a crew of 17 good men and women: 3 gunners, 5 engineers, 1 navigator, 1 cook, 7 sailors, and obviously his second in command—all well-versed in combat and marksmanship. It was a crew large enough to accommodate their small raiding ship, which only needed to be big enough to trade fire with military-grade ships and get close enough to board unarmed private ships; no pirate in their right mind would sink a ship and lose all that valuable plunder and machinery, after all, so the only time they ever actually used the cannons was to deter pursuers or to fend off the occasional sky-manta.

The only thing a bigger ship was good for, Judath thought, was to carry more cannons and to absorb more fire—useful for the armada, but it was outrageously impractical for any pirate such as himself—and certainly useless given the nature of the mission, unless they really only wanted him dead for his death’s sake.

He still wasn’t clear why they needed this general assassinated
.
So he had two big decisions to deal with before they took off—what ship to use and what to do about the Prince here. If he were smart, he’d come to a decision before signing anything, but he was only just smart enough to realize that would be the smart thing to do—he wasn’t quite smart enough to actually do it.

“Yeah, I’ll sign.” Judath huffed, tapping on the holster of his gun with his fake hand, the artificial tapping abnormally loud in the throne room. “Despite your best efforts I’m not gonna let you ruin this opportunity for me, even if it means I have to tolerate your tagging along. Just don’t get in my way.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his quill—it was one he made himself from the plucked feathers of a gorehawk, which was a brilliant green color with splashes of red tuffs that looked like bloodstains.

“But I’ll have to see this ship of yours before I decide which one we take off with. When can we get to that?”

You learn harsh lessons when you live on the edge of the law. Namely, read what people give you to sign—considering how little he knew of the situation, there was no way Judath would sign anything before giving it a good once-over with his good eye. Scanning it, he’d read while keeping pace with the Prince, only looking up when they reached the room where the ship waited for them: he had some preconceptions on what kind of ship the prince would build, and it was lovely to know each and every one was absolutely correct.
“You kidding me?” He’d ask, lowering the contract and raising an eyebrow at the prince, a slightly amused but mostly irritated scowl on his thin lips, “This is a flying target. It looks too nice, pirates and mercenaries alike will know someone important is on board. Any Vaclik ship would recognize that it’s a military grade, and since all your ships are SUPPOSED to be at the blockade they’ll know something is wrong. Hell, Sherspire would shoot at this thing on sight, which would make boarding nearly impossible.”

“You know what, I think I asked the wrong questions.” He admitted in a dull voice as he turned his eye back down to read the contract, looking for any sneaky language that might bite him in the a** later, “Have you ever gone sailing before? Like, really sailing?”