Today’s snippet, titled “She Means F*ckin’”, is a piece I wrote about my PC in Paul’s new pirate themed Pathfinder Campaign.
Be forewarned, there may be mature themes and naughty language below.
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“Oui. Faedrin said so himself. I don’t think he would lie about it — there’s no gain in it for him that I can see. Kiskaeyn wants you and I to sit at her table tonight. It can only mean one thing.”
“She ain’t that ugly,” Red said, leaning closer to the small mirror they had tied to a post in the cramped closet that served as their cabin. The burly half-orc fluffed his muttonchop sideburns for a moment longer, then scrutinized his work. “What d’ya think?”
Lorenzo lifted his friend’s chin, inspecting the technique. “Trés bon. Magnifique. One would never guess you did such precise grooming in the middle of the Inner Sea.”
His lips split in a grin and he snapped his straight blade shut.
“You know,” Lorenzo continued speaking as he took his turn at the mirror, touching up the elaborate, exacting cut of his own facial hair. “One of us should try to learn a bit more about steering a boat like this before we get to Port Peril. I’ve put aside coin to buy us a ship of our own, but it would be much better if we could captain it rather than have to trust a stranger with – the location.”
Red nodded. “Yuh.”
“If I cannot get away from the galley though – it’ll be up to you.” Lorenzo paused, scraping the razor across his upper lip. “So you will want to play nice with Kiskaeyn.”
“Yuh.” Red leered at Lorenzo. “I’ll play real nice, Ren. And by that I mean, fuckin’.”
Chuckling, Lorenzo wiped the lather from his face, rinsed his blade in the ewer, and gave himself one last look in the mirror. Perfection.
As the pair tromped across the ship and up to the mess hall beyond the galley, Lorenzo watched the muscles rippling beneath Red’s shirt. The half-orc may not be pretty, but he could crush a man’s skull in his bare hands and was agile as any acrobat or pickpocket. Given that his own multitude of gifts were of a more intellectual nature, Lorenzo was tremendously glad that life had stuck the two of them together.
One might not think that on a vast Estate, with a thousand souls working its land and living and dying beneath the banner of a titled family, that the heir of said family would find himself lonely or outcast. Yet Lorenzo had found himself in just such a predicament as a child. He had several bastard brothers, but all were ten years or more his senior and had no interest in pandering to the brat who had usurped their potential inheritance by sheer chance of being born to the legitimate wife of the Viscount, rather than one of his innumerable mistresses. The Estate itself was rather remote and there were no other notable families in the region, so Lorenzo had not been able to acquaint himself with other noble children either.
That left the scores of peasant children as his playmates. There was no shortage of those on the Estate. Whether they were born of free men and women who worked in the town or the big house, or born of indentured servants, children were embraced by the Viscount. He knew that gaining their loyalty from birth – and maintaining it throughout their youth – was the best way to ensure he did not have to hire mercenaries, free booters, or private armies when it came to war as it inevitably would in Taldor. Breed as many as you want – as many as you can – his father and grandfather had often said – they will all have a place on The Estate.
Lorenzo had known his place in the hierarchy, however, and had lorded it over the other children so often and so much, that even when he commanded them to play with him (whatever game he wanted, whenever he chose, usually entailing him as ‘the boss’ and them as his minions) the other children banded together to shun him.
They had done the same to Red, though that was attributed more to his orcish blood and bestial appearance than his manner.
So the two, born less than six months apart but in widely different circumstances, had found themselves shuffled together out of necessity. Two against a dozen may not have been exactly fair, but the boys got their licks in and soon learned that together they were nigh unstoppable. Ren’s brains and Red’s brawn had been a match destined for greatness.
Or at least for minor troublemaking and mischief.
Like the time they broke Tom Rinnle’s nose after that little dickface had had the audacity to take the object of Lorenzo’s affections up into the hay loft for some kissyface. He could not even remember her name anymore but he recalled the delicious snap of cartilage when Red’s fist met Tom’s stupid face.
And the time they had put jalap root into the turnip mash the cooks had used to fill fried handpies that all the children and their teachers took to eat on the road whenthe Viscount arranged for a three day excursion to the vast blackwood groves of the Verduran Forests. They had had fifty children from ages six to sixteen squatting in irrigation ditches along the road by noon on the second day – not to mention the handful of teachers and men-at-arm. He still laughed when he remembered the way Tom Rinnle and his crew of bullies had been forced to walk all the way home with shit-stained trousers.
Lorenzo smirked at the memory. Two of the youngest kids had actually died as a result of that prank, but their luck had held out and no one connected Red and Ren with the minor plague. Not even the fact that every single person who had gone on the trip fell ill except Red and Ren arose suspicion.
“Thank the Stinging Bitch for that,” he chuckled aloud.
“Huh?” Red glanced back at him. “For what?”
“Nothing, Red. I was just thinking of the time we put the jalap root in the mash.”
Red threw his head back and howled with laughter.
“You put what in the mash?”
Lorenzo and Red whipped their heads around in unison. Creeping up the gangway behind them was the First Mate herself.
“Nuttin’,” Red said, wiping a bit of spittle from the corner of his mouth. “It was a long time ago.”
“Oh.” Kiskaeyn took advantage of the close quarters to press the whole of her body against Lorenzo as she squeezed past him. “Were you two being naughty?”
Lorenzo put on his most effective lady-killing smile and let his hand slide over her hip as she passed, copping a cheap feel. “Always, mon chère.”
He felt her hand give his cock a squeeze.
“I’m counting on that, boys.”
The First Mate slid past Red as well, twisting to press her ass up against him, then sashayed up the narrow hall like an expensive prostitute in an upscale brothel.
After a moment, the pair exchanged a glance.
“Both of us?” They asked in unison.
“Both of us.” Lorenzo said, his stomach sinking.
“Yuh,” Red agreed. “And she means for fuckin’.”
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Note: Image is “Skull” by (George Crux) and “Black Cuffs” by (Andrzej Pobiedzinski) from SXC.hu; edited by me