Two Kinds of Trouble

Murko Muelton is confronted with an ownership dispute.

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Anaxas' main trade port; it is also the nation's criminal headquarters, home to the Bad Brothers and Silas Hawke, King of the Underworld. The small town of Plugit is nearby.

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Tom Cooke
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Sun Apr 21, 2019 5:46 pm

the docks 🙫 old rose harbor
during the night of the 26th of ophus, 2718
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The sun had gone down, and the wind had picked up. Along the wharf, the windows of the shops and factories and miscellaneous other properties – those that weren’t broken, that is – were caked with glistening hoarfrost; the stones underfoot were slick with ice that gleamed in the moonlight. Men thumped in heavy boots, gathered around the ships and the warehouses, trying not to slip under the weight of their cargo. The sea tossed and turned in an uneasy slumber, hissing and sighing. Overhead, Benea and Osa were smeared and warped, throwing pearly light over the thick, rolling clouds; the sky was full of living shadows.

Behind the wharf, piled up like vagrants huddled together for warmth, the Rose was alive and breathing and full of lights. The bay was full of those lights: wavering, blurry reflections of lamps and lit-up windows, torches and strings of lanterns, merry little eyes in the dark.

Past the great, bulky whale-shapes of the freighters, the forests of masts and rigging, a little catamaran slept tucked away by an empty pier. At the mouth of this pier, among stacked boxes and coils of rigging, stood two men. One was a big human, dark-haired and dark-eyed, one hand in the pocket of his coat; bundled under his other arm was a briefcase. The other, much smaller, was a galdor, shivering underneath his coat and scarf and expensive leather gloves. He was blotchy-faced and red-nosed and sniffling with the cold, frost dusted in his greying red hair.

The galdor had lit a cigarette a few minutes ago, the smoke billowing white in the dark air. He was glancing around pensively, teeth grit and jaw working as if he were trying to brace himself for something. A skinny, threadbare tabby went loping out of the shadows behind a cluttered stack of boxes nearby; it stopped in its tracks when it saw the galdor, eyes wide and mirror-silver. It bared its teeth, hissing, then scuttled away.

“Fuck you, too,” he snarled under his breath, taking a drag. With another glance toward the catamaran, he put out his cigarette, tossed it, and motioned to the human. “It’s time, Kalt. Come on.”

“Aye, sir.”

Shoving his gloved hands in his pockets and drawing up his shoulders, the galdor started down the pier, watching his footing carefully. At his back, the human followed suit, switching the briefcase to his other arm so that he could put his hand in his pocket.

Legally, physically, this ship and Tom were strangers, though he knew every creaking contour, every salty, sea-warmed board; just seeing it had made his heart quicken, put an agitated spring in his step. Legally, of course, he wasn’t really Tom Cooke anymore: he’d no right to anything of the old Cooke’s, no connection to his property (what little there was), his family, all the things that had made up the world he’d lived in when his flesh and blood had been his own. What had the law to say about a ghost? What legal precedent could there possibly be for one man’s soul in another man’s body?

Rationally, he knew all this. He also knew he was walking into a hell of a dangerous situation. Being honest, he wasn’t sure why he was doing this, not rationally, but then again, this had nothing to do with rationality. This had to do with pettiness, unchecked anger, and far too much Gioran whisky.

It might’ve also had something to do with the desire to see a familiar face, but if anybody could see the sense in doing it this way, it wasn’t Tom. Then again, maybe it made sense because Tom was Tom, and Murko was Murko, and they’d had the kind of – dare one say it? – friendship that they’d had. Cooke had never been too good at all that shit in life. It was easier to be angry, at the end of the day, than sad.

Well, he was angry. He was madder than a fucking wildfire, and this gods-damned boat had been aching at the base of his skull for days. His head was hurting even now; he’d drunk more – he’d had a few shots before he’d left, just for the sake of inertia – but the headache wouldn’t go away. All the way down to the docks, he’d been a whirlwind, a raw nerve, all movement and no thought. Now—

When he saw Murko, when Murko saw him, what was he planning on doing? The idea had started as a mung flight of fancy. Stupid, drunken shit, like always. He hadn’t expected himself to follow through on it, to send for the forger and now actually to go down to the wharf and see this through. Standing out there in the wet snow-flurries, with the beautiful old girl finally in sight, he’d thought to himself for the first time, What in the hell are you doing this for?

At best, it’d dredge up old memories and make an old friend into a new enemy. At worst, he’d get himself killed.

But Tom Cooke finishes what he starts.

As he drew level with the ship, he couldn’t help but reach out a gloved hand, running it along the old wood. His lip twitched in a faint smile, but then twisted in an angry frown. Balling a fist, he banged on the bulwark with an arm: the thump, thump, thump! reverberated through the creaking ship, split the quiet night. A gull called.

“Murko Muelton, I know you’re in there!” Tom called. “Now – you can come out and we can have a polite little chat, or I can board and have my man break the hatch down! Either way, I won’t be denied!”

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Murko Muelton
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Wed May 08, 2019 7:45 am

Timestamp

Was it easier to be deranged?

Murko Muelton wondered it many a time in his short life as a criminal and a Bad Brother. And yet, he never found solace in the answer. Conscience was a thing that he debated his possession of, and certainly, nights like this one weren't helping his case. In front of Murko, was nothing more or less than a delinquent. Yet another cutpurse who thought their actions were beyond the notice of the Brothers. And yet... here they were.

"Yer done, Macky," he said to the delinquent, a boy no older than the students in their final form at Brunnhold. The human had wisps of hair that might hint to a beard that'd never grow for him. His vivid green eyes were mottled with red, tears streaking along his cheeks as beside him his best friends lay in pools of their own blood. There was no one else standing in the alleyway adjacent to the Mad Queen, and it was Murko's job to ensure that no one else was getting back up.

"Please... I get it! I'm sorry!"

"Sorry ain't gon' make anyun' happy, kid. Best leave yer apologies to the Gods when ye see 'em," he advised.

"I'll do anything!"

Murko let a bit of laughter escape his lips. Unswayed by either of the boy's pleas for mercy, the galdor raised his blade one final time. When the cutlass tasted its fourth helping of blood, the last body fell to the floor. Guilt was devoid from the Brother's mind, and he reached down to tear a strip from the fallen boy's shirt. With a clean swipe, he cleansed his blade of crimson, and a somber whistling parted his lips as he absconded. Streaks of blood seeped into his shoes, creating several red tracks in his wake.

"It's fuckin' late, ent it? I'll tell the Brothers bout this in the morn'," he murmured to himself as he paved the path towards The Guilty Pleasure.

The journey to the ship was uneventful in it of itself, but as he arrived, he immediately shifted his trajectory. Cold sobriety kept the pirate alert, and the dealing of death had him on edge as it was. When he saw a pair standing in front of his ship, the galdor didn't immediately move to expose himself. A short, gaunt man made his way towards the bulwark, his rich (by his dress) grubby fingers knocking on the surface. A much larger man stood behind the short one, clearly some sort of bodyguard.

The fuck? he thought. The blowing winds threw Tom's words to the wayside and presumably kept the galdor's own presence concealed. After a moment of deliberation, he allowed action to take precedence over thought. The point of Murko's cutlass tore into fabric, but he wasn't quite done yet. His other hand rose, revealing the very much loaded pistol that pointed straight over the guard's shoulder.

"Fuckin' move, either of ye, and yer fuckin' dead, hm? Now... tell me, what brings a couple of idiots near a pirate's ship, ay?"

The question had the galdor taking a step back, nudging the guard with a push of his blade. A push that for all of Murko's good intentions, pierced a bit deeper than he intended it to. The guard gripped at his bleeding side, and Murko pointed the gun at him instead.

"I guess ye can move. Stretch that out or something. Anyway, you, other guy. Ye look like the 'un with the power boner. The fuck are you on about?"


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Tom Cooke
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Thu May 09, 2019 7:42 pm

the docks 🙫 old rose harbor
during the night of the 26th of ophus, 2718
At the sound of Murko’s familiar voice, Tom half-turned, fingertips lingering on the bulwark of the Pleasure. Even in the frozen air, he caught the whiff of blood, mingling with petrichor and rotting fish and salt sea tang. He heard the cocking of a pistol, and his mouth thinned out to a white line.

He almost didn’t recognize Murko, almost thought he’d stumbled into some trap. Gotten the wrong ship. The galdor standing a little ways down the pier, the tip of his cutlass against Kalt’s chest, was taller than him by a few inches; his face had a look Tom had never seen on it before. Still, it was Murko Muelton. He would’ve recognized that voice anywhere, pure Old Rose with not a hint of his toffin heritage – and that ramscott field. As he came close enough to be caprised, Tom found he could tentatively identify the mona as Static. Made sense, as much as his old mate had liked to set things on fire.

That knot of anger tightened in his stomach, settling like a molten iron. The sight of Murko’s eyes, dead and empty of recognition, burned him to his hammering heart. He stared straight into those eyes over the barrel of the gun, lifting his chin as if agitated by – of all things – the couple of inches the other galdor had on him.

The seconds seemed to pour themselves out into minutes.

When Murko spilled his man’s blood, Tom’s eyes sharpened. “Murko!” he snapped, not even thinking. “Shit—” He clamped his mouth shut, halfway reaching out, hesitating. After a moment, his hand fell.

Kalt staggered, fumbling at the wet blot in his shirt; he gritted his teeth hard, glance shooting toward Tom as if to ask permission. Tom, looking from Kalt to Murko’s pistol and then back to Kalt again, raised a hand and inclined his head slightly. Kalt stayed still, but stared at the pirate with murder in his eyes.

Taking a deep breath, Tom clasped his hands behind his back and squared his shoulders, ramrod-straight. Then, slowly, he took a few steps toward Murko, clearing his throat. “Mr. – Muelton,” he said, thick-tongued with the unfamiliar form of address. His porven field prickled where the edges of it brushed Murko’s, the mona as disturbed and riled as ever. “I’d suggest you lower that gun, unless you want to be held accountable for the murder of an incumbent’s bodyguard.”

He held Murko’s gaze for a long moment. Kalt, lip curling, spat on the ground.

“I’m here about the ownership of The Guilty Pleasure,” continued Tom, gesturing at the catamaran bobbing behind him without breaking eye contact. One red eyebrow quirked. “One half of it, to be precise. My man here’s got a briefcase with some documents that’ll interest you, if you’ve a moment to sit down and look over them. I’m not here to fight – you understand? No spilt sap. I just want to talk.”

His voice faltered on those last words. Tom took one last step forward and then bowed, dipping low in the galdor fashion. When he came back up, he was frowning deeply, studying the pirate’s haggard face as if there were something else he wanted to say and couldn’t.

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