Jolly Jack Vance surveyed his surroundings over a large mug of tepid ale in Rash’Kel’s best tavern—which also happened to be Rash’Kel’s only tavern.
“Tastes good, Jack!” declared Sturgis the Sly, so named because Sturge was anything but. Outlaws had a peculiar fondness for saying the opposite of what they meant, perhaps a reflection of their even greater fondness for trickery and deception.
Jack gaped at Sturge. “You like this swill?”
“Oh, mighty fine, Jack! So much better than that fancy stuff back in Fab, Jack,” Sturgis assured him, downing another gulp with a satisfied smack of his lips.
Even Lucky Bob shot Sturgis a look of utter disgust, shaking his head and glaring dolefully at his still half-full mug of vile sludge.
The rest of Jack’s crew were scattered around the tavern—some playing at dice, others tearing up losing lottery tickets. A few were already snoring under the tables, oblivious to the floor’s stinking filth, to which they themselves had contributed not minutes earlier.
“This place stinks,” grumbled Tur the Lamp—a burly Thursar whose favorite trick was beating his victims to death with a torch.
“Give it a chance, lad,” Jack said, swirling the dregs of his ale. “Once we make some coin, we’ll take control of this place, bring in some good stuff. First thing—we get a new barkeep.” He shot Maudlin Mal, the innkeeper, a fond grin.
“Screw you, Jack!” Mal snapped. “How am I supposed to serve decent drink when the place is practically surrounded? Anytime one of my lads tries to get supplies from a blue city, he gets guard-whacked before he’s even in sight of town!”
“Mal, Mal, now don’t be so maudlin." Jack tutted, wagging a finger. "You know, you and me—we’re the only ones who actually fit our names! I’m always jolly, and you—well, you’re always friggin’ maudlin.”
Mal scowled. “Yeah? And where do blue cities get decent swill, then, huh?”
“They make it, don’t they?”
“Aye, they do. And you lot ain’t crafters,” Mal shot back.
Jack scratched his chin, chewing that over. “Well, ya got a point there, Mal. We ain't much for craftin', that's for sure. Right, lads?”
The outlaws still upright erupted into laughter, nodding their enthusiastic agreement.
“Damn right we’re not, Jack!” boomed Murderin’ Molly, a stout redhead whose fireballs burned hotter than her temper.
“We take what we want from those who are,” added Dainty Denis—a hulking Thursar who could split a man in half with his double-bladed axe.
Jack grinned. “Aye, that we do, Denis. But trouble is—those that are? They’re all holed up in the blue cities now. If we want their goods, we need to get smarter. Making the odd trip down into Fab sewers or the cemetery ain’t gonna cut it anymore.”
Tur the Lamp grunted. “Can’t go there no more. Both places got guards now—patrolling the entrances. We could fight ‘em, sure—but then we fight their reinforcements, and if we survive that, we fight ‘em again on the way out. Haven’t made it out alive since they beefed up security. Can’t just wait five minutes to slip back into town anymore, either. And the logging and mining spots? Can’t gank no one there now without three guards wailin’ on ya.”
The outlaws turned to him, surprised by the rare outburst of analysis.
Jack tapped a finger on the rim of his mug. “Didn’t know you had such an analytical mind, Tur.” He smirked. “But you summed that up right.”
He leaned forward, scanning the faces around him. The laughter had faded. The outlaws were listening.
“But honestly, lads—” he took a slow, deliberate sip of ale “—we just need to set our sights on bigger fish.”
The room waited.
“We gotta get more tactical.” Jack leaned in further, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
“More strategic.”
(He pronounced "strategic" like three separate words.)
A slow, knowing grin spread across his face.
And for the first time that night, the tavern fell completely silent.
“We gotta go where the crafters get their good stuff,” Jack explained. “Forget the whitewood and the Granum. We set our sights on dungeons now, the open Wilderness. Maybe trade routes too—though they’re crawling with guards these days.”
“Alright, so when we goin’, Jack?” asked Pip the Patient, a slim Veela, fidgeting with his barely touched ale. “Can’t stand all this waiting.”
Jack was about to respond when a skittering sound drifted in through the door.
All heads turned.
A slim young woman strolled through the doorway, her expression one of pure, lazy confidence. Closely behind her came a monstrous Clothos Maiden, its spindly legs folding in awkwardly as it squeezed through the entrance. It rose up onto its tips, legs trembling like some grotesque ballerina, before settling heavily onto the tavern floor. The whole room seemed to shrink as Daisy sprawled out, occupying nearly all the space between the tables.
“Sheesh, Buttercup—” Jack sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Do you have to bring that monstrosity inside? How’s anyone supposed to get to the bar for another drink now?”
“Why the hell would you want another drink here, Jack?” Buttercup shot back, rolling her eyes and throwing Maudlin Mel an exasperated look.
Jack grinned. “Fair enough, you got me there, Buttercup. But say one of us wanted to step outside for some fresh air. Or someone else wanted to come in, say…?”
Buttercup didn’t even look up as she sat at the bar. “I don’t give a shit.”
She tapped the counter. “You got anything drinkable, Mel?” Then, before he could answer: “No, don’t answer that. Just give me something that won’t make me want to feed you to Daisy, alright?”
Mel sighed glumly and rummaged under the counter, eventually producing a dusty bottle. He wiped it down half-heartedly before sliding it toward her. “Fine. But I hope you got the coin, lady.”
Buttercup smirked. “I’ve got the coin. Not like this threadbare lot.”
“Yeah, well, you’ll be threadbare soon enough too, lady,” muttered Tur. “Times are hard for us lot now.”
“Us lot?” Buttercup scoffed. “You mean you lot. I hunt alone.”
Jack gave her an arch look. “You might want to rethink that, my girl.”
He leaned forward, voice casual, but laced with something deeper. “Hunting alone ain’t much of an option these days. You try being a solo red now, you’ll end up in Vaul Moro faster than you can say Your money and your life!”
A grin tugged at his lips.
“My crew’s always got room for one more, you know. Think it over.”
Jack downed the rest of his mug.
Instantly regretted it.
“I can take care of myself, Jack, don’t you worry,” said Buttercup. But this time, she didn’t sound quite so sure.
Maybe she should try rolling with Jack’s crew.
Then again… she cast a glance at Sturge, snoring loudly under a table, covered in what looked like some foul green-yellow substance.
“…Has he puked over himself?” she asked.
Jack shrugged. “He actually likes Mel’s ale.”
Buttercup stared at him. “Gods.”
She poured herself a shot, downed it in one go, then immediately poured another.
“Important decisions require a clear mind,” she declared, slamming back the second glass before pouring a third.
By the fifth, she set the bottle down with a satisfied nod. “Alright. My mind is clear as a bell now. I’ll give it a go.”
Jack clapped his hands together. “You hear that, lads? Buttercup’s with us now! She’s one of the Pirates of the Careebearen! Hip, hip, hooray!”
“HIP HIP HOORAY!!” the outlaws bellowed, clapping Buttercup on the back.
One particularly brave (or foolish) outlaw even tried to clap Daisy on the back—only to think better of it when the spider reared up, hissing and clacking its mandibles.
Meanwhile, the rest of the crew took full advantage of the moment, swiftly helping themselves to the remainder of Buttercup’s bottle.
And just like that, the Pirates of the Careebearen had their newest member.
“Tastes good, Jack!” declared Sturgis the Sly, so named because Sturge was anything but. Outlaws had a peculiar fondness for saying the opposite of what they meant, perhaps a reflection of their even greater fondness for trickery and deception.
Jack gaped at Sturge. “You like this swill?”
“Oh, mighty fine, Jack! So much better than that fancy stuff back in Fab, Jack,” Sturgis assured him, downing another gulp with a satisfied smack of his lips.
Even Lucky Bob shot Sturgis a look of utter disgust, shaking his head and glaring dolefully at his still half-full mug of vile sludge.
The rest of Jack’s crew were scattered around the tavern—some playing at dice, others tearing up losing lottery tickets. A few were already snoring under the tables, oblivious to the floor’s stinking filth, to which they themselves had contributed not minutes earlier.
“This place stinks,” grumbled Tur the Lamp—a burly Thursar whose favorite trick was beating his victims to death with a torch.
“Give it a chance, lad,” Jack said, swirling the dregs of his ale. “Once we make some coin, we’ll take control of this place, bring in some good stuff. First thing—we get a new barkeep.” He shot Maudlin Mal, the innkeeper, a fond grin.
“Screw you, Jack!” Mal snapped. “How am I supposed to serve decent drink when the place is practically surrounded? Anytime one of my lads tries to get supplies from a blue city, he gets guard-whacked before he’s even in sight of town!”
“Mal, Mal, now don’t be so maudlin." Jack tutted, wagging a finger. "You know, you and me—we’re the only ones who actually fit our names! I’m always jolly, and you—well, you’re always friggin’ maudlin.”
Mal scowled. “Yeah? And where do blue cities get decent swill, then, huh?”
“They make it, don’t they?”
“Aye, they do. And you lot ain’t crafters,” Mal shot back.
Jack scratched his chin, chewing that over. “Well, ya got a point there, Mal. We ain't much for craftin', that's for sure. Right, lads?”
The outlaws still upright erupted into laughter, nodding their enthusiastic agreement.
“Damn right we’re not, Jack!” boomed Murderin’ Molly, a stout redhead whose fireballs burned hotter than her temper.
“We take what we want from those who are,” added Dainty Denis—a hulking Thursar who could split a man in half with his double-bladed axe.
Jack grinned. “Aye, that we do, Denis. But trouble is—those that are? They’re all holed up in the blue cities now. If we want their goods, we need to get smarter. Making the odd trip down into Fab sewers or the cemetery ain’t gonna cut it anymore.”
Tur the Lamp grunted. “Can’t go there no more. Both places got guards now—patrolling the entrances. We could fight ‘em, sure—but then we fight their reinforcements, and if we survive that, we fight ‘em again on the way out. Haven’t made it out alive since they beefed up security. Can’t just wait five minutes to slip back into town anymore, either. And the logging and mining spots? Can’t gank no one there now without three guards wailin’ on ya.”
The outlaws turned to him, surprised by the rare outburst of analysis.
Jack tapped a finger on the rim of his mug. “Didn’t know you had such an analytical mind, Tur.” He smirked. “But you summed that up right.”
He leaned forward, scanning the faces around him. The laughter had faded. The outlaws were listening.
“But honestly, lads—” he took a slow, deliberate sip of ale “—we just need to set our sights on bigger fish.”
The room waited.
“We gotta get more tactical.” Jack leaned in further, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
“More strategic.”
(He pronounced "strategic" like three separate words.)
A slow, knowing grin spread across his face.
And for the first time that night, the tavern fell completely silent.
“We gotta go where the crafters get their good stuff,” Jack explained. “Forget the whitewood and the Granum. We set our sights on dungeons now, the open Wilderness. Maybe trade routes too—though they’re crawling with guards these days.”
“Alright, so when we goin’, Jack?” asked Pip the Patient, a slim Veela, fidgeting with his barely touched ale. “Can’t stand all this waiting.”
Jack was about to respond when a skittering sound drifted in through the door.
All heads turned.
A slim young woman strolled through the doorway, her expression one of pure, lazy confidence. Closely behind her came a monstrous Clothos Maiden, its spindly legs folding in awkwardly as it squeezed through the entrance. It rose up onto its tips, legs trembling like some grotesque ballerina, before settling heavily onto the tavern floor. The whole room seemed to shrink as Daisy sprawled out, occupying nearly all the space between the tables.
“Sheesh, Buttercup—” Jack sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Do you have to bring that monstrosity inside? How’s anyone supposed to get to the bar for another drink now?”
“Why the hell would you want another drink here, Jack?” Buttercup shot back, rolling her eyes and throwing Maudlin Mel an exasperated look.
Jack grinned. “Fair enough, you got me there, Buttercup. But say one of us wanted to step outside for some fresh air. Or someone else wanted to come in, say…?”
Buttercup didn’t even look up as she sat at the bar. “I don’t give a shit.”
She tapped the counter. “You got anything drinkable, Mel?” Then, before he could answer: “No, don’t answer that. Just give me something that won’t make me want to feed you to Daisy, alright?”
Mel sighed glumly and rummaged under the counter, eventually producing a dusty bottle. He wiped it down half-heartedly before sliding it toward her. “Fine. But I hope you got the coin, lady.”
Buttercup smirked. “I’ve got the coin. Not like this threadbare lot.”
“Yeah, well, you’ll be threadbare soon enough too, lady,” muttered Tur. “Times are hard for us lot now.”
“Us lot?” Buttercup scoffed. “You mean you lot. I hunt alone.”
Jack gave her an arch look. “You might want to rethink that, my girl.”
He leaned forward, voice casual, but laced with something deeper. “Hunting alone ain’t much of an option these days. You try being a solo red now, you’ll end up in Vaul Moro faster than you can say Your money and your life!”
A grin tugged at his lips.
“My crew’s always got room for one more, you know. Think it over.”
Jack downed the rest of his mug.
Instantly regretted it.
“I can take care of myself, Jack, don’t you worry,” said Buttercup. But this time, she didn’t sound quite so sure.
Maybe she should try rolling with Jack’s crew.
Then again… she cast a glance at Sturge, snoring loudly under a table, covered in what looked like some foul green-yellow substance.
“…Has he puked over himself?” she asked.
Jack shrugged. “He actually likes Mel’s ale.”
Buttercup stared at him. “Gods.”
She poured herself a shot, downed it in one go, then immediately poured another.
“Important decisions require a clear mind,” she declared, slamming back the second glass before pouring a third.
By the fifth, she set the bottle down with a satisfied nod. “Alright. My mind is clear as a bell now. I’ll give it a go.”
Jack clapped his hands together. “You hear that, lads? Buttercup’s with us now! She’s one of the Pirates of the Careebearen! Hip, hip, hooray!”
“HIP HIP HOORAY!!” the outlaws bellowed, clapping Buttercup on the back.
One particularly brave (or foolish) outlaw even tried to clap Daisy on the back—only to think better of it when the spider reared up, hissing and clacking its mandibles.
Meanwhile, the rest of the crew took full advantage of the moment, swiftly helping themselves to the remainder of Buttercup’s bottle.
And just like that, the Pirates of the Careebearen had their newest member.
