Gwynek (prime)/What a smile gets you
“Sure about this, Captain?” Falfina cast a sidelong glance at the young elf, curled back her lip, and spit over the railing as if to signal her sentiments towards Gwynek’s plan.
“It’s a good idea, and I don’t think anyone else has tried it.” He touched the edge of his hat’s brim, fussing with it while he gazed at the docks - or the close approximation of flotsam, drift, junk, and derelict ambitions the denizens of the Flotilla called a dock.
“Not saying it isn’t. Just saying maybe…” A struggle played on her features, clear silver-speckled eyes squinting while her shoulders sagged.
Gwynek tilted his head and regarded his navigator with a critical eye. “What maybe?” Not a challenge, but genuine curiosity.
“It’s a bad idea for you, specifically, lad.” Grimsif piped up all salt and surliness, giving what was surely meant as a companionable nudge - But between his height and the halfling’s difficulty expressing degrees of physicality, he got a painful elbow right in his thigh.
Gwynek winced, and frowned down at his boatswain. He didn’t mind being called lad, though in terms of years Gwynek was objectively older than Grimsif. It was likely some dwarven affectation of affection - and the self-styled War Witch didn’t stand on ceremony so much to reject it. Rather, he got the feeling his crew found him inept. “I can talk to people!” He had more of a whining note then he’d intended.
Falfina snorted and laughed while Grimsif grinned lopsided.
“Aye, Sir.” Falfina clapped his shoulder. “We’d not be here otherwise.” She pushed the gangplank out and gestured. “Now, don’t let us keep you. I’ll be waiting with the sutures.”
“And I’ll be waiting with, uh, violence - I guess.” Grimsif shrugged and patted one of the katar’s at his hip.
He scowled at each of them in some combination of playfulness and displeasure. “Pfft. You’ll see my disbelievers.”
No matter how long he was at sea, or how accustomed he grew to the odors of salt pork and brine, the Flying Squirrel always smelled saltier than he expected. Maybe it had to do with the confluence of old salts he suspected, which got Gwynek to thinking - rather unhelpfully - if he’d one day stink of the sea no matter how often he washed.
“... so no, I hasn’t seens nor heards of it ye daft hedgebird.” The woman had a sour look, and Gwynek realized he’d tuned her out during the scolding she gave him, but felt confident she didn’t say anything useful.
“Well - thank you for your time!” He tried his bright and cheery tone while beaming his best smile.
“Stuff your thanks.” She replied, and spat at his feet.
“How about you?” The witch elf turned his back on the grouchy sailor, and settling his gaze on a lanky giantman. “Have you heard any word of a the Carmine Triumph? It’s a merchant class carrack bound for…”
“Aye - I’ll tell you what I’ve heard you get me some rum. None of the gutbusting swill neither - proper rum.” His voice came out like gravel and mean tempers, something with an edge to it despite his apparent calm. Gwynek continued to smile, and hoped he didn’t look too much the dunce. But smiling was what he knew, not for any genuine happiness - but people seemed to like him more when he smiled, and he needed these folks to like him. “Brusher of rum, please.”
The peg-legged bartender quirked a brow, shrugged, and a moment later handed him a mug.
“Here you are!” Gwynek handed the Giantman the mug.
He nodded and took a long drink. “Looking for a ship lost at sea? Come a bit closer, and I’ll tell you what I know.”
Gwynek leaned closer, and caught a good eye of that scarred, sun stained skin and dull green eyes. “Aye - what - ?” He squeaked, his question cut off as the Giantman seized him by the throat. He moved fast for a big, drunk man.
“What I know is you need to shut yer wagging gob and quit bringing bad luck in here. What I know is your lucky I’m not dragging you out and throwing you in the drink.” His breath stank of rot and liquor, bits of old food wedged between his teeth. “We drink to the lost, and leave it at that - you want to be feeding Ghezresh? You want to summon the Fleet of Luukos?” The Giantman was practically roaring at him - and every eye on the tavern was turned on the pair.
Asking questions in a friendly manner, a tact which had usually worked for Gwynek, struck him as a losing strategy amid this lot. Worse, he was discovering by way of a spirit soaked, muck scented tantrum that he’d violated some taboo or another. The Giantman continued screaming in Gwynek’s face, and the witch ignored him as he considered his options. Drawing Unkindness wasn’t feasible - not enough room, and it would escalate things more than he wished. His stiletto, as his primary leech removal tool, was stowed in his haversack and thus out of reach. He could immolate the lout, which seemed like the best, and perhaps worst, option at his disposal. All his considerations became obsolete when the giantman shoved him back. He managed, just barely and with poor grace, to keep his feet.
“So you best get the wind in your sails and hopes I never see you on the seas. Cause next time, I’ll feed you to the thrice damned sharks!” the giantman roared, standing up from his seat and punctuating his threat by throwing the mug of rum at Gwynek. It hurtled through the air in an elegant arc, and cracked against his skull with a hollow “thonk!” which made the young elf stumble back further.
He swore under his breath, rubbing at his throat as his skull throbbed. His eyes stung and face flushed hot, and while his dignity had taken a beating, he refused to cry or lose his temper. Spinning on his heel, he quickly made his way to the exit as old salts and pirates laughed at his back.
"Thanks for the drink, curr!" the lanky giantman shouted.
Boots clomping on the planks, he made his way back to the FFZ, wiping at his eyes and sniffling. Humiliation he was used to - one does not adventure or join the Guardians of Sunfist without being acquainted with all manner of indignities. He had failed - that is what niggled at him, what made his chest and throat all tight. He failed, and could see no choice but to admit that the Carmine Triumph was lost - at least to him, and no amount of beamed smiles or friendly entreaties would save her from the depths.