image [https://i.imgur.com/Ap5WGpZ.png]

The next day, Picaro’s head felt a bit swollen. Valgur let the men sleep in, but he went personally down to the dock to negotiate the repairs with Archibald. By mid afternoon, their captain roused the men, rallied them, and they shipped off from Squal Parlor. Some of the crew were still severely hungover, but they worked the rigging as best they could. Silvertime coaxed them out into the current. The ship was still listing, but he was pleased to see they kept afloat with no issue.

They struck a course east by southeast, which after nearly two days at sea took them to Marron Isle, an island amongst a cluster of small islands that sat on the farthest edges of the Far Reaches. The sun was high and the day was hot when they sighted it, a land of many trees with thin spires of smoke that marked its villages. A single, lone peak of stone jutted up from the trees like a horn.

“There it is, captain,” said Silvertime.

Valgur smiled, gazing across the horizon. Dreams of what the skeleton key might open danced across his mind. Bygone knowledge, rare treasure. Gold pieces even more beautiful than the ornate chest. The treasure of a lifetime. All thanks to the boy, who was quickly becoming a very good thief. Valgur grinned to himself, thinking of all the boy might do for him, how rich he might make him. And how rich he might be already once they secured the coffers that belonged to the skeleton key.

They pulled into port to suspicious looks, mostly for the way Ye ‘Ol Marigold still sat slightly tilted in the water. There was a tension in the air they had not felt when they docked in Squal Parlor. Marron Isle felt much less welcoming, and more secretive. They tied in, made secure, and Valgur left a heavy guard on the ship.

The captain coolly deflected any sharp looks he and the crew received as they milled about on the main road. “Best thing to do is get some answers. See if anyone knows anything about a man named Patmos,” said Valgur.

The crew were not discrete. They tried to approach several people, asking blaring questions.

“Seen a man named Patmos around these parts?”

“Know a man with a map tattooed to the underside of his chin?”

Valgur tried his own tactic. “Me and me crew have sailed here from far upon the high seas. We’ve battled beasts and bested the Tormented Channel. Join us on our way to riches a man could scarcely dream of. Join me crew, and untold glory will be yours. Or simply help us on our way and we will be eternally grateful,” he rubbed two silver pieces together between his fingers.

Stolen story; please report.

The locals, many of which were indigenous to the Far Reaches and grew up untrustworthy of men from Parley and the inner isles, gave them no answers. They hurried along, sometimes refusing to make eye contact. Many gave only suspicious or skiddish looks, and women kept their children close. It was clear they wished them gone.

Staunchly, Valgur puffed out his chest. He and the crew only became more belligerent, harassing anyone that stood outside. They approached aging men and women, young mothers, boys out running errands. It quickly turned to sport. They blocked people’s way as they tried to move past. They chased women in circles until some lucky crewmate grabbed her up in his arms, laughing loudly as she squealed. Picaro watched Mord trying to kiss a woman’s face as she struggled in his grip. They ripped items from people’s hands and threw them to ground, shouting insults at them.

There was no joy in this. They quickly became the image of men Picaro did not wish to be. Exploring the land, finding treasure, yes, Picaro took great thrill in such adventure. But this did not sit well with him, young as he was. He took no joy in making other’s suffer. These were callous men, accustomed to pain and willing to dish it out as a mean’s of entertainment. That was what separated him from them, he realized.

A little girl, younger than he, was standing beside her mother as they cowered on the side of the road, hoping beyond hope the crew would not see her behind her mother’s leg. The little girl met eyes with Picaro. She looked at him as if he were a wild animal, a young wolf come to rip her apart. The look wounded him, and he raised his hands, trying to reassure her that he was not like them. She flinched and cowered, holding onto her wooden doll. Her mother noticed Picaro and shared with him a mother’s desperate fury. “No, get away, you sea dog,” she said and scooped up her child. Picaro lowered his gaze in shame.

Across the way, Valgur grabbed a man roughly by the arm. The man he grabbed looked at him with a mixture of fear and resentment, putting up his hands as a plea for mercy. "Please, you’re hurting me. What do you want?”

"What I been sayin' this whole time. I heard tell a man named Patmos came through here looking for a key of some kind. An Inlander like meself. Might be a titch mad. Ye seen anyone like that?"

"I do not know a man named Patmos, nor of a key," said the man, trembling, but firm in his honest belief. “I only wish to go home.”

“What, like this one?” Valgur asked, producing the key from his pocket. The man’s eyes turned to glass, stretched in shock and wonderment. Valgur growled and pulled him close to his face. "You may not know. But someone here does. Where’s yer wise man, then? Best tell me now, or someone might really get hurt," Valgur snarled.

"His house sits apart from the village. Take the western path out until you reach the base of the mountains. Then follow the smoke. Now please," said the man, shrinking away from Valgur. Valgur released him, and he slipped in his attempt to turn and run.

“Right, lads, enough of that. I found something,” said Valgur. The crew stopped their fun and followed. Some of the townspeople sent scalding looks at the man that had given away the information. Valgur and his lads glared back. Mord grinned at the woman he had endeared himself to, his eyes flaring, before he followed Valgur and the rest down the road. Anxiously, the crowd parted for them and watched them go. All save one man, who sped to the coast, got into an oarboat, and rowed out alone in an attempt to send a desperate message out to sea.