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Hello there my gorgeous readers. Dorian Darling here, and may I say what a pleasure it is to be back between your sheets, even if they are only the broadsheets of the Port Vermil Gazette.
Rest assured that I have spent every waking moment of the past few months fighting to find myself back at a writing desk, quill and parchment at the ready to carry this record of my adventures safely to your hands.
It is my dearest wish that I could be closer still, bestowing this account directly into your ears with the most ardent words my lips can intone. Alas, for now this damnable barrier of printed paper must serve as the medium of our long awaited reunion.
I’ve been gone entirely too long, it’s true, but never fear – please stop sending death threats to my editors – I’m back, and I am here to stay!
The terrible ordeal that kept me from you for so long will be laid out in all its tantalising and sinister detail in a specially dedicated chapter of my next book, coming to print this winter, *Dorian Darling - The Gentleman Behind the Adventures: 12 never before told stories from my thrilling travels*.
Until then, let me return to you with the account of my dramatic journey through the perilous underbelly of Saltcrust, island stronghold of the feared Pirate Queen, Mirabelle the Black.
At the outset of today’s adventure, I find myself in temporary lodgings aboard The Rogue Wave, docked in the pirate port of Saltcrust.
Yes, Reader; your eyes do not deceive you. I am indeed staying aboard the very flagship of the ferocious pirate armada that has terrorised the eastern shipping lanes for so many years, and not only that… I have made the acquaintance of Mirabelle the Black herself!
“How is this possible?” I hear you ask.
Surely you know by now that Dorian will always find his way to the most unlikely places, even the pirate court of one of the Radiant Dynasty’s fiercest foes. Never fear, due to the circumstances of my arrival in Saltcrust, I am in no danger from Mirabelle the Black. I am no prisoner, quite the opposite, I am a guest.
You see, the Pirate Queen is temporarily paying host to a duo of helpless explorers I recently saved from the bowels of a ruined temple.
In thanks for the aid I so bravely offered to those poor lost explorers in her employ, I have been granted bed and board amongst The Rogue Wave’s cutthroat crew, and access to the messaging relay I will use to transmit this article back to my long suffering editors at Port Vermil Gazette.
It’s all worked out rather nicely for old Dorian, but then again, it usually does.
What can be said of the Pirate Queen herself? Well, she certainly lives up to her reputation and no mistake. Mirabelle cuts a menacing figure, tall and always armed to the teeth with vicious blades, though her greatest weapon is surely her tone of command which she wields with the same razor sharpness as a honed cutlass.
At all times she is surrounded by clouds of acrid pipe smoke, and a retinue of seasoned killers who have sworn to follow her, even into war with the Dynasty, should it come to that.
I cannot help but find something admirable in the devotion of the crew to their captain, and the glorious efficiency with which they run their infamous pirate ship.
I do not mean to romanticise these terrors who have plagued our oceans for so long, sinking ships and sending so many honest merchants to a watery grave, but spending time amongst these dangerous criminals has revealed new depths to their motivations and character.
I have always maintained that the benefit and pleasure of adventuring is to experience the world widely, and with a childlike openness that frees the mind to pluck new ideas from the ether. With this approach, we begin to see people through the same eyes with which they see themselves.
Everything I have seen of Saltcrust tells me that these pirates truly believe they are freedom fighters, utterly committed to the protection of their fellows, and of the seaborne life they love so well. In that light, would we all not wish to protect our homes and those we love against our perceived aggressors, even to the point of violence, perhaps even to the point of piracy?
I leave this question with you, as I have done before with the many oddities and perspectives I have encountered throughout this vast and varied continent. I know my readership have the fortitude of character and intellectual clout to weather the stormy seas of new and strange ideas, and emerge with their convictions intact on the other side.
Oh good grief, my editors will surely complain that I have tarried too long on these verbose musings! Forgive me. My time away from the quill has incensed a philosophical backlog of mythic proportions that jostles and crowds to flow onto the page. I find myself off topic and rambling.
I promised you a journey through Saltcrust, which I halted before my characterised self had even left my lodgings.
Worry not, I have a tale to spin for you, one of hypothetical restaurants, a heroic but ultimately ill advised attempt at a spectacular stage combat manoeuvre, and my explosive thwarting of a most dastardly plot to scupper the pirate armada. I will lay it out now in plain text; no more waffle! I must be brief and to the point.
Here we go…
Saltcrust, the pirate port city that shares its name with the island upon which it rests. What a destination! What an opportunity!
I set out from The Rogue Wave in the early evening, determined to let my senses drink it all in.
Let me assure you, my friends, Saltcrust does not disappoint. Rarely have I seen a site of more mirth and carousing than the raucous streets of this pirate port after dark.
You might have imagined it to be a town of minstrels or circus players for all the array of music, juggling, and fantastic acrobatics I saw displayed within the first few streets alone.
As I left the docks, People of every caste and walk of life were out and about for the evening, and the city sprung into a vibrant throng of people hungrily seeking their nightly entertainment.
If there was any dividing line of class or creed among the people of the city, my outsiders eyes could not divine it. Groups of laughing patrons in a dizzying range of styles and adornment took to the streets, from the dockworker to the ship’s captain, and all crowded together. As one mass, they browsed the night markets and sampled the street corner variety shows that filled the city’s bustling districts with garish colour. Tantalising scents of the ocean's bounty filled the streets. Never have I seen seafood elevated to such an artform in street-kitchens. Whether you wanted your dinner salted, smoked, fried or curried, in Saltcrust you can find it served a hundred different ways.
Oh, reader! You do not know how great a relief it was to be back amongst people again, and to walk the streets of any city, let alone one so brimming with vibrant life.
I cannot tell you how desperate my need was for the familiar comfort of crowds, or the sweet laughter and songs of drunken patrons passing in the streets.
My last few months [the events of which you will once again find fully detailed in my new book *Dorian Darling - The Gentleman Behind the Adventures: 12 never before told stories from my thrilling travels* now available for advance orders] had contained none of those wonderfully social scenes.
You might find it surprising, but even I, Dorian Darling, Gentleman Adventurer extraordinaire, had developed a deep and abiding longing for home. I missed the metropolitan comforts which you might find readily available in every street and plaza in the fair city of Port Vermil, and I was out on the prowl for whatever substitute or equivalent could be found in Saltcrust.
Thus I was determined to throw myself into the night’s revelry, and indulge to my heart’s content.
Let me paint a clearer picture with a quick note on Saltcrust’s geography; Saltcrust is a port town built around necessity and the constant threat of invasion. Its smaller scale seems to have allowed for a level of civic planning and intelligent design that might seem strange to us folk of the sprawling organically expanding metropolis that is Port Vermil.
As I was making my way about town, I studied, with some fascination, an aerial map of the city that had been given to me by one of Mirabelle’s crew, noting that the Saltcrust had a series of wide thoroughfares that radiated out from the docks like spokes on a wagon wheel or marks on a compass.
How ingenious, I thought to myself. The port’s very design allowed their citizen militia to rapidly muster to the ships and defences, or to ferry supplies and weapons swiftly back and forth from their storage houses in case of an attack. Surely Port Vermil could benefit from some improvement to its infrastructure, and who would have thought that these pirates would lay out the template for civil efficiency!
I made my way from the docks, up into the city proper, following one of the wide avenues that took a North-Easterly line. I was on the hunt for succour and sustenance, both of the soul, and of the stomach, for in the absence of dinner my belly had already begun to growl in such a violent fashion that even passers-by started to shy away in fear, surely thinking there must be a rabid dog in the vicinity.
Each of the city’s wide avenues formed its own entertainment district in miniature, lined with taverns, eateries, and all manner of purveyors of the seedy and lascivious. I perused my options with the appraisal of a seasoned connoisseur.
Fear not, dear reader; I was always a Gentleman, before I was an Adventurer, so I partook of none of the displayed flesh and carnal services, instead selecting from the various bars and drinking establishments arrayed before me.
I wanted nothing more than to be among patrons, sharing stories and libations as the evening progressed.
Over the course of an hour or two, I hopped from establishment to establishment, greeting each new site with the optimism that within I would find a singularly memorable experience, which could be fondly recalled and recommended to others. I drank my way through cocktails, flagons, draughts, and a few cups of strong mint tea.
While some of the beverages were quite satisfactory, I found with dismay that the array of drinks could not quite quench my thirst for a sense of home. I found myself more aware of the ways in which Saltcrust was so different to the Heartland, than the ways in which it was similar.
Perhaps it was the special person in Port Vermil I missed so dearly, and the heartsickness of that absence that lowered my spirits. Either way, quite the opposite of what I had hoped, the alcohol I imbibed began to make me maudlin, and I perhaps overindulged.
Finding myself unsteady on my feet, one of the bouncers rather forcibly assisted me as I exited my final port of call along that long road of drinking establishments. He deposited me on the ground outside where I sat for a long time, waiting until I had sobered up enough to regain my footing, and contemplating the plight of the homesick traveller.
To pass the time and try to lift my mood, I sang an old lullaby that never fails to remind me of childhood, and all the things that inspired me to become the Adventurer I am today.
Sitting on the cobblestones with the crowds deviating around me, I resolved to stop wallowing in my prolonged estrangement from my home and persons of affection, and to make the most of my circumstances regardless.
What was I, Dorian Darling, doing sitting around feeling sorry for myself when I still had most of a city to explore?
At last I felt sure that I had the motivation and the sense of balance to stand once again, but there was still the question of where to proceed with my evening.
It is at times like these that resorting to routine can be a tonic, so I decided to employ a classic Dorian Darling technique for navigating strange cities. This technique has never failed to lead me to a charming local gem or point of interest, so I was sure that it would get the evening back on track.
I looked about, and chose one of the people passing in the street to follow.
You might think this is sinister, but I assure you, it is a purely tactical tourist trick.
The genius of this approach is in its psychogeographical methodology. By following someone who is simply going about their business, and knows the city better than you do, you free your own mind from the heavy burden of navigation or decision making, and allow it to truly experience your surroundings, entirely altering your relationship with place and novelty.
I recommend you try it, though do be careful not to follow your quarry too closely, lest you risk aggravating both them and local law enforcement.
I spent a night in a cell in Dualspire because the man I was following sadly mistook me for a stalker, rather than a humble Gentleman Adventurer engaging in intellectually charged tourism. The city watch at that time was very unsympathetic and it has served as a cautionary experience ever since.
The question was, with all these crowds flowing around me, who should I follow?
I made my fateful decision in utter ignorance of the events it would lead to, but for a reason that made complete sense to me at the time.
A man passed me in the street, dressed as a dockworker and smoking a particular brand of Heartland tobacco that I know for certain is only produced and rolled in the delightful hilly region south of Callensford; the brand is Joyful Haze, and it has been a long time favourite of mine [I’m not currently sponsored but I would certainly be open to endorsement deals; if the owners of Joyful Haze are interested, they should contact my agent, Edward Longs; office 4, on the 3rd floor of the Marquis of Redhill Building, Port Vermil].
As the familiar smell of that home comfort tobacco passed by, I felt sure that this was an auspicious sign that the smoker was precisely who I was supposed to follow.
I valiantly staggered to my feet, and tailed the smoking man at a socially defensible distance.
He led me through the back alleys of the city, taking sharp corners and muddying his trail somewhat as he went, but even when drunk I am a dogged pursuer when I want to be, and it would take more agile prey than he to give old Dorian Darling the slip.
Unnoticed, I followed him until he slowed and arrived at his destination in a quieter section of the city. At last, I thought, what does Saltcrust have in store for me next?
It seemed the end point of my pursuit was an old building, considerably taller than its neighbours, that might have been a theatre once. The windows were boarded up and the exterior had deteriorated to some considerable state of dilapidation.
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I watched, crouched in the dark doorway of a nearby store so as not to needlessly alarm my unwitting tour guide, as he approached an alleyway at the side of the old theatre. I did not wish to disturb his passage, merely to observe what he did, and decide on my own next course.
A group of ten or twelve other people, all dressed in neutral and unassuming attire, met in the mouth of that alley, nodded to each other, then filtered in through a side door of the old theatre without a word.
The last one to enter, turned and glanced around with a suspicious air, before closing the door to the street.
My mind raced. What strange happening had I just come across?
You may laugh, reader, at the explanation my mind settled upon in that moment, but I implore you to remember my homesickness, and continuing state of inebriation.
At the time, I became convinced that I had stumbled across one of those new and very exclusive blind-dining restaurant experiences that have become so trendy across the cities of the Wine Sea.
It all made sense.The boarded up windows were there to induce total darkness, an old theatre building was prime real estate for a trendy up and coming restaurant – you have surely observed how they love to renovate unconventional spaces for their premises, adding a certain shock value that disrupts traditional dining expectations – and the wary looks made by the attendees were surely in efforts to preserve the exclusivity of the venue; exclusivity is after all such a potent ingredient in fine dining. Almost as soon as a thing is made popular, it ceases to have any kind of allure to the discerning palette.
Needless to say I was overjoyed with my find.
What more cultured taste of home could I find in this foreign city if not a Heartland style tasting menu, modelled after the avant–garde blinded gastronomic experience that was pioneered in my very own city of Port Vermil!
I sprang from my hiding place and crossed to the side entrance, fully intending to book myself in for an evening of experimental culinary pleasures.
Imagine my surprise when I was forcefully rebuffed by a brawny man posted just inside the door.
No sooner had I attempted to gain access, than a meaty hand thrust me backward and I found myself sprawling rather clumsily into the alleyway.
“You’re in the wrong place, friend.” He told me, cracking his oversized knuckles.
I was naturally incensed, and proceeded to harshly berate the doorman for his ludicrous hostility towards a prospective customer.
I believe the word “Cur” was employed, though I am not proud of it.
The man offered no apology, nor any acknowledgment of any wrongdoing on his part. To my dismay, he simply stepped out into the alleyway and crossed his arms, firmly blocking passage into the restaurant’s hidden depths, or so I thought at the time.
“Move along before I box your ears.” The man said, shocking me with a further threat of violence.
“What kind of restaurant treats well-meaning patrons with this kind of barbaric display,” I asked him, drawing myself up to my full height.
Dear reader, you surely know that I am loath to throw around my status as a Heartland celebrity, such is my commitment to maintaining a sense of humility. I do not wish to inflate with self importance or lose touch with my humble roots as a salt-of-the-earth everyman, and yet, at that moment it felt quite necessary for me to lean on my fame, and try to cow the obstinate brute into a more respectful mode of interaction.
“Don’t you realise who I am?” I demanded of the man. “I am Dorian Darling, Gentleman Adventurer. If you treat me with such blatant aggression, for no other crime that the seeking out of a succulent Heartland style meal, I shall be forced to write a review of your restaurant that is so damning and destructive in its rhetoric, that your business will dry up faster than a thimbleful of water in the blazing heart of the Telmir Desert.”
Be assured, reader, that I can command a certain gravitas when it suits me to do so. Alas, my words seemed to fall on deaf ears.
The man made to strike me, and while I deftly backed away he called me a drunken vagrant and told me to clear off. The nerve!
I demanded to speak to the proprietor of the restaurant, to inform them of the disreputable behaviour of their door staff, but the man simply spat in my direction, reentered the building, and closed the door behind himself.
I was furious.
My mission for the evening had become quite clear in my mind. I was going to find the owner of this restaurant, and lodge an official complaint with them, one way or another.
First I hammered on the door, hoping my ruckus might draw the hypothetical restaurant owner out from his office somewhere within, but only the doorman emerged again, and this time he bloodied my nose with his fist.
It was a shameful display. Robbed of coordination by my earlier indulgence in drink, I was quite incapable of putting up a proper fight. I fell back, nursing a nosebleed, and he gave me a wicked kick in the buttocks as I fled the alley.
I will admit, reader, that he won that battle fair and square, but I was committed to winning the war. The doorman’s prowess at fisticuffs compelled me to retreat and rethink my approach.
Determination is the watchword of a Gentleman Adventurer, and falling at the first hurdle has never been the Dorian Darling way.
If I could not access the restaurant via the door its other patrons had used, I would have to find another entrance.
With renewed optimism, I circled the building and eventually spotted a fire escape balcony on the second floor, with a ladder that led to the roof. Surmising that it was my next best option for entering the theatre, I devised a plan to reach it.
A vine covered trellis on the neighbouring building provided me with a means to awkwardly climb up to the appropriate height, at which point I launched myself off and just barely made the jump across the alleyway to the balcony.
From there I climbed the ladder to the roof and found an unlocked roof access hatch. Just like that, I had prevailed over my foes' foolish attempts to bar my path. Huzzah!
Feeling very pleased with myself, I entered the roof hatch, and crept through the darkness, fully intending to find the restaurant owner’s office, and give them a thorough talking to for the behaviour of the doorman.
I was wary of encountering other, perhaps similarly belligerent staff, before I could reach the owner, so I was careful to move quietly and not give my intrusion away.
I was struck by the shoddy state of the interior of the building. I would have expected the restaurant owners to clean up the place during their renovations. Instead, it was still dusty, and it stank of mould.
The top floors were entirely abandoned, just filled with cobweb covered props and bits of old stage dressing, perhaps left over from the building’s days as a functioning playhouse.
My late mother always expressed a great love of theatre, and I have often felt a sort of kinship with actors.
In much the same way that I forge out to explore new environs, or sample the strange wonders of Sedalia’s cities and natural expanses, actors drive a path into the very heart of being. While actors explore the landscape of the social and intimate, and report back their findings in the form of physical and vocal performance, I use quill and parchment to transmit my experiences to my reading audience.
Seeing this theatre in such a state of disrepair, the dressing rooms all dark and empty with moth eaten costumes left rotting on their racks, filled me with a great sense of unease and melancholy, that eventually resolved itself into further rage at the restaurant owners who must surely inhabit the ground floors. They had let all this majesty and potential go to waste, and squandered the legacy of a fine playhouse on their undeserving business.
I shortly exited a doorway and found myself in the upper circle of the theatre proper. From my vantage point at the top of the auditorium, I could see all the way down past a balcony and rows of hundreds of dusty seats to the stage far below.
A huge unlit chandelier, covered in knotted cobwebs, hung suspended above the stage, and the balconies of the auditorium were painted in the most brilliant designs. Truly, it was a shame to see such a characterful place fall to ruin. Imagine our glorious Delles Hall, the pride of Port Vermil, reduced to a dark and unappreciated hollow, devoid of light or laughter, and you may picture a similarly affecting sight to what lay before me.
The dozen men and women I had seen arriving through the theatre’s side entrance, before I was so rudely rebuffed, were all gathered around a wooden storage crate that sat in the centre of the stage below me, illuminated by a crystal torch perched on the stage’s edge.
Where the restaurant staff were, I knew not, and I had to admit the setup did not scream fine dining, no matter how avant–garde it might have been.
I hunkered down behind a row of seats to observe the odd group in secret as they conducted their meeting on the stage below.
The acoustics of the theatre were quite spectacular, and I could clearly hear every word spoken on the stage, even from the very back of the auditorium.
“We have to act tonight.” One of them said, and the others voiced agreement.
“Are we sure the bombs will work?” Another asked, to which the first speaker opened the crate and revealed row after row of cylindrical devices, each attached to an ether crystal and a clockwork timer.
“They’ll work,” the first speaker said, “Each one is capable of sinking a ship. Remember, the design requires them to be planted below the water line so they can flood the hull when they detonate. Does everyone know their targets?”
They all confirmed that they did.
‘’Good,” the first speaker said, “Tonight we strike a great blow against the pirate armada.”
To my continued embarrassment, It was only at this point in their conversation that I began to truly suspect that the theatre might not actually be host to a blind-tasting restaurant experience.
Realising that I may have misinterpreted the situation up to this point, and I was accidentally eavesdropping on a rather sensitive conversation, I attempted to stealthily withdraw from the auditorium.
Sadly, my lot in life has never been to avoid adventure, but to initiate it; it seems fate’s plans for me always include the dramatic.
No sooner had I begun to creep back towards the upper circle exit, than I mistakenly put my weight on the old rusted armrest of a theatre chair, which promptly broke off with a mighty crash and went spilling down the upper circle steps, clanging and ringing with each step it struck until it rolled to an eventual stop at the base of the balcony that overhung the stalls.
Revealed by the sound, I peered down at the stage in horror. A dozen shocked and angry faces looked up at me.
“I only wanted to lodge a complaint,” I thoughtlessly blurted.
In one collective motion the crowd of prospective bomb carriers drew an armoury’s worth of weapons from hidden sheaths inside jackets and under skirts, swiftly transforming from an unassuming group of civilians, into a lethally armed band of homicidal warriors, and one of them cried “A spy! Kill him before he escapes and reports us!”
A crossbow bolt thunked into the chair beside me, as I bravely ducked for cover.
I could hear my assailants climbing the stairs to either side of the auditorium, swiftly ascending to the upper circle and cutting off my avenues for escape.
In moments I knew that they would surround me and that would be the end of Dorian Darling.
I’m proud to say that in those dire moments, a certain clarity came over me, and I thought of you, my beloved readers.
Who would spin these tales for you? I thought. who would travel the world, experiencing it in all its varied glory, riding the winds of fate and circumstance in order to reproduce my exhilarating adventures for your reading pleasure and intellectual stimulation, if not for Dorian Darling?
I cannot die; I have a vital role to play, as your correspondent from the frontier of all that is daring and unknown.
It is out of my sense of love and service to you, my wonderful readers, that I became possessed of a ferocious will to live, that in turn inspired me to a heroic plan.
As the armed attackers entered the upper circle, clearly intent on ending my life, I sprang into action.
The stage below was clear, all of the attackers having flocked to my position on the higher floor. I ran towards the edge of the balcony, looking down at the gut churning drop to the stalls below.
The great chandelier that overhung the stage was suspended by a lengthy cord, looped through a sturdy ring in the ceiling, and tied off around a metal bar attached at the edge of the balcony rail beside me.
My thought process was simple, if slightly flawed; untie the chandelier cord and use it to valiantly swing down to the stage below, then bolt for the ground floor exit. It’s just the kind of stage combat trick they love to put on in plays, I thought, and I felt I was doing the sad old theatre a favour by giving it that one last dramatic spectacle as I performed my escape.
In practice, things did not go entirely according to plan. Perhaps it was the night’s previous drinking that had impaired my judgement, but I entirely failed to consider what would happen to the chandelier if I untied its supporting rope.
I swiftly untied the cord, hearing the clamour of murderous insurgents rapidly approaching at my back, but as I grasped the freed rope I was violently ripped off my feet and over the edge of the balcony by the weight of the chandelier, which, now unsecured, fell from great height onto the stage and crushed the crate of bombs beneath it with a mighty crash of metal and broken glass.
As that happened, I accelerated upwards towards the ceiling, dragged by the rope attached to the falling chandelier. Fortunately I had the wherewithal to let go before I collided with the metal ring above me, saving myself from a messy impact.
Instead, I flew across the auditorium far less gracefully than I had originally intended, and crashed into one of the stage curtains which broke my fall somewhat as I frantically clutched at it and slid down to the stage below.
I landed on my feet at the side of the stage, miraculously unharmed, and I brushed some stage curtain dust off my jacket as I looked around and got my bearings. None of my assailants were anywhere near close enough to threaten me, having all rushed to the upper circle.
It seemed that despite the unexpected consequence of untying the rope, my plan to reach the stage and the ground floor exits had worked!
That’s when I heard the ticking.
The stage around me was littered with spilled bombs from the broken crate, and I could see that some of them had been inadvertently triggered by the chandelier’s sudden impact; their ether crystals were beginning to glow brighter, and their clockwork parts were whirring and ticking with increasing intensity with every passing second.
“Not the bombs, you fool! You’ve killed us all!” One of my assailants cried from above.
I looked up and saw their faces stricken with terror. They yelled and scrambled around, their assault on me completely forgotten as they tried to make their way to the exits as fast as possible
From their responses, I smartly deduced that I should also be trying to leave the theatre with the utmost haste.
As fast as my feet could carry me, I dashed into the wings and in the direction of the side door that led out into the alleyway where I had previously been denied entry.
The detestable doorman from earlier stood in the backstage corridor between me and my exit, looking startled.
He began to shout at me, “Hey, what are you–” but with no time to spare, I lowered my shoulder and barged past him, throwing open the door and falling out into the alleyway beyond.
Not content with my distance from the impending explosion, I picked myself up and kept running out into the street.
The bombs must have detonated just as I turned the corner to run downhill towards the docks.
An ear shattering Boom, from which my hearing is only now very gradually recovering, erupted behind me.
A shockwave picked me up and swept me across the street, into the gutter where I lay with my head ringing. Rolling onto my back, I looked and saw a lightning infused fireball billowing into the sky.
Where the theatre had been a moment before, only a flaming husk remained, and burning debris littered the street.
I spotted a couple of the insurgents, who had made it to the exits in time, staggering around or lying cradling wounds outside the theatre. They had all been much closer to the explosion than I, and were looking worse for wear. Some had blood trickling from their ears, and most were tattered and bloodstained from the blast.
I crawled behind a vegetable cart and hid, fearing their retribution, but I need not have worried. In minutes, Saltcrust’s pirate militia arrived to control the scene of the explosion.
I turned myself in to their custody, availing myself of whatever protection and aid they could offer to an Adventurer in need.
They were full of questions, and I could barely understand them over the whining in my ears, but as I kept repeating my account loudly and clearly, they finally understood the events that had transpired.
My testimony led to the arrest of all captured insurgents, and by the morning I had received Saltcrust’s official thanks for preventing a bombing attack that could have scuppered the pirate armada for weeks or months, and possibly cost hundreds of lives.
I accepted their thanks with some embarrassment, seeing as the entire ordeal had been somewhat accidental, and stemmed from my drunken attempt to make a complaint to the owner of a restaurant that did not actually exist.
What an odd turn of events. I hardly know what to make of them, even in retrospect, but it was certainly lucky I made the mistake that I did. Who knows what could have happened otherwise.
As I sit at my desk aboard The Rogue Wave, penning this article, I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude to you, my readers. Without your astounding support and encouragement, for my continued work I would feel quite lost.
The measure of our experiences is so often in those we get to share them with, and getting to share the stories of my adventures with all of you makes me appreciate my strange and varied experiences all the more.
Some excellent news, before I wrap things up.
I have managed to secure passage to Loverlock to attend The Lovers’ Festival!
What adventures await me there, I know not, but I am overjoyed for the opportunity to attend. The Festival never fails to disappoint, and I am sure fate will transpire to place me in the centre of a thrilling adventure when I arrive, just as it does wherever I go.
Be sure to read my next article to find out what happens!
Until next time, this is Dorian Darling sailing off into the sunset, and toward the distant lights of The Lovers’ Festival…
[End of Chapter 14]