The Tarred Siren’s sign lived up to its name.
A wooden bas-relief of a nude woman, her winged arm tactfully covering herself, loomed over the words. Black goop covered her body, and someone had thrown feathers - actual feathers - at it. She really was a tarred siren, Twila thought as she and Rosie opened the door.
Inside, the tavern stretched back into the cliffside. A dozen round tables lay scattered about, some filled with men and women drinking, others empty. A fiddle player played a slow, sad-sounding song in the corner, and a couple in the corner locked lips drunkenly. Twila and Rosie strode to the bar and pulled themselves onto the rickety stools.
“We don’t serve young’uns here, girls. Get going,” the barkeep grunted, looking toward the next customer.
“Rosie, a couple of masts, please,” Twila said. “We ain’t young’uns. We’re ship rats.”
The old man thought for a moment, sniffing the air while stroking his peppery beard. Then he uncorked the bottle he’d been holding and grabbed a pair of wood-carved mugs. “Aye, you stink like ship rats - sweat, stale clothes, and myst. You’ll pay like ‘em, too?”
“I hope so,” Rosie said. She dug into her purse and set two masts on the counter.
The man nodded. “That’ll do to start.” He filled each mug half-full of water from a bucket, then topped them off with the bottle’s golden-brown contents.
Twila took a cautious sip of the drink. The bitterness of the Shimmertower ale she’d had was almost entirely absent. Instead, this tasted almost like…like…
It was like the drink she’d had in Governor Hart’s office. Sweet, with just a touch of bitterness and something fruity. Then the aftertaste hit her, and she grimaced. Rosie had a similar expression.
“Keep drinkin’ it. I’ll give you something to chase it with after,” the barkeep said, a twinkle in his eye. “What can I really do for you two rats, then?”
“Ship’s in port for a few days, so we’ve got leave,” Twila began. “Know any good stories about Three Peaks? Legends, maybe, or wives’ tales?”
The old man nodded. “Well, I might be able to tell you ‘bout Garreth’s old wife. That’s a wives’ tale, that is. Or the caves below the town. But my time’s not free -”
“Another,” a man in a black boat cloak said, pushing between the two girls and slamming a handful of wheels onto the counter. “Now.”
Twila twitched and stared at the man with narrowed eyes. Was that the same man who’d shoved past them outside? What was his problem?
The bartender quickly poured more of the golden-brown ale into a mug, decidedly not cutting it with water. He nodded at the man in the boat cloak, not looking him in the eye. “Of course, sir. You enjoy that.”
The man grunted, and Twila watched him return to a table in the corner. He sat down and pulled a [Firestarter] and a long, thin pipe. Before long, the woody smell of tobacco wafted through the room, mixing with that of stale ale. His hood covered his face, but Twila imagined his eyes were locked on her. Her stomach fluttered, and she kept stealing glances at him.
“So, as I was saying, my time’s not free,” the barkeep continued. “Three wheels for a story.”
Twila nodded and sipped her ale as Rosie slid six small coins across the counter. “Both. Garreth’s wife first.”
“Aye, Garreth, then. Garreth, he were a fisher aboard the Crying Penelope. One day, the airship’s off the rocks near North Peak, getting in close, nets trailing. The nets catch on something, and the crew starts heaving and pulling. When they get the net up, something slides out. A fine fur coat, gray as fog.”
The old man paused as Twila finished her drink. He grabbed another bottle and poured a tiny glass of rich, dark liquid, then a second for Rosie. “That’ll burn, but it’ll clear the aftertaste.”
“Now, Garreth, he’s been eying Veronica to marry, and he thinks he’ll give her the coat as a courtship gift. The Crying Penelope comes to port, he hurries off to his house to clean it up and make it presentable, and the night falls. He’s pulling seaweed off the coat, trying to get rid of the fish smell and something stronger, when someone bangs on his door.”
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Twila sniffed the liquor before her, then tossed it into her mouth. The tavern laughed as she started coughing uncontrollably, but the barkeep kept talking.
“He opens it, and it’s a woman, and she’s buck-naked and shivering. Garreth tosses the coat aside - it’s soaking wet still - and wraps the woman up in a blanket. She falls asleep on his bed, and he finishes cleaning the coat and locks it in his sky chest to give to Veronica later.”
Twila’s eyes watered. “What is this?” She asked. Whatever it was, the ale’s aftertaste was gone. She thumped herself on the chest and wobbled a bit. Whatever she’d drank, it bit hard!
“Whiskey, from the north country. Now, Garreth, he’s going to give the coat to Veronica. Only, he never does. This woman, she won’t talk to him at all, but he falls in love with her. Calls her Aoife, and they get married that week. Veronica, she’s heartbroken. Throws herself into the sea, some say. Others say she took an airship to Smallfield.”
“Either way, Garreth’s marriage is happy for a while. But Aoife, the gray-haired woman, won’t stop watching his sky chest. He has to go back to sea and leaves his new wife alone in the house. When he comes back, the sky chest’s lock is broken, the contents scattered, and the coat is gone. So’s his wife. He tracks her to the rocks at North Peak’s base, but no further.”
“What happened? Rosie asked, eyes wide. She sipped at her whiskey, slowly swallowed, and coughed twice.
“Old Garreth, he’d caught himself a selkie. A seal-folk. Used to be a whole clan of ‘em down below North Peak. Of course, they’re not there anymore, but when he and I were young, they lived in the cavern down there.”
“Selkies, though, they keep to themselves. Unless you get their coat. If you get that, they’ll do whatever they can to get it back, even if it means marrying some poor fisherman. They need the coat to swim and fish, see. Garreth’s lucky. Often, a selkie who’s had to marry for their coat, she’ll drown the man the next chance she gets.”
Twila yawned and wobbled on her chair. “Where’d you say the selkies used to love…live?” She asked.
“Down by the base of North Peak, ship rats. By the mystmaze entrance,” the barkeep said. He looked like he wanted to say more, but something clicked next to Twila. A pistol barrel, aimed at the old man, had intruded on the conversation.
“Alright, Burram, you’ve said enough. Tell these ship rats to clear out before you and I have problems,” the man in the boat cloak said. He puffed at his pipe, one hand on his pistol.
The other rested on the hilt of a vicious-looking serrated cutlass.
A real pirate, thought Twila! This is so exciting!
[Twila Tighe, Ship Rat Mystgineer, Equipment Level 1.09 (Myst 1/10, Hit Points 1/1)]
[Head - Empty]
[Eyes - Myst Lens (lvl. 1) Myst Sight (passive) See own status block and others’ classes]
[Chest - Ship Rat’s Harness (lvl. 0)]
[Waist - Apprentice Mystgineer’s Bandolier (lvl. 1) Deep Pockets (passive) - Equip an additional Gizmo]
[Legs - Canvas Overalls (lvl. 0)]
[Gizmo #1 - Multitool (lv. 2) - Tool Transform (active, 1 myst/switch) - Change between many common tools; Skill - Tinkering]
[Gizmo #2 - Anton’s Pocket Watch (lvl. 4)] Redo (active, 5 myst/5 seconds) - redo the last five seconds of time, with knowledge of what’s happening (1 minute to reset); Skill - Piloting]
[Gizmo #3 - Empty]
[Gizmo (Belt) - Mystwork Lantern (lvl. 2): Mystlight (active, 25% failure chance, 1 myst/attempt) - start the light; Adjustable Light Aura (sustained, .5-2 myst/tick) - light a variable area; Skill - Perception]
[Myst Battery - Basic Myst Battery (lvl. 1) Small Storage (passive) - 10 myst maximum, requires condenser to refill]
[Weapon/Pair - Anton’s Paired Pistols (lvl. 2) Smoothbore Myst-Shot (active, 1 cartridge/shot) - fire a ray of heated myst; Rapid Shots (active, 2 myst/shot) - fire twice/tick; Skill - Marksman]
[Weapon/Pair - Empty]
[Skill #1 - Tinkering 2]
[Skill #2 - Perception 2]
[Skill #3 - Piloting 4]
[Skill #4 - Marksman 2]
[Skill #5 - Empty]