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Martyn would be dead, probably. A goner, if it weren’t for his Natalez .
As much as he knows it’s not a great thing— resorting to alcohol as a quick fix solution to everything— it’s comforting. More or less.
Though, it’s always been there, one form or another. Wine in one world, beer in the next. Martyn’s not fussy, but goodness does he love his Natalez.
Before Recruitment Day, imports to the Faction Isles were at a high in preparation for its newcomers. Fresh produce, lumber, livestock, clean water and alcohol. Crates and barrels of big-brand drinks to fill the taverns, with one of these big-brands known as ‘Natalez’.
“Good beer. Actually, no. Scrap that. Great beer,” Martyn would say, amidst the rest of his blab as if he’s known the brand his whole life, “Not as expensive as Kestrels’ brew, and it doesn’t give the same kick , though god is it the best for the price out here.”
It only took him half a bottle’s time of contemplation and a long few questing weeks to completely wipe the Kestrels’ of its Natalez stock. And additionally, also pay for the same Kestrels to store it for him. (He didn’t have an icebox. Who do they think he is? A Kestrel?)
Though, Martyn didn’t get through the crates of bottles as soon as he’d thought, and the Kestrels eventually grew sick of him hindering their storage potential. And in turn, he moved his booty of beer to the Herons’ ice box.
Yes, even Cleo — the owner of the Herons’ famous tavern— was surprised.
“And,” the bartender begins, eyeing the blonde pirate up and down, “I’m guessing you don’t have a storage unit of your own? Really? Quite odd since, you know, Kestrels should have access to those if they’re so rich and all?”
“Excuse me?” Martyn huffs, taking the lighthearted comment straight to heart, “Do I look lower class to you?”
Martyn, in fact, did look lower class to Cleo. He looked lower class to everyone . Even the way he dressed looked lower class. Linen pants, plain top, vest, faded green waist scarf, and sandals. And the icing on the cake; a black headband to push back his “high maintenance” barely maintained hair.
Rumours circulated that he had ‘washed up’ on the Isles, as opposed to most other pirates arriving by boat. Some say they spotted him swimming to shore, and some say they saw him passed out on the sand. Martyn thinks he did great for someone who swears they can’t swim. Not well, at least.
The only reason why he received an invitation from the Kestrels’ in the first place, (and why no one questioned or believed the rumours) was because of his fibs. Far too many to count on his two fragile hands.
‘Brave explorer’ this, and ‘ rich family’ that; even the Herons fell for it. Thought he could ‘discover them history’ by how high he had raised himself. Martyn knew he was great at acting after all, hiding his true intent. He’s glad that the skill has finally paid itself off. Though did it really? He hates his own faction— the way they guffaw so loud he can hear them places that it’s concerning, and gloat endlessly even when fully sober. They’re too self centred. Too engulfed in the fountains of gold that practically rust away, untouched in their bulging pockets.
But who was Martyn to speak? He had only joined the Kestrels for the respect. (The acceptance bribe of 150 gold.) Turns out you need to join the Herons for that type of respect— regard through famous family names and ‘who wrote what in the history books’ . Turns out that he hates the Herons. His first encounter was nothing but two gingers bragging about how they have the best brew in the Isles. He wasn’t against their claims, he just… hated their claims. They were right, by the way. Herons brew, best brew. Much more sensible prices compared to the Kestrels’, too.
So, what if it didn't pay off? Martyn’s happy, right? Then why does he sit alone over the edge of a Kestrel dock? Watching a lonely sunset, waiting over the rising tide as if it would bring the horizon closer, listening to the rise of chatter and clinking glasses in the tavern down the shore? As if he longs to be with the party and among the talk, yet here he is and here he dreads it.
It’s all so quick to descend into a blur, a mere hum for Martyn, especially with his Natalez in hand. Simply dismissing whatever stresses churn in his mind with a flick and a swig.
He enjoys it out here— that is, under the warm, numbing haze of alcohol.
The silence, the tranquil, time alone without having to deal with whatever fight was arising in his faction’s tavern. The sweet, salty drone of the wind, the high tide gently lapping against the dock posts.
With a rub of his face and a groan of fatigue, Martyn leans over onto his knees, exposing his face to the waters’ dark, murky surface.
What’s on your mind this time, fair Kestrel? What’s so bothersome that your substitute for company is booze?
Money being status with the Kestrels was another bullet point to Martyn’s list of cons. With the amount of quests he’s had to complete each week just to have enough to look rich, it’s exhausting. These Kestrels were so rich. So stupidly rich. Born rich, inherited rich, stolen rich. They only made him look poorer.
Tired, and with nothing else to spend his earnings on but mending his precious boat and paying that Heron for space in her ice box, Martyn struggles to find anything else of interest among the Isles. In all honesty, he struggles to find anything more comforting, more familiar, more safe, than falling asleep to a bit of beer on the Sabbath. At least he could depend on his booze to kiss him goodnight when he had none else to turn to.
“You look tired,” Martyn mutters, to no one but himself. He pretends he can see his reflection, that the lamplight from the buildings not so far behind him casts just enough light to illuminate his face– enough so that the sea can mirror him. He pretends he can see the sacks under his eyes, his bed-bound hair, his lopsided smile. And yet as Martyn gazes into the darkness, the face he finds is not his own.
Eyes fixed on the water below him, he leans ever so slightly closer to investigate. Martyn's detached reflection seems to blink only as he stares, and in a moment of impulse, he kicks the surface of the water with the toe of his sandal.
The water ripples, and whatever concealed within is rapidly reduced to a flurry of bubbles. Bubbles? Odd. Martyn didn’t kick that hard for there to be white water.
Dumb Kestrel. You’re not that drunk, yet.
Before Martyn can yell, he’s engulfed by the water, seized by the ankle of the same sandal that had broken its surface just before. The bottle, no longer in Martyn’s hand, hits the ocean and sinks. Down. Down. Down. Down.
He breathes, and all he finds himself breathing is not oxygen. Something so cold and salty that it’s numbing. Drowning his taste buds, rushing into his chest like a burst dam, staining his throat with something rough and icy, yet so unbearably burning.
Martyn can’t tell if it’s the alcohol, or the sudden feathery, delusional weight to his mind, but he feels something shake him— rattle his shoulders, firm (sharp?) grip. It drives his head back and forth, mindlessly swaying against the padding of the water. His hair flows into his face, then back out. Bubbles trickle from his lips, then tremble towards the water’s surface.
You can’t swim.
Martyn’s eyes feel heavier than most Kestrels’ coin pouches, and just as he dares try to force them open, he finds himself… thoughtless. The weight on his shoulders seems to have vanished, the burning in his chest cleared, and his senses flooded.
You’re dying, Kestrel. You’re through.
You’re through .
–through.
You’re th–
Th—.
Martyn feels something collide hard into his chest, and directly after, he feels as if he were spurting out the lining of his throat.
Vigorous, strained, dreadful coughs. Filthy splurts of choked water. One directly after the other, barely able to catch a breath before the next fights for an exit from his mouth.
He struggles to bring his eyes into focus, his senses to align, his hands to clench the ground beneath him and send the desperate message of relief to his mind that he was hunched on sand on hands and knees, breathing and alive .
Martyn is nauseous, dizzy and disorientated. His chest still burns, still tight and constricted. Hands weak and his limbs weaker.
You’ve survived, Kestrel.
“Why did you scare me like that?” a voice huffs, to which Martyn matches with a yell.
His head jerks to the source of the noise, and to his absolute surprise, he casts eyes on a… a siren? A merling? (What’s the difference?)
“ Hello? Erh, can you hear me?” (It– the merling has an accent? That’s odd. It’s not like anything Martyn’s ever heard before. Something reminiscent of Scottish? Though it’s under some other heavy accent that he can’t quite identify.)
Martyn swears at the sight of the thing, eyes fixed as if glued, breath halted as if not breathing at all.
A merling; is what Martyn decides on. Fiction, folklore, fairy tales. Long gone if their race were ever present, and yet this seems to disprove it. They’re just like sirens, right? Hostile. Extinct? Not extinct now , apparently. The Herons’ll love this.
Martyn, quite forcibly, ushers his lost mind to connect the ties, link the ropes. There’s a merling . What was it doing here? Lost? Perhaps trouble? Was it the force that dragged Martyn into the water? Did it… did it try to kill him?
“Hellooo?”
Martyn’s hand instinctively goes to his belt, his dagger holstered against it. He expects to brush past the strings of his gold pouch tied to his belt, and yet he doesn’t feel anything. (Did the merling take it?)
And here comes the panic. The rage.
“Yeah, yeah! You can stare all you want!” Martyn shouts, and before he himself knows it, he hurls the dagger towards the merling.
And misses.
The merling yelps, and the pirate’s voice trembles. “Pull me under, drown me, rob me of my valuables, and for what? You– you think I’m here to be playing your games?”
Its eyes are fixed on the dagger by its side, and with hesitation it dares to look the pirate in the eyes. “What? No, no I helped you!”
Looks like this fish’s got tongue, hey?
“Helped me? Helped me?” he spits, “You’re kidding!”
Martyn lets out a groan of frustration and turns himself away, and already regrets speaking. Knee to his chest, eyes cast far over the ocean, palms pressed up against his shaky lips and over his eyes, as if hiding. If the merling wants to kill him, it can feel free. Though, through the human’s trembling shoulders, his sniffles and his scrunched eyes, the merling has other intentions. The merling can tell he’s… crying.
It can barely bring itself to be angry at the… pirate? He looked different to other pirates. The merling almost feels… sympathy, for the pirate. Pity.
The next that Martyn hears from the merling is when it takes him by the chin, guiding his gaze and gaining his attention. The human’s cheeks are wet with salt water and tears, eyes hot and glistening. As the merling releases in hesitation, the other’s head immediately drops back down to his knees, and he continues to cry.
“What are you,” the human mumbles, barely comprehensible through his tears, through his hiccups. Tired and sick. He doesn’t bother to look back at the merling, nor does he lift his head from his knees– from the safe coil of his salty, cold, sand-stained sleeves.
“Scott,” is the merling’s single reply. (Not exactly answering the pirate’s question, but it’s an answer nonetheless.) He attempts to lift the human’s head up again, and as he does so, he manages what seems to be the warmest sharp-toothed smile Martyn has ever seen. It’s only meant to be comforting, Scott swears! It’s until he shuffles closer towards the pirate on the sand, that he taps on his arm, then looks up and watches him intently.
“You’re crying.” he breathes, to which the pirate replies, “Yeah, crying.”
Now that the merling is so close, and that Martyn has finally bothered to rid his eyes of tears, he can see the thing so much more clearly .
A tail of teal scales, glistening and reflecting the warm light of the setting sun— trailing like brush strokes along his cheekbones, his arms. Fins orange like silky organza, thin and soft like fine voile. A gilled rib cage, webbed hands, and blue-tinted ocean-tipped claws. Fingers? Claws. Hair messy like ropes, though like a clear sky, and arranged in gentle waves like the sea. And the colours in his large, deep, odd eyes match his tail.
“Why? Because,” the pirate finally continues, “I’m sad,” and drags a wet sleeve over his wet face with the weak hope of drying it. “Had a rough day, haven't been able to do the things I wanted to, and well, I almost died , for starters. Drowned .”
The merling receives a rather hateful glance.
“Now I'm here, I'm broke, and I feel sick and horrid and–" Martyn groans, rubs his face, and mutters something about sleep before slowly heaving his heavy body onto heels.
It’s such a struggle– just getting to his feet without a leg giving way or his ankle twisting in the shore, or even halting himself enough to stop swaying back and forth. He swipes at the sand, snatching up his dagger and returns it to its sheath.
Before Martyn knows, he feels a cold hand take his, and when it pulls away, it leaves… a coin. Two coins.
The coins fit comfortably in Martyn’s hand, presumably carved from some shell or something by its underside’s wavy ridges. Its corners are rounded with wear, surface grit with sand, inscribed with a marking in a language he does not know. And, there’s something sparkly pressed into its centre. Hah, hilarious. Martyn’s got himself a Sand Dollar. Sea dollar? Merling dollar. Sure.
“I can’t take this,” he near whispers, turning the coin in his hand and holding back the tears that well in his eyes. Not from guilt, but from fatigue, from worry. “I’m sorry but, Scott, I can’t.”
“What if I go grab your pouch?”
“My– What?”
“That’s the spirit.”
Scott’s cheeky, sharp grin is all Martyn catches before he disappears back under the dark water. It’s a while of staring into its surface that Martyn finally notices him resurface– bag in hand, tightly shut, proud as ever.
“Told you so,” he beams, tossing the pouch to Martyn, to which he catches it atop the ‘merling dollar’. “You could sell that for a lot, you know. The coin.”
"Sell?" Martyn repeats, looking down at the coins in his right hand. "Oh no no no no no. You're kidding . I'm not gonna sell these. You giving them to me is already enough. I do not need to sell these."
It's tempting, definitely. Martyn finds himself fighting against his morals and his anxiety, and yet he finds he'd be happier without the profit he'd earn from selling them. Martyn finally finds a reason to smile, albeit small.
"You know what," the pirate begins once more, glancing over to the docks. "Follow me?" He points over to a small boat, anchored on the other side of the docks. "Can't miss it. Best looking boat there, and the wood's as free of barnacles as a sky free of clouds." With a gesture for Scott to follow along the water, the pirate hauls himself up onto the dock, taking a moment to steady himself once more. He doesn't wait for an answer as he walks along, slowly making his way to the ship in question.
Goodness, a real boat? Up close? And a pirate? A nice one, too? Scott was already struggling to imagine how much better things could get.
Scott slides back into the water, following the other as close to the shore as he could. He catches himself watching him almost as much as he looks at the boat itself, absolutely enraptured by the pirate. Gosh, he’s pathetic, and a blonde, but Scott can tell he’s got a sweet heart. Scott also believes that being cheesy is better than being judgemental.
"Right. On we go," comes the pirate. With a quick double check, making sure the boat is securely tied to the dock before hopping on, Martyn leans over the side to see Scott approach.
It’s a struggle to actually get Scott up onto the deck, but Martyn manages to help him up with a few words and another beer. Weird, that. Having a merling on your deck. Right out of the fairy tales.
A bottle opens with a gentle pip! and the cap flies onto the deck, rolling along until the merling scoops it up and inspects the thing. Cold metal, little ridges around its circumference, a golden bird stamped onto its cap, and some cursive lettering. What did it say? Something starting with K? Scott wasn’t that fluent, okay! Merling was his first language!
“I never see ships,” Scott admits, practically scanning the ship of its facade, memorising each detail he could, “Just their underneaths.”
"They don't look so great underneath," Martyn replies with an airy laugh. The liquid the bottle fizzles to the rim, just until he brings it to his lips for a sip. "Well, mine looks great underneath. No barnacles. Clean wood," Martyn repeats, humbly. He wonders why most of the pirates on the Isles never bothered to clean off their barnacles. Kestrels could just pay someone to do it! Sure, if you can't see it they don't exist, but surely they don't at least bother the pirates! Maybe that was why Martyn wasn't as wealthy as the other Kestrels? Was it because he spent too much money on his ship?
"What's up with not being able to go near ships, anyways? We're not out to get you or anything, swear." He takes another swig, swirling the bottle around in his hand. Martyn runs a hand through his still-damp hair, brushing some sand off his still-damp clothes.
Scott’s expression seems to change rather quickly into a scowl. Martyn’s in for a ride.
Scott explains nonetheless, and at the idea that pirates killed merlings for sport, for money, out of fear and belief they were hostile, Martyn looks obviously uncomfortable. Straight out of the books, that is.
"That's– that's horrible. Scott, I'm so sorry." And yet. And yet the thought crosses Martyn's mind. How much? Is it worth it? Would that be enough to—
The moment he throws the thought away is more than obvious to Scott. The human shakes his head, and takes another silencing sip from the bottle.
Although a sensitive topic, Martyn is more than eager to know more. His Kestrel ass is too nosy not to. Scott, of course, isn’t quite trusting this human just yet. He has good reason to.
It’s until Scott says something too quick that the words “kingdom” and “father” and “prince” that Martyn finds the reason to interrupt.
"Hang on, you’re not royalty, are you?" Was that too abrupt? "Sorry," Martyn says quickly, rubbing his face without a glance at Scott. "Is- Are you meaning what I think you're saying?" Martyn sounds curious. A little bit too curious, even for his own liking. He groans, taking another swig. It was the beer, wasn't it? Maybe he should stop? Maybe he should just... not talk at all? Sometimes, he hates himself for choosing to be a Kestrel. He's too far in, really. Their morals are burned into his mind, and he hates them. Everything. He hates them.
Scott nods, and pretends as if he didn’t notice Martyn’s change in tone. He digs through his little bag. (Martyn hadn’t even noticed he had a bag on him. That’s where the coins came from, probably.) This time, it’s a thin golden crown that he reveals. He holds it up for Martyn to see, before he plants it atop his own head. Gold in a delicate twisted pattern, reminiscent of coral veins, embedded with sparkles of gems and pearls.
Martyn looks over, and seems curious. Even more curious.
"Oh," Martyn replies, eyeing the crown. He's never seen so much good gold in one place before— and the fact he knows it's real and solid makes him want to question even more; Just exactly how much?
He looks away as if having looked too long, only for a distracting, finishing sip of beer. Perhaps it was better to have a proper meal instead of downing sadness bottles. "Apologies I'm uh-" He begins in response to his dry replies, sighing, "I'm tired."
It's not a lie, but it's not entirely true though, either! Martyn wasn't one to kill Scott, necessarily... but that crown … That crown could sell for… well, a lot . He could already see the Herons drooling, Kestrels following them up. Nosy Nightingales wanting in on it, too. Curious Kites.
“I’ve got collections, too.”
Oh. Had he already moved on? What was Scott talking about? Martyn hadn’t even realised he was still in conversation. Something about his collections?
"What do you collect?" Martyn replies, in a desperate attempt to make it seem like he was listening. Hopefully he doesn't sound desperate. Hopefully it’s not obvious that his mind had other plans.
How much?
Or maybe he could just—. Martyn silently scolds himself, just as Scott only seems to brighten and completely empty the contents of his bag.
Trinkets of varying materials and sizes and the like. There's bottles and pieces of seaglass, alongside shells, various coins, and even things like clearly old-looking jewellery. Some of it is rather clearly trash, pieces of glass or metal scraps. “Cute, aren’t they?”
Martyn at least seems happy to see Scott happy. It's contagious, really. Even in the dim light of the oil lamp, it's so much more than obvious that he's just so enthusiastic. As Scott lays them out on the deck, Martyn takes the lamp from the barrel and places it between them, moving it closer to Scott with his boot. It's the coins and the jewellery that firstly catch Martyn's attention, yet he finds himself eyeing the coins most out of all.
Goodness. And how much would that sell for? How much? Would it be worth it?
"Oh absolutely," Martyn replies.
How much? But how much? “Pretty things indeed." How much? How much?
And just as Martyn swears he might snap from temptation, he notices Scott’s crown slip from atop his head. Not enough to fall, but slowly at such a rate that it very well could fall. He’s too busy laying out his trinkets, too busy deciding on which to touch on and share with Martyn.
“Scott, your—”
And, as Scott looks up at Martyn, the crown slips and…
…falls right into Scott’s hand. He tosses it onto the deck, dangerously close to the railing. Martyn narrows his eyes.
“I put it through worse,” he shrugs, closing his bag and laying it much gentler to his side.
“Don’t like your crown, huh? Put it through worse? Why so?”
For a moment, Scott believes that Martyn is truly interested in hearing about what he has to say. He hasn’t had a hesitation since the start.
“I don’t want it.” That ought to have woken Martyn’s greedy ass up. “I’d rather be a pirate. Explore, sail, not be told what to do.”
“Unbelievable,” Martyn mutters, huffing a laugh. “Funny you say that because I hate being a pirate.”
What’s there to enjoy? The quarrels, the bounties with his name on it, the multi-faction competition, the arrogance and drunkenness, the lust for gold and constant strive for fame and discovery. It’s such a cycle so repetitive that it’s sickening. Martyn couldn’t quite bring himself to tell Scott the downsides. Not everything’s calm, smooth sailing, free exploring without bounds.
“Why?” Scott says, contracting Martyn’s surprise. He leans his head forward in the slightest, widened eyes fixed with Martyn’s. “You’re free.”
“Sure I’m free but uh–” Martyn breathes, “There’s things you gotta do as a pirate to, you know, fit in. Keep your reputation. Not get your name written on a death list. Once you’re hated, it’s hard moving back up the hierarchy. Not to be a downer, or anythin’.”
Martyn dusts the sand off his clothes. Some of it seems to have dried, but other places are still damp and sticky. Gross. Being a pirate also means you have to not hate the water.
“And where I come from,” Martyn begins again, “If you don’t have money, you’re nothing. Money is everything. Instead of letting it rot in bags, I spend all mine on my ship.” And his beer. “So, you can already tell I’m not in such a good position. Just wait until the Herons find you. You’ll be like– I dunno. Some god to them, and then once they’re done sucking that information out, you’ll be sold to the Kestrels for the entertainment. It’s not a great place up he— What? No. Put that back.”
Scott is holding some of the Isles’ currency. Shaking it around in his hand as if teasing a puppy. Except, Scott doesn’t quite know puppies exist.
“Oh come on," the pirate laughs, “I’ve had to hold it in this whole time already. You can’t do me like that.”
Scott takes the confession as a joke, but quickly slots the coins back into his pouch. Martyn loses a free beer right there.
“I’ll fight ‘em,” Scott adds, in all seriousness, “I’ll fight whoever’s being mean.”
“Alright, then.”
“Watch me.”
“Watching.”
And what Martyn didn’t expect to happen, was for Scott to make an arrangement to “watch him fight” at sunrise the day after instead. How that would play out, he had no such idea. Martyn didn’t expect for Scott to leave so hastily either.
And, well. Martyn also didn’t expect for the merling to forget his gold crown on his deck. A Kestrel’s deck.
How unlucky.