Nyermersys - {HB} Docks

[Gararion]

As your vessel approaches the city of death, your eyes are amazed by the site before you.  For a place nicknamed after death, the docks seem to be bursting with activity.  Ship of every size docked or waiting still for a place to open so they may dock and unload their cargo.  The docks are bursting with activity, sailors unloading their goods for inspections and sale.  Captains yelling about at their men to move faster so they can move on to the next port.  Several guards move about the docks, a careful watch over the ships that make dock making sure nothing funny goes on and all goes well.

As your vessel makes dock, three guards approach it and watch over the ships crew as they begin to work.  As you make your way onto the dock, a soldier approaches you.  "What business do you have within Nyermersys?"

[Niccoli Faust]

Niccoli stepped off the deck of the ship, the Santhalan Breeze the captain, who had been conducting his business at the dock with the officials there handed him a small purse of coins. "Your pay for the journey, uneventful though it was." Niccoli took the purse and jingled it curiously. "Captain, this is a bit light no?" Niccoli opened the drawstrings of the small bag and noticed the silverbard sitting at the top of the small pile of copper coins. "Nevermind, everything would appear to be in order."
One of the group of soldiers who had approached the trader earlier stepped over to Niccoli.
"What business do you have within Nyermersys?"
"I have no specific business as of late, other than finding a job..." Niccoli paused a momment glancing around the bustling docks before adding a forced "sir" to the end of the sentance. "It's been a while since I've been here, though I have neglected to remember the directions to a certain tavern by the name of 'Brok's Rest' you would not happen to know the way to this most auspicious inn would you?"

[Gararion]

Replying the guard, you take a moment to look him over.  He's of average height, standing at a good ped and a few fores.  He appears to be rather muscled, though his armor does hamper your judgment.  He wears a fine red and blue cape embroidered with with the broken swords of the fallen and the burning crown of Erpheronia.  Beneath the cape lies a polished steel breastplate, etched in fine gold.  By the looks of things, this soldier held some authority over the others, for they neither had such fine armor or bear the cape that this one wears.  He seems to be an aged man, at least in his forties by the appearance of wrinkles in his stare as he examines you.  A trimmed mustache is the only facial hair the soldier has on his clean shaved face.

"Well sir, there are just a few things we need to get form you before we give you such information, if you would come with me.  Do you still have your identification papers from your last visit to Nyermersys?  If not, then we'll need to fill out another one for you.  We'll need your name, age and nationality."  He leads you to a nearby tented deck.  Within the tent you find another two guards standing watch over what you presume are the location of the blank legal papers in question.  Sitting behind the desk, he awaits either your identification papers or for you to provide the needed information.  Opening a record book, he speaks again.  'How long ago was it that you were within Nyermersys?"

[Niccoli Faust]

Niccoli perused his back mommentarily and produced a somewhat tattered if still legible piece of parchment. "That should still be in order my good man. Saves you the trouble of asking me questions, saves me the trouble of havin to answer em."

[Gararion]

Taking the worn piece of parchment from your hand, the guard examines it.  "Seems this piece is rather old.  You should really take more care of such legal papers.  I'll have to issue you a new set of papers though, these ones may prove too much of a hassle if you run into any trouble within our city."  Placing the aged parchment upon his desk, the guard speaks again, making little eye contact with you.  "Would you like just the bronze credential package..." he pauses as he glances at the aged parchment "If you tend to keep this new identification in the same spot as this one, I may suggest purchasing the silver credentials package."  As the guard awaits your answer, he copies some details from your original credentials, pausing every moment here and there to examine more closely some of the faded script.

[Niccoli Faust]

"Those have been in there a while, as you can no doubt tell. I'll be taking better care of these ones, whichever'd be simplest I'd wager." Niccoli attempted to recall the last time he'd been in Nyermersys, and failed. He muttered to himself "let's see... if it was before the last trip into Manthria, the one with the terrible weather going by Ciosa... but after that run over by Cape Strata, it'd have been... three years abouts."

[Gararion]

"So you only require the bronze papers then?  Fine, I just hope you take better care of this one," trails the guard as he opens a drawer within the desk and pulls a small folded piece of parchment from within out.  Unfolding it up and running his hand along the fold in order to help it stay open, he dabs his quill once more into the small ink vial sitting on his desk and begins to fill out your new papers.  "That'll be an od for the replacement papers," he says as he continues to fill out your papers.

[Niccoli Faust]

Niccoli fishes in the purse in one hand and, suprisingly, retrieves a scored bronze slug of metal and tosses it on to the table with a slight clang as it bounces on one of it's corners.

[Gararion]

Taking your coin and dropping it within a slot of a locked money box upon his desk, the guard finishes a few final touches on your papers and places the quill down.  Reaching for a candle which burns on the desk, he tips it over the paper allowing a small pool of hot wax collect on the paper before replacing the candle.  Removing a glove from his hand, he removes a ring around his finger and presses it into the cooling wax, leaving his seal of approval in the wax.

"There you go.  Careful of that seal, the wax may be still a little soft and you may find yourself with a little hassle if the seal is damaged."  Folding the paper back in half along the previous crease, he hands you the papers.  "What was the place you were asking about before?  A tavern was it?"

[Niccoli Faust]

Yes. I've stayed there on the occasion that I've found myself in this town. I can't remember the name of it for the life of me though.

[Gararion]

"Well, there are a few taverns within the city...though one of the older ones would be Brok's Rest.  It's been around awhile now.  Just follow the Kings road here," he says as he points over yonder.  "It'll take you the Main City.  After you pass the Townhall, you'll have to take a right down Butcherroad, after you pass the Large manor that lies next to the Townhall.  If I remember correctly, it shouldn't to far after you read the end of Butcherroad, you should be able to see it."

-=[OOC:  You can post at Brok's Rest anytime you feel like it. ]=-

[Captain Jarrl]

Jarrl approached with docks with an arrogant swagger, enjoying everything he saw. He loved the sights, the sounds, and especially the smells. Most of them anyway. Dodging past two men moving a crate, Jarrl moved in to get a closer look. The sharp smell of the water hit his nose, causing him to reminisce.

Shaking those thoughts out of his head, Jarll walked innocently over to a pile of crates, this time having to dodge a couple guards. Their presence at the docks would make it difficult to steal anything. He might be able to steal his next meal, but that would probably be it. If that even. Leaning against the crates, Jarrl waited, observing everything. 

[Kelancey the Green]

  Swaggering about the docks affords you an opportunity to see four seasoned ship mates passing a bottle of some dark purple swill, raving about their current employ as they laugh and curse.  A tall, lanky fellow, with dingy attire and the stump of his left hand bandaged, blurts out loudly, “Oy!  ‘Ere, oy’ve got a bettah one for ya.  Agravand, ‘e does na speak a bloody wurd of Tharian.  Oy says to ‘im, ‘Looks like it’s nap toime for our guest; why don’cha sing ‘im a lit’le ditty?’  An’ blimey, ‘e goes over to ‘im an’ starts trollin’ away!
     ‘Dis is de morn
     Of which sang King Santhros
     To de preety leettle girls
     We sing it like dees!’”

  Somehow, the other sailors find this mental image uproariously funny, and hoot and holler, slapping the drunken storyteller on the back.  After the laughter dies down some, a second sailor takes a serious tone, “If I eva’ get me ‘ands on that Fher bugger, ‘e’s in for it, I tell you wot.  I neva’ signed on to be haulin’ no dangerus cargo.  Shippin’ an’ transport is my bizniss, not ‘tis rubbish.”

  A third sailor, with sallow eye sockets and the coarse complexion of driftwood, agrees, adding, “I’d wring ‘is neck me’self, if it wurn’t fur tha’ coins ‘e’s promised us.  How’d he come by ‘at money, anyways?” 

  Calyairn has yet to show his face in this part of the docks.  You see a couple of other seamen unloading crates off their vessels without incident.  The gulls have started picking up on the stray fish that oozes out of a crate, their morning meal well underway.

[Captain Jarrl]

His brow furrowed in thought, Jarrl listened to the sailors, trying to understand through their drunken talk. Oh how he longed to be as drunk as they were right now. Being sober was too depressing. Everything always looked at felt better when one was drunk. Or was it the other way around? Jarrl could never tell.

Jarrl's head raised a little straighter after hearing something about dangerous cargo and money. His curiosity was piqued. Money always held his attention, and dangerous cargo sounded interesting.

Finally he made his way across the docks, trying to blend in and doing a pretty good job, to where the sailor's cargo was being unloaded. Hoping no one would take too much interest in his interest, Jarrl poked around one of the crates, trying to see what was inside.

[Kelancey the Green]

  As you unassumingly meander to where sailors are unloading their cargo, one of them turns to you with an angry grimace.  “Ey!  Wot you doin’ pokin’ ‘round in our bizniss?  Get outta there ‘afore I wollop ya one!”  He eyes you over once more, then straightens up, apparently realizing you are a sea captain.  “Oh, sorries, sir.  Din’t realize you waz one of us!”  He snaps to attention, his grin looking painted on, and worry lines of fear appear on his forehead.  After all, sea captains can be ruthless in the discipline they inflict on their shipmates.

  An eel or some sort of fish oozes out of the crate he is struggling to lift over the side of his ship.  Two of the drunken sailors you’d been listening to rinse their mouths with what looks like liquid for degreasing flat surfaces aboard ships, and greedily gulp it down.  They stand and clumsily stumble over to where a pile of lifting equipment awaits assembly.  They begin to piece it together, though their workmanship is questionable in their current status of mental incapacity.  The other two drunken sailors watch and laugh, making idle comments about where cotter pins should go, how this end goes the other way, and other useless contributions which wind up impeding progress.

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