Don't Shoot the Messenger: Part Four
Despite how it might seem, being a messenger for the feared sea-demon pirate, Admiral Satrasi, infamous far and wide for having an entire fleet of raiding vessels who answer to him alone, is a relatively safe job. After all, no one knowingly crosses the Admiral. However, it seems the most recent captain looking to join his fleet hasn’t gotten that bulletin yet.
Fantasy, pirates, male monster x female reader, male demon, M/F, Part 4 of 9
Story Status: COMPLETE
AO3: Don't Shoot the Messenger Chapter 4
[Part One] [Part Two] [Part Three] Part Four [Part Five] [Part Six] [Part Seven] [Part Eight] [Part Nine - NSFW]
You stick to the shadows of the marketplace, eyes blind to the crowd even as your other senses are alert to danger, while you think.
Satrasi was able to give you instruction enough to find the wreckage of a carriage and a wagon. Ignoring the scattered bones of what likely had been his captors and anything too big to carry by yourself, you were still able to find items to use and sell. The coin you kept to yourself and the jewelry you sold. Consequently, you have more than you ever have before, even though you know you’d not been paid full price for your salvage—nor had the blacksmith seen it fit to pay you for telling him where the rest of it was, large iron cage included, for him and a larger group of townsfolk to see what they could make of it.
You’d gotten a decent pair of shoes and a new, larger waterskin out of it too, which when combined with the repairs to your clothing you’d done on the trip here from the undamaged clothing left behind, leaves you looking less like a beggar than you ever have, even if the family who’d given you a ride had taken the rest of the cloth as payment. They’d taken the coin you’d been able to give them for letting you come with them too. At least it means you aren’t chained to their stall while here to work off the trip.
Satrasi had explained his ship isn’t docked in the port itself to avoid seizure, but that some of his crew should be, getting supplies and enjoying what the port has to offer. He gives you a description and matching names for a handful of them, as well as drawing his flag in the dirt. Apparently, some of the crew will have that insignia on their clothes or tattooed on themselves.
You spend the morning re-familiarizing yourself with the port and locating the salt sellers—you plan to buy the salt right before you leave so you don’t have to lug it around while you search taverns. Judging by the weight of it, you’d be best to find someone with a wagon to travel back with.
After you’ve marked out the taverns you plan to visit, you look for a place to take a nap since you’ll want to visit the tavern in the evening—anyone there right now won’t be fit to talk to. It takes some time to find a place under the docks you feel is secure enough. You wedge in tight, with the amount of coin you have on you you don’t want to take any chances of someone lifting from you. You’re careful not to dirty yourself too much, not wanting to ruin the effect your carefully patched clothes have of lending you a modicum of respectability.
When you wake, you bury half your coin—not used to city pickpockets and paranoid about losing any more than necessary while in the taverns, knowing you’ll need to buy a drink or two in order not to stick out. You just don’t drink anything worth drinking often enough to trust yourself on it.
You start near the docks, trying to find taverns that have more than just locals or regular sailors in them, but that don’t seem dangerous—you’ll get to those eventually, but you’re in no rush.
Your fourth tavern is where you find your first demon and so you decide to linger on this row more than the others. You move through the different rooms, ending up in the tavern next door nearly without realizing it, as steadily as you can, fighting through smoke and pressing bodies to survey them without drawing attention to yourself. You’ve nearly given up on this side of the street when you spot her.
There’s a demon woman, three thick red tendrils with long black streaks down them for hair, gray skin with green scales spread more like freckles than the clusters Satrasi has, green eyes—solid with just a black pupil like Satrasi. She’s holding court at a table, drinking enough to enjoy herself, but not enough to end up under the table.
More importantly, she looks like Rietha, the navigator Satrasi described, and she’s a red arm band tied around her upper arm—the insignia Satrasi sketched proudly displayed. One of the others she’s with, a plain looking man with brown hair has what might be a tattoo of the same on his arm, but it’s partially hidden under his shirt and muddled by the other tattoos around it.
You decide to wait though, wanting to see how this group acts before you approach—they might be less of threat when a little more wobbly on their feet, but you don’t want them incoherent either. They mostly talk to each other or spin tales for some of the others that approach them and recognize quite easily that they’re pirates—mostly people visiting the port from what you can tell. Locals don’t seem as interested.
The man is a good storyteller and Rietha, if that is who she is, adds just enough to the tales to deepen and ground them. They work well together, earning themselves drinks without shelling out their own coin, and you find yourself listening just to listen. While you’re smart enough to know these stories have a bit of gloss to them, it seems like an exciting life: the travel and the crew and the Unbroken Sea.
The others nearby seem to agree as many of them look almost starry-eyed as they listen. Someone teases a man perhaps even a year or two younger than you for just that and the crowd laughs.
“Do you always pull such a crowd of people with nothing but cotton between their ears?” an older woman teases. She’d been listening with interest, but no rose-colored lenses are over her eyes.
“Ye get all sorts who want to hear fearsome stories or even try their luck stealing from pirates,” Rietha says almost lazily as she casually elbows someone pressed to close to her. They blanch and hurry away to the amusement of those closest. “‘Course there are always some who want some’at more mysterious. Ain’t that right, lass?” And she turns to look directly at you. Your eyes widen as she smirks. “Didya think I hadn’t noticed ye lurking in the shadows? Watchin’ us? Or ‘ave ye just never seen a demon afore?”
“I’ve seen a demon before,” you reply, walking closer. You work hard to seem nonchalant, ignore the few still listening even when it seems like mayhap storytime is over. “More fearsome than you, even if he were in rough shape.”
“That so? Brave little thing, aren’t ya?” Her look is appraising as she leans back in her chair, her eyes half-lidded. Her voice becomes more obviously mocking as she says, “Must have been to survive such a run in and be here to tell of it.”
The man with her scoffs. “Lyin’ more like it.”
These are not the people to show any weakness in front of. You shrug. “Believe what you like.”
“If it ain’t curiosity that’s got yer eye on us,” she asks, hand absently traveling over the green spike-y frills on her forearm, “what does?”
“Lookin’ for someone,” you reply, trying to match her lazy confidence as well as you can. People like folks like them, as long as it isn’t obvious enough to come across insulting. Makes them feel safer, makes them feel like they know you, know what you want—makes you seem predictable. “Ships out with a crew. Tryin’ to figure if its yers.”
“Oh, are ye now?” She looks a bit more interested at that. “Ye manage to get a name afore he scampered out of yer bed?”
“I did,” you say, not bothering to address the implication you’d slept with the man who you’re searching for—at least it means they don’t think you're a child. You let out your laces for the taverns, enough that no one balked at your coming in, but not enough to draw interest, or so you hope. “Wicklow he’s called.”
Recognition sparks in both them, but so does an equal amount of skepticism. “See?” the man says with a laugh and a slap of his knee. “A liar, didn’t I tell ya?”
“We might know a Wicklow—plenty around,” she allows, before shaking her head. “But I doubt it's the same one.”
“Why’s that?” you ask, curious despite yourself. You’re feeling more confident now that they've admitted to knowing one, but you don’t follow what might have discouraged them.
“‘Cause he likes his women able to snap him in two,” the man says plainly before looking you up and down. “Not fall over if he so much as breathes on ‘em.”
“Ain’t after him as bedmate,” you reply, rolling your eyes. Perhaps you shouldn’t have let that assumption stand in the first place, even as you note to perhaps check a certain type of brothel after this. “Gotta message for ‘im.”
“That so,” she raises an eyebrow. “From who?”
“His captain, a’course,” you reply, trying not to notice how their attention instantly sharpens on you, trying so hard to remain nonchalant. “Who else would be lookin’ for him? They got split up, yeah? Well, I found the captain.”
The demon’s eyes narrow as she pushes away her mug, a more calculating look on her face. “This demon ye met,” she says slowly. “What sort was he?”
You’re glad she picked up on that: she’s obviously the smart one. “Sea demon, red eyes, more teeth than ye’d expect in more places than ye would too.” Your eyes deliberately dart to the arm band she’s got tied around her bicep with Satrasi’s insignia on it.
“Got anything to prove yer not just tellin’ tales?”
“Yer name Rietha?”
A slow grin spread across her face, revealing bright, white teeth, baring the two blank spots where they’re missing. “Mayhap we do have some’at to talk about after all.”
She ushers you to a smaller side room for a more private talk and you follow in, trying not to make the tension screaming through your body obvious. You’re not sure how well you succeed, but they let you have the seat closest to the door without fuss. Rietha, the crewman who also did some talking, and a third crewmember—a rare half-demon from the looks of them—slide on the other side of the table with fresh drinks.
“Now, what’s this tell about Wicklow’s captain and messages? They got split, ye say?”
You frown, able to tell she's asking to see what your story is for the sake of it, rather than because she believes you. “Yeah, Satrasi said some mercenaries got the drop on them on the other side of the port.” Their attention sharpens at Satrasi’s name and that he might have been attacked. “Kept ‘im in a cage after hightailing away with him. Left Wicklow and another alive when they ran, or at least that’s how it’d seemed to ‘im.”
The crewmembers exchange some looks you can’t read well. The man says, slowly, “It ‘as been longer than usual. They was due back two days ago.”
“They’ve been late before,” the half-demon says, you think he’s a he from his voice, but it's hard to tell with the heavy stripes over his features and the lack of hair.
“You didn’t even know they were in trouble?” you can’t help but ask, rather incredulously.
The half-demon scowls, offended, but the man still looks skeptical. Rietha simply assesses you. “Ain’t got tabs on them. No way to chat while they meet with some of our more secretive contacts.”
“Wouldn’t Wicklow be back by now, to get yer help, after running into trouble?” you persist, not even thinking on how that might make them doubt your story.
Rietha snorts and the half-demon’s scowl gets even more pronounced. “That fool takes his position as first mate too seriously. Probably thought he could get the Admiral back quicker and without us having to fret. Lad’s only got two ways of being: handle everythin’ himself or drunken despair.”
“That seems like a problem in a first mate,” you say plainly before wincing.
Rietha laughs though. “Problem is more than half the time he handles things better than anyone else.”
“Admiral lets him get away with too much shit,” the half-demon spits.
“Admiral prefers loyalty and brains—and that’s ninety percent of what Wicklow is.”
“Yeah, well, the rest is hysterics. Not worth it to my mind.”
“Not your mind that matters, lad,” she says, plainly before turning back to you. “Now, you claim to have found the Admiral in some hide-y hole, some’at with water, I presume?”
You nod. “Yeah, but it’s fresh, so even if I couldn’t find you lot, he said to bring him salt. Said it would help.”
“Aye, it would,” Rietha says with a slow nod. Her voice is carefully blank as she asks, “He hurt?”
You shrug. “Not bleedin’ out, if that’s what yer asking. More sick from the water than anything, I think.”
“Right.” Rietha taps her fingers on the table rhythmically, thinking.
“Yer, not taking this girl seriously, are ya Rietha?” the half-demon is incredulous. “She’s just tellin’ tales.”
“To what end, Hayleth?”
“Good point,” the man says as he turns to you. “What’s in it for you, pipsqueak? Why run hither and yon for a trapped demon pirate ye don’t know?”
“Paid me,” you say, knowing they don’t care about your thoughts on moving to the city, how you want to help Satrasi because he’s trapped and withering in a hole, like you’ve often felt. How he’d treated you fairly, spoken to you honestly. You respect him and that's rare in your life. And he had paid you—not like that wasn’t important. “Says he’ll give me more if if I tell the right people, bring the salt. Can’t do that if he’s dead. And I got plans that don’t begin in my backwater, let alone end there. Best way to get along I’ve had fall into my lap. Not gonna let it slip through my fingers.”
Rietha nods slowly.
“We’ll need to tell the rest, but I think this is worth looking into.” She looks Hayleth in the eye when he makes to protest once more. “She knows too much for a girl in the opposite direction of where they went not to. We ain’t bringin’ no riches with us when we come,” she warns. “Admiral said he’d pay ye, so that’s who’ll do it, yeah?”
“Yeah,” you reply because fair’s fair. You’d expect nothing more. “Town’s Millriver, up the east road, through the mountains, about three days ride depending. Inn’s called ‘Duck and Duchess’’ and I’ll show you where from there.”
“Not gonna draw us a little map right to the Admiral?” Hayleth asks, his grin mocking.
“Only supposed to tell Wicklow more than that,” you reply flatly, not letting him bait you, but not wanting to make it seem like you’re intimidated, even though any of these on their own could take you out if they wanted to.
“Smart girl,” the man says.
“Smart Admiral,” Hayleth corrects. “What if she told the wrong folk? Miracle she got us.”
You don’t bother working up any offense at his attributing luck rather than skill to what you do, it's what most folks do.
Rietha just hummed thoughtfully. “Until then, little messenger.”
Since as far as they knew, Wicklow was with Satrasi when they were ambushed and hasn’t been seen around the city by even his own crew, you decide to head back to Millriver now, but take a longer route so you can check some other local taverns and inns on the way.
When you buy the salt, you have to resist the urge to hold onto the coins, never having had so much and not liking losing the security they give you. At least you’re fairly certain you got a good price—the man didn’t look angry when you left, but he was not as cheery as he had been with the man before you. It takes time to rig up straps to help hold the sacks of salt to you with cloth scraps just so you can carry them and then more time to find a wagon to tag along with to the first town.
No one else is hopping between small towns, either that's their destination or they’re taking a more direct route, so you’re glad you only spent one day in the city after all.
Each tavern and inn you scope out is a dissappointment, as no one matching Wicklow’s description is in any of them. One of the last towns, a day or so’s ride to your hometown, is where you finally hit some luck. You offer to help with the dinner chores at the inn in exchange for staying in their stables—you can’t justify the amount they charge for a proper room—and it's there in the main hall that you find him.
Or so you think. It’s rather hard to tell.
He’s down to his shirt and breeches, face half in his mug of ale, but you think his hair is the right color and his build matches Satrasi’s description. When one of the maid’s sees you looking, she says he’s been there since last night, disappearing during the day and then drinking heavily at night. Unfortunately, not pickpocketable despite his inebriation, but has been paying his tab as he goes with no fuss. She just wishes he wasn’t taking up one of their largest tables by himself and occasionally singing sad ballads very off-key.
More importantly, you’re eventually able to spot a tattoo on the back of his hand that’s close enough to the skull with tendrils for hair and four eyes that Satrasi sketched for you to decide he’s worth the risk of approaching.
“Are you Wicklow?” you ask cautiously, not sure how he’ll be as a drunk, but recognizing that subtlety likely will not work at this point.
He doesn’t pick up his head, only moans and says, “Does it even matter anymore?”
Right, dramatic and sad. That is what the crew at the port said. “It does,” you keep your voice as even as you can, calm and steadfast against his wavering, “because I’ve got a message for Wicklow.”
He turns his head to the side to blink blearily at you. “What more bad news could they bestow on poor Wicklow?” he laments. “Has he not been brought low enough?”
Lovely, talking about his own self by name. Never a good sign. Your conviction he’ll remember this conversation come morning is dropping with each word. But you can’t let that doubt get into your voice—he’d surely take it as a cue to sink deeper. “So you are Wicklow, good. Satrasi says—”
He bolts upright at the name fast enough that you jerk your head back, suddenly wary. Ought he not be able to spring up that fast as full of ale as he is? “The Admiral?” Then his expression falls and he gestures with his whole arm, “Spare me your lies! Satrasi got taken and I’ve lost the trail. It’s been days and days. I sent Millie back to the ship, but she’s not back yet either, but she was hurt, you see? So it's just me and they went through streams and over rocks and I’ve no notion of where they could be on this side of the mountain. My captain, in their heartless clutches.”
Dear gods, did this man used to be in a theater troupe? You’ve not heard such bellyaching since you had to watch Ginnie’s youngest while she was off visiting her gran. “Yes, well,” you decide it’s best to ignore his flowery language. “He got free on his own, but now he’s stuck ‘cause he can’t get to the sea.”
“Have you seen him?” he lunges for you, but stops to only clutch at the back of a chair when you take a step back. “Spoken to him?”
At least he seems to be hearing you now. “Yes, stumbled upon him in a cave.”
“A cave?” he wrinkles his nose. “Why would he be in a cave?”
“Because it was the closest water he could find,” you explain slowly as he blinks at you. “Even if it's not the sea. There’s a pool in it.”
“How wise of him,” Wicklow says, nodding vigorously and then clutching at his head. “How unwise of me.”
You wince and look around. The innkeeper seems glad you’re dealing with this mess and so you’re able to get some bread into Wicklow’s hand relatively quickly. “Mayhap it's time for a bite of food, yeah?” Wicklow stares at the bread before looking back at you. “Or some water?”
“But what of Admiral Satrasi?” he asks around a mouthful of bread. Even as he accepts the tin cup of water you press into his hand, Wicklow protests, “We should make haste to him.”
“I’m not sure you can make haste in your state,” you point out.
He swallows down all the water and straightens in his seat, his expression losing some of its waver. “Nonsense,” he says brusquely—the most competent and coherent he’s sounded since you ran into him. “A bit of ale isn’t going to delay me. He can’t be in freshwater for very long you see.”
“Yes, I know,” you reply, not trusting the veneer of sobriety he’s trying to pull on. “He bid me to bring him salt.”
“Good, good,” Wicklow is smart enough not to nod along with his agreement this time. “That certainly should help. You know where he is? Is it nearby?”
“Yes,” you say tentatively. This is the only person Satrasi said to trust with the actual details of where he is and for the first time, you question the validity of that decision. “Only a day's walk.”
“Splendid. Let’s go.” He stands up, takes one step forward, and promptly falls over.
You stare down at him on the floor and sigh.
"Right."
[Part Five]
