A Fateful Voyage

Waterdeep, the City of Splendors.

Was its splendour in its abundance of guild halls? Its wide streets, flanked by shops selling the finest and most diverse wares found anywhere on the Sword Coast? In the vast and venerable City of the Dead, with its beautifully carved mausoleums? In the Castle Ward, with its white marble palace and titanic walking statues, visible from almost any part of the city? In the cultural melting pot that was the North Ward, where nobles and common people alike came together in enduring communities? In the dramatic shadow of Mount Waterdeep herself?

No, the true splendour of Waterdeep could be found in the Dock Ward. Acres of tangled lanes and avenues, cluttered with shops and taverns and always riotous with the sounds, sights, and regrettably unavoidable smells of the city. You could stumble out of the doorway of one inn and trip your way into another, doubtless feeling your purse a coin or two lighter in the process. Even at dawn, the faint strains of a fiddle-spun sea-shanty and the shatter of glass reached Renark as he moved through the cobbled streets. Faded, painted signs emblazoned with familiar names - The Blushing Mermaid, The Hanging Lantern, The Splintered Stair - made him wonder for a moment whether one more night in Waterdeep would be such a bad thing… but the Dock Ward and its many inviting inns could wait. His destination this morning could not.

The street ahead of him turned and suddenly there were the docks. The expanse of Deepwater Harbour sprawled out before him, the waters thick with ships flying all the colours of the Sword Coast and beyond. From humble rowboats to majestic galleons, they easily numbered in the hundreds. Not even the rumour of a bronze dragon settling in the harbour’s depths had been enough to chase them away. What a daft rumour.

Renark had barely left the shadows of the city streets before a ragged cleric in a robe adorned with kelp and stained with sea-salt held up a hand to halt him. “A pilgrimage to the Queenspire, before you take to the waters?” The cleric thrust a grubby hand towards him, fingernails crusted with what could have been dirt, blood, or both. Chances were, he’d bathed in the shallows further to the south, and creatures that typically crawled in the damp sand had now taken up residence in the water-logged tangles of his beard.

By contrast, Renark looked remarkably well put together, though that wasn’t saying much. A once-fine open-collared shirt, rough-spun trousers, and boots that had lasted longer than they should have. He’d even shaved this morning, made himself look as presentable as he could, knowing what lay ahead. His worldly belongings had been stashed in a travelling bag, with the exception of a sword in its scabbard. As a half-orc, he was no more remarkable here than a Tabaxi or a Tiefling. If his green skin stood out on the docks, it was only because he'd had the chance to bathe in something other than seawater this morning.

“I’ll make my offerings to the Depths right here,” he said, with a nod towards the churning waters of the harbour. The wooden piers that stretched out to the many moored and anchored ships were already busy with crews coming and going, and just about everywhere was a sea-salt stained cleric of Umberlee looking to collect the Wavemother’s tithe. Lines of sailors stood waiting for their turn at ramshackle shrines that had been cobbled together from driftwood and the remains of wreckages, trying hurriedly to give gold to the Queen of the Depths, to the Golden Lady, and whichever other patrons they hoped might bless them on their way as they left the shore behind.

Renark side-stepped by what would certainly not be the last of Umberlee’s faithful to beckon him towards her temple. The Sea Bitch was his destination, truth be told - but not a temple of Umbleree. It was a ship named for her, looking for able-bodied crew. An auspicious name, he thought, rubbing a piece of gold between his fingertips, contemplating where and when to cast it and a handful of others into the harbour water. Either Umberlee’s vanity would mean the ship was blessed because it honoured her, or cursed because it dared to carry her name. It was about even odds either way. Renark glanced at the coin and with a deft flick of his thumb, sent it spinning into the harbour as he began making as direct a route as he could towards The Sea Bitch. The gold coin glittered for a moment under the water's surface, before it sank into the darkness below.

Better not to know which way that would’ve landed.

There’s nothing quite like a well placed boot, Captain Zankoris always said.

Orion Weathertop, first mate of The Sea Bitch, collared young Jon Redskys and pulled him out of his seat. “We sail with the outgoing tide and you are shit-faced and late.”

The halfling grabbed Redskys’ ear and hauled him out of the brothel, the kid bent almost double as he was marched into the street of the Dock Ward. The boot in this case was metaphorical, but Orion wasn’t opposed to actually giving Redskys a good kicking. “You’re lucky I found ya, and not th’ Captain. You’d be out on your ass, and likely without coin as the girls are adept at getting every piece of it out of your pockets.”

Jon stumbled on the uneven planking, but managed to stay upright. Well, as upright as he could be with Orion’s iron grip on his ear. “Nyssa’s worth it,” he slurred. “Whenna come back t’ Waterdeep sssh-she’ll be -“

Whatever he was about to say was drowned by the rain barrel Orion dunked his head into, finally relinquishing the ear. “I don’t care what the trollop’s name was, she don’t love ya.” He let the boy up for air and then pushed him back into the water. “It’s ya coin she loves!”

A few minutes later, a more-sober Jon Redskys was walking up the ramp onto The Sea Bitch, just in time to escape the captain’s ire. Orion watched from the dock, his arms crossed. Maybe it wasn’t worth it, pulling the young hand out of trouble that he was hellsbent on getting into, but the first mate knew the kid had potential and he was willing to give him a second chance. The boot was ready, however. If Redskys did anything to jeopardize the ship or the crew Orion would be the first one to throw him to the sharks. Metaphorical or otherwise.

He turned to survey the docks, and saw a half-orc moving toward him with purpose. “You’d be the new crew I was told to expect? Greywake?” Orion looked up at the much taller man, his arms still crossed. “Have experience on the sea?”

“Right. Renark,” the half-orc said, nodding in response to the first mate's keen gaze. He glanced at the ship behind Orion, her weathered hull bearing the faded scars of past voyages, the deck alive with the clamour of preparations. “I’ve spent plenty of time on the water - trading ships up north. Running supplies, dodging storms.”

It was a half-truth, at best. Storms had been frequent, and the Gnasher had been in the business of transporting goods - though the nature and provenance of those goods had often strayed into murky waters. The less said about the warship’s less-than-legal dealings and Renark’s tumultuous relationship with the ship's captain, the better.

Maybe it would've been wiser to keep his boots firmly planted on solid ground, avoiding the risk of crossing paths with his former crew, but the thought faded quickly; a few months of landlocked monotony had been more than enough to make the prospect of a place on board The Sea Bitch feel like a lifeline.

Renark took a step alongside the halfling, meaning to head towards the ship’s ramp. “Where we headed?”

“Oh, down the Sword Coast to Baldur’s Gate.” Orion hitched up his pants, leading the way up the gangplank. “The captain will want t’ speak with ya, now that ye’ve arrived.”

He pointed up to the quarterdeck where a tall half elf with a wide brimmed hat was talking to a dwarven man. She turned and looked down at the pair, and the dwarf rolled up a chart and stomped away.

”Up ya go, Greywake! We’ll see to your sleeping arrangements after the captain’s done with ya.” Orion smiled amiably, until he caught sight of a hungover Redskys leaning on a barrel. “Secure that load!” he hollered, startling the young man upright.

Captain Shalee Zankoris watched as the half-orc climbed the stairs toward her. He had the resume she had been looking for, and if his personality meshed with the crew he should be a good addition for this run. She took off her hat and ran her fingers through her sidecut red hair before replacing it. The wide brim was pinned up on one side with a large feather stuck through the band, blowing in the seabreeze.

The moment Renark’s boots hit the deck, the noise of the docks was swallowed by the calls of the crew. The ship bristled with energy and potential, like a beast straining at the leash. Onboard any sailing ship, egos and ambitions jostled as sailors carved out their places in the pecking order - some with skill, others by force. It didn’t matter who you were before; only what you could do now. Renark knew he had to carve out his place on The Sea Bitch fast, or risk someone else deciding where he fit.

As he climbed to the quarterdeck, his eyes landed on Shalee Zankoris. Even without Orion’s direction, there was no mistaking the half-elf for anyone but the captain. She had the kind of presence that made it clear she belonged at the helm. Her face held the sharpness of experience and the calm of someone who didn’t need to demand respect because she already had it. For a moment, his gaze lingered on her hat, then the red hair beneath it.

"Captain." Renark gave a brief nod, not just in greeting but in recognition of her authority.

"Your mate said you’d want to talk before we weigh anchor."