Calder Muireadach

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About Calder Muireadach

  • Rank
    Fresh Faced

CHARACTER PROFILE

  • GENDER
    Male
  • PLAY-BY
    Ben Dahlhaus
  • SEXUAL ORIENTATION
    Heterosexual
  • RACE
    Veil Crosser, Outworlder
  • JOB
    Freight Transport - NY
  • 'SHIP:
    None at this time
  • LOCATION
    New York, NY
  • FACTION
    Factionless
  • APPEARANCE
    Close to six foot, Calder is lean but all muscle. Long dark blonde hair is often pulled in a ponytail, braided in a plait or pulled up into a topknot. He sports a scruff beard, growing it out a bit longer during winter months but always meticulously kept. Expressive eyes are unusually light, matching his moods and picking up the color of whatever he’s wearing; they can shift anywhere from greens, to blues and grays.

    Clothing is utilitarian, button ups over sleeveless shirts in the summer, Navy pea coats, henleys and Irish sweaters in the winter. Every once and a while he can be in a tee shirt, jeans and barefoot on his houseboat. On the rare occasion he does dress up, it suits him; manners so refined they seem to contradict a well-kept blue collar appearance.

    He has several tattoos earned from various events in his life, and often wears talismans on cords that he finds interesting and remind him of his former life.
  • PERSONALITY
    Compressed, intense, yet oddly easy going.

    Calder is a formidable warrior and magic wielder, and with that came fierce confidence and presence. He commanded the power of water, and was unbeaten in the raging wars that were tearing his world apart. Through storms and vicious ocean, he controlled his fate on any ship, any high sea. Wind, rain, hurricane, he could rip the storm clouds from the sky to fill his sails. Any ship, any distance, he always seemed to know the way.

    Now, the skill of his hands is all he possesses and he is lost. Still unmatched in as many forms of fighting styles as he can collect, anger pushes him forward; searching for a way back to finish the wars he could not afford to lose. He knows the people in this world are not to blame, he treats them with as much kindness as he can muster. Still, he is reluctant to build relationships in case there is a chance he discovers a way to return home.

    Hiding who and what he is, there is an inkling of his old ways; playing with the rim of his glass and making the water move, parting raindrops in his path, it's still an embarrassing demotion to who he was before. He focuses on his physical skill in hopes when he returns there will be a fight in his hands no one has ever seen before.

    He at the core has a good heart, but has no problem rising to the occasion of violence when something he deems just is threatened.
  • PERSONAL BELONGINGS
    Collection of master swords and fighting weapons from various cultures.

    The native clothes, weapons and leather armor he was wearing when ripped through the Nevus.

    Modern small freight vessel (with human npc crew) capable of making coastline and small gulf trips. It was moored in the same dock where he worked, later convincing his 'boss' to allow him to return it to service and eventually purchased the smaller vessel through his work. When the 'company' went belly up, he retained it and now works freelance.

    Modern houseboat docked in the 79th Street Boat Basin.

    "Draugr Atgeirr", the Ghost Spear, his Outworlder ship that passed through with him. It is made from traditional wood of his realm, a beast of an "evergreen" only growing in the northern realms similar in size to the Earthen Sequoia. Enchanted by the properties of the tree, it is able to reflect the water once polished and made watertight into the longship hulls- giving it an invisible appearance until it nears land and hits shore. After breaking the Veil, it seemed to retain the ability regardless of where it was; it grew stronger as he had grown weaker. It is essentially a ghost ship, taking its namesake to heart. It is moored on a beach just north of the city.
  • SOCIAL AFFILIATIONS/RELATIONSHIPS
    Since the onslaught of Outworlder hate, Calder has become a ferryman of sorts for those that refuse to conform and be branded. He discretely collects, protects and relocates any that come to him seeking help.

    Logically, he has close ties to any underground "smuggling" operations, ear to the ground with great ease to move things and not be seen because of his shipping capability. The open water has no rules, even in the budding rebirth of law and order.
  • ABILITIES
    APPROVED
  • SKILLS
    APPROVED
  • HISTORY
    APPROVED

STAFF APPROVED ABILITIES/SKILLS/HISTORY

  • APPROVED ABILITIES
    Appearing around thirty years old, he is much older. At his entry into this world, he was fifty two, roughly twice his appearance. He has come to the reasonable assumption he ages in that ratio.

    Once possessed substantial water manipulation skills, now they have been muted by the rift he was yanked through with no hope of return. On a good day, he can move rain drops around him in gentle patterns or play with water in a glass. Parlor tricks. It takes intense focus but most of the time there is nothing.

    He can hold his breath for an extraordinary amount of time underwater, a physical characteristic of his mariner "species". For a little over a half hour, he can dive freely- which he finds useful for repairs on his boats. Never having "found out" why, he assumes from studying this world that his lungs are larger than Earth's human species or that the rate of his oxygen replacement upon inhale or exhale is larger. After inadvertently finding out humans didn't have this skill, he is very guarded about who and how he asks/researches.

    Extreme tolerance to cold, a characteristic of his Outworlder race- mostly for water or swimming purposes but it transfers to weather related temperature as well. In contrast, he has low tolerance of extreme heat.

    Incredible swimmer. Strong, agile and fast- it's also a physical characteristic of his Veil Crosser "species". No frills or magic, just the power of an Olympic swimmer or Navy free diver. It's not endless, tiring just as any physical ability would.

    Unassisted deep diver. His physiology is resistant to the water pressure that causes normal humans' buildup of gasses in the tissue and blood, allowing the descent to deeper depths with no decompression needed to return to the surface. He is able to swim freely within the one to two hundred foot human threshold with no consequences. Below that, he will develop the same toxicities if he remains down for the capacity of his breath, so on and so forth. Currently, he doesn't know how deep that may be and could conceivably go much deeper than a human with "weight-sled" or ballast dive assistance, but considering the length of time he can hold his breath the results could be catastrophic. As a child he became fluent in understanding where his limitations lie, just like a normal human learning how much weight they can lift or fast they can run without consequence. He has never attempted a weight assisted deep dive to test his limitations, and given the inequitable nature of the length of time he can hold his breath versus speed of weighted descent, he most likely never will. It seems an arrogant flirt with certain death.
  • APPROVED SKILLS
    Mechanical/engine maintenance knowledge developed over his time in New York working the docks.

    High IQ, was able to learn English fairly easily. He still has a significant accent which seems to be diminishing over time- sounding similar to the Earthen Danish or Dutch.

    Can navigate and pilot any sailing vessel, larger ships require crew and he is able to captain with immeasurable experience. Has an acquired large working knowledge of engine driven boats, and is able to learn as he goes.

    Combat. Any. Sword, knives, axes, blades of any kind, bows. Physical hand to hand, random objects. Firearms are a growing knowledge base, still limited but gaining skill. He was most skilled in hand to hand, knives and bows before crossing through the Veil. Since arriving he has developed an affinity specifically for the katana and wakizashi. A sharp contrast to the Viking-like brute force he was raised on. He finds them elegant and effective.
  • APPROVED HISTORY
    BEFORE EARTH MAY 2010

    It was all the blood that made the Haugbui warrior pause. Cleaved armor shed halfway through the battlefield, torn shirt filled with the scent of salty battle blood and seawater. The pause brought a heaving chest and the creaking grip across a metal wrapped hilt. Field had been razed in an exquisite dance of battle skills and magic, the synthesized expertise an art. Water still receded from the field, some of the fallen enemy with it to be swallowed by the sea. Terrible, terrible talent. But this, the dead in the tree. It was at that moment he realized his reputation preceded him. Another blood sacrifice, this time hanging by their feet from the branches high front of him. It wasn’t a warning, it was an offering. The army just decimated by himself and his kin had beaten and held this city. He’d taken it back. His city, and they were with him. He’d seen it before on his hammerfist sweep of his father’s coastline to pull it back from the jaws of the Grosugr southern kingdoms again. Sacrifices, to his father, now him. First criminals hung from the trees, now this. These were not criminals. This was not acceptable, and this was not respect. This was fear. Ghosts. They called his kind the undead, never seen coming. Appearing from the sea only to disappear into it again. They were worshipping a false god. He was not a god. He was just a man with terrible power, a passion for his people, and an absent father that pointed to the next battle from on high instead of picking up a sword.

    Regardless, he kept pushing south, rekindling the already hot blood feuds that had raged for centuries.

    Borders moved back and forth, villages and cities caught in the raging lines being broken and retaken. It was all barreling toward a horrible end and a new beginning. The ice storms not far off, the Otherworld was a trail of ash and blood. So close, so close to retaking their homeland. Storms came early, the sea raged and with them the tolerance that the southern tribes couldn’t withstand. Victories came swifter, the storms fiercer, until a blizzard so dark the skies turned purple. Even the water mage couldn’t hold back the tide of lavender that seemed to blur the horizon and become the water.

    Then silence.

    AFTER EARTH MAY 2010

    The man thought he was dead, lying alone on the deck of the ship that had carried him halfway around his world in battle. Consistent bumping opened his eyes. His hull was rocking against something, bringing his consciousness around. A half sunken modern steel goliath towered above his own ship, groaning with warning every time Draugr Atgeirr's side was bumped against it by the ice chunked waves. It's frayed bowlines and shredded square sail were tangled in the ugly beast's slack anchor chain, and the weight of his longship was pushing at its rusted hull's tolerance.

    The bow was threatening to collapse on top of both of them. For once there was fear, not from death or perceived defeat, but the sheer size of the thing that towered over him. It brought a bruised body to its feet, a hand to toward the waves to tell them to move, and a brow downward when nothing happened.

    Nothing. Quivered breath tried again. Again nothing. Fatigue? Pulling a knife from his belt he scaled the mast, spending near an hour cutting themselves free, all the while telling the waves to push them off... then asking... then begging.

    Alone, powerless.

    After substantial effort, he beached the longship, swimming back out to the dying freighter to climb its height- skyscrapers of New York visible in the distance, and a livelihood on the docks and harbor waiting for the stranger from another world.

Profile Fields

  • Primary
    Bo
  • Role Play Sample
    In the silence of her garage, all she could hear was noise. It was all noise, the sound like a hurricane crushing at her skull. Jacob was right on her tail, speaking to her, glitter of perspiration in his peppered high and tight… his words warped and unintelligible. Stepping off the ramp, she heard her name shouted before she fell, the sound of pounding military boots toward the ramp safely out of view of the crowd back in their personal prep garage.

    “Reid!” Gav scooped her up, the completely limp woman’s eyes flickering under her hummingbird’s lashes. “Jacob! Doctor now!”

    “No, no!” the large man was old but he could move, trotting down the ramp after her from above, “no doctor.”

    “What?!” Gav’s normally gentle voice was incredulous, turning back to Reid as he patted her cheeks. “C’mon, Reid… wake up… why are we not getting a doctor?!”

    Jacob hurried past him, brushing through to the workbench to pick up her mouth guard and making it back in record time. Stuffing it in her mouth, he reached behind her ear, flicking the iridescent buttons hard with his fingernails. Her surge was painful, enough to make Gav jump, back arching as her gloved fingers clutched his biceps enough to leave bruises.

    “Let her go,” Jacob stood, pulling the stunned Sergeant back away from the seizing woman, “or she’ll rip your skin off…”

    Gav's light eyes furled in horror and disbelief, tearing off his fatigue green battered jacket and rolling it up to place under her head to protect her skull from the seizure. Flail sent him backward, her gloved fingers locked on the railing of the ramp, clutch so hard her body trembled.

    “That would have been you…” Jacob said under his breath.

    “What’s happening?”

    “Reboot,” Jacob’s cigarette bobbed in his lips, “happens sometimes. Usually not after a hard shut down like tonight was.”

    Brow downward, Gav knelt next to her, holding her head until the muscles spasms passed and pulled her hair back when palm hit the metal grate to push up the battered body and wretch nothing over the side of the ramp, the mouth guard clinking on the floor.

    “Is this what happens after fights in the dressing room?”

    “Not usually this bad,” Jacob nodded once before his footfalls clanged slowly downward to fetch her some water. “She doesn’t want anyone to see it.”

    Gav pulled her up, holding her head up as he checked her pupils.

    “You can’t get me dressed after a fight… you’ll look at my ass,” she murmured.

    His smile was tepid, exhale relieved. Her large pupils still worried him, they usually were almost normal by now. Helping her up, she drank the entire glass of water, holding it out to Jacob for another as he walked with her down the ramp to a bench.

    Thirst was insatiable.

    “I need that cheeseburger now,” she mumbled.
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  1. Birth of the Underground Network

    … most certainly not of anger. But loss of control is vulgar. “Seemed controlled to me.” He knew that wasn’t entirely what the man was talking about, but it still was true nonetheless. Lack of emotional control sometimes was the only thing that separated those that kept others alive from those that couldn’t. He had passion and loyalty, which was rare from what he’d seen in this place over a decade. People were too quick to jump to a side that would keep them safe, even if that meant betraying someone that was a protector previously. This felt without honor more often than not. It’s why he stayed aloof. No ties, nobody that needed trusting, saved him the trouble of having to sort it all out- or making ties. This was potentially a tie down. Even the serenity of contemplation somehow suddenly turned all to hell. THIS was what he was worried about. Doing a favor and getting burned. Or being leaned on and not being able to save them. Brow unconsciously furled at the realization, his body already in motion. … and then it was over. He had intended to get up and retake the helm, but didn’t quite make it further than that. Lying there for a long moment- eyes focused on a stationary cloud, reminding him that the boat was still moving lazily in its circle. Side eyes glanced to the elf at his smile, his brows quirking as they went back to the cloud. You do know, I did not need a display of talent to make a decision. A decidedly annoyed cocked brow returned to the elf that somehow ended in an amused eye roll. This was how bromances started. Exactly how. Hands folded on his chest. You are the right man. You know this to be true. “No I’m not.” This time he was able to roll upward smoothly to his feet. Hand ran along the grazed railing. That would need repair. He also needed to check his hull to make sure he wasn’t taking water. He swiftly picked up the unusual blade, naturally spinning it through his fingers as he looked down at it a moment before padding downstairs to return it to the mount. Bare feet then found the railing to walk along like a tightrope artist as he surveyed the sit of the boat in the water. “And if I’m ripped from this world tomorrow, what happens to them then? Same thing that happened to those I was responsible for in my own. Leaderless death.” Slowly the details could be put together in that vague man’s puzzle. His quiet, casual exterior was something so much more dynamic in his own world. Warrior. Leader. Loyal. Fearless. A demeanor that screamed he wasn’t just a battle brute. Never ending guilt that he’d done something to anger the universe and dump him here. When he couldn’t be counted on, he couldn’t let anyone down, which made his next works hard to spit out. The man would be insistent that he was some savior… “I wouldn’t have let you drown you know.” He spider-monkeyed to the spot over where his hull had been repaired. “Be right back.” Step to the side sluiced his form into the water once more to swim around the entirety over the vessel to check. After a few moments, hand appeared on the railing before climbing back up. He squeezed the water from his hair, shirt pulled off to squeeze over the edge and pull back on. Cargo shorts would dry well on their own. “Towels in the apartment if you need them.” They were nice towels. Everything about what he had was nice. Meticulously well-kept though often not the luxury he was used to in his own world. It was hard to replicate metals that looked like gemstones here, or fabric so fine it clung to skin like a second one. Things just didn’t work here like home. So, nice cotton towels it was. Back to the helm, the motor sputtered a moment to start, then hummed to life. He’d probably pissed the guy off, wasted his time. He didn’t seem like the type to like their time wasted. Maybe he was the right man for the job, but part of that was whether or not he wanted the job. He really didn’t feel like not being able to save everyone. He knew that was an unreasonable hope, but was he ready to put himself in a position of have someone trust his strength, and not being able to follow through? That was the rub. “Ocean City,” he said quietly. “Be there a bit after I drop you off. Have to find a new anchor.”
  2. Spare Me Over Another Year

    Mood was sour, the steady thump of water dripping from his clothes breaking his stern silence. One eye was on the dark water ahead of them, the other was on the presences they were leaving behind them. It seemed if not for the swords he’d set on display, they would not have left them alone. He didn’t think this was simply an Outworlder thing. If it was, they would not have backed off. This was a HER thing, and it was beyond his wheelhouse, at least for the moment. Boat slowly moving forward away from danger, footsteps were quiet toward his charge. He didn’t expect her to trust him at his word, so the struggling was expected. Seemed everyone had secrets to tell and he needed to figure out exactly what he was getting into if it wasn’t Outworlder… "I don't like being tied up, I mean I REALLY don't like it." Blade was pulled from the wood, an austere expression watching her a moment. “I don’t like being caught in the middle of something, or sabotaged when I’m trying to do the right thing.” He was quiet. “If I untie you are you going to take a header off the side of the ship again?” Brow quirked and he disappeared to put away his fun toys, returning to lean on the rail and squeeze the water from his hair and re-plait it. Arms crossed finally. He really did feel like chucking her over the edge. “Or do I just kick you off here? Either way you better start talking…”
  3. Birth of the Underground Network

    So many are and no one is caring…. no one is helping…. He was helping, sort of he guessed. Was this guy helping by helping himself? Not sure yet… Some yes… if they choose so. Others merely live on my lands, working it for their own sustenance alone. That choice is theirs… I just offer a place to escape this world. Did they know they had a choice? That was a question that would need to be answered. He wouldn’t “deliver” anyone anywhere until they fully understood that they could step off the boat and disappear forever without feeling any responsibility to “work” their debt off. Let them COME… Eyes flicked to him. Throughout the entire display, his expression never changed. He had to admit, his thoughts were selfish. Why couldn’t he do this? If this man was an Outworlder as he claimed to be, then why had he held onto his abilities, while the boatman had not? “Why are you ashamed to be angry?” the candid thought tumbled off his lips really before he could stop it as the elf seemed to sullen. It was clear at that moment that he'd been comfortable with the same fury, the same outburst of power enough to not feel threatened by it… actually the opposite. The boatman held formidable power in his hands, or at least once had. Enough, to not be afraid of anger, or death. I help them tap into what they think they have lost. They have spent so much time hiding they have suffocated what they were born with. Power blossoms where one feels safe, yet challenged. This world is not so dead as they often believe. Power blossoms where one feels safe. “That’s not true.” He didn’t elaborate. He felt safe, and yet his power was impotent. Bitter, thumb tapped on the button impatiently but not pushing it as his eyes scanned the horizon. Head cocked slightly, listening to the water. Which is why I approach you. The fearful cannot be led, cannot be helped…. by the fearful. Not afraid, yet strangely so? Mine was a world of mountains and streams…lush green that shot trees hundreds of feet into the sky. “I moved oceans,” he said quietly, pausing a moment before speaking one more time into the radio. Not surprising he wasn’t being answered. Not many made the trip south. Past New Jersey there just wasn’t much there, and the water in between was dangerous, even deadly. Pirates, submerged drag, who knew what else. Receiver was snapped back into the radio as he stood and padded over to the side. He could feel the damn thing, feel the currents against it, the vibration against his boat speaking to him like Morse Code, but he was no closer to knowing where it was than he was five minutes ago. At one time he could part the water to take a look, swirl the tide to push the unwanted hunk of metal out of the ocean like a splinter in skin. It just was not fair. Hands held the railing tight for a moment, sigh quick before he eyed the elf. Fearless it was. He let loose the anchor, he wasn’t expecting to set it hard anywhere, but it would keep the boat from going too far as he explored a bit to make sure the path was clear. They could move in closer to the shore, but in truth it was more dangerous. Sandbars, more wrecks. Navigating the waters now truly was a deathwish. The clang he was not expecting, immediately halting and reversing the winch to a groan on the boat. All foul words in his language were brought to the tip of his tongue only to be silenced by the dash of his feet over the side, slicing into the water like a Navy diver to the one thing he didn’t want to see lurking in the darkness fifty feet down. Forty feet to port and they had a clear path, but directly under was the mangled bridge of the empty tanker, and directly in front of them was over a football field of beast teetering on its bilge keel, almost on its side from what he could tell. If he could dislodge the anchor from the buckled radar mast, they would be okay and on their way. But the groaning he’d heard was still peppering the darkness, it was starting to roll over, even just shifting ten feet it would drag his ship under or tear the winch out. Both would sink him. Try to dislodge or cut it loose. He didn’t want to lose his boat, and didn’t know if the elf could swim. The split second decision was helped along by the anchor line snapping taught. Downward. It wasn't just the drift of his boat. It was going down. No time. Adrenaline surged and so did he, hand launching out from the deep to catch a cleat on the stern, propelling him onto the deck only to leap over sections as the boat itself began to turn from the line. It seemed all in one motion, blade not of this world suddenly in hand, there would be no time to do it proper; the boat was already tugging downward, the rope threatening to shear off anything above deck as it forced the vessel to turn. Blade decisive, the snap was audible, momentum of the boatman tackling the elf to the deck as the rope furled free like a whip and cracked before getting sucked under, burning a clear scar into the rail that would have been flesh after sweeping both of them off the deck or pinning them to the rail as the boat went down. The ruckus underwater was heard and felt, but his boat merely bobbed and completed the turn it had been forced to start. Letting go of the elf and rolling onto his back, his unique blade was released with a clunk to the deck, the back of his skull following suit. “I think I know where the freighter is. Let’s get you to Ocean City,” dark humor was apparent as he rolled up to take the helm again. He was definitely the man for the job.
  4. Spare Me Over Another Year

    He hovered in the depth, waiting. This was his playground, one he rarely got to play in anymore. It was as if for a moment he’d been pulled back through to his own world, and he was a one-man army waiting for a fleet of ships to cross his threshold. So much blood, violence, battle... with the power of a sea god to swallow anything that stood in his path. He could feel the vibration of the speedster, hear the groan on the boat as the anchor held firm against magic. They would rip the boat apart before that chain would break and the woman would end up in the water with him, which was really the safest place she could be, except for that pesky human breathing part- if she was human. Then, silence. He waited a moment, kicking once to glide to the surface. He didn’t tread water, he didn’t need to, watching for a second before reaching up to the cleat and pulling smoothly from the water. Bare feet again balanced on the stern like a diver, blades and his sides, pointing one bluish shining weapon at the crew on the dock and then driving it into the wood at his feet. The other twirled once in his hand and he stepped off and back to the helm. “You’re fine,” he quipped, rather darkly as he passed his passenger. “When we’re safely away, I’ll untie you.” His other blade sunk into the railing of the helm and he started the engine, pushing the throttle forward and pulling the slack on the anchor. If it didn’t release he would have to dive and unlatch it, pulling slightly past, it dislodged with a quiet jerk and he pulled it up, pushing the throttle forward to remove themselves from the harbor. Sullen... reminded quietly from the lap of waves on the hull he no longer could control them like a sea god, and it didn't sit well with him.
  5. Birth of the Underground Network

    Sugar. It was the one thing on this planet he couldn’t get enough of. Come to think of it, it was probably going to kill him at some point. He picked up the water bottle next to him and took a long swig, wishing it was a soda. Maybe… the water was different here. Maybe that was why he couldn’t do what he’d always been able to do… Maybe.. He found himself loathing the lack of kin here and New Jersey all in one breath. I loathe all things this way. The stench of what the humans have made, of what they are so proud of, it offends the world they don’t even notice. Was that it? He couldn’t “speak” to the water anymore? He could still swim in it. And you are wrong…..in this world that never wanted us…… we are the only kin we have….. Lost single souls that have none but eachother. Brow rose slightly and he took another drink before twisting the top on and setting it in the holder. That was a bit presumptuous. A wannabe pied piper for every orphan sucked through the black hole into this world was making a huge assumption that every one of them wanted kin, or to be associated with all other Outworlders for that matter. He really didn’t feel a pull for the others, he just wanted to find someone from his own world. Hell, he really didn’t know what he wanted. Why the hell was he risking his neck to bring ‘fugitives’ to safety anyway? It did help pay for things sometimes, but most of the trips he provided free passage, so it wasn’t that. “You’ve assumed everyone is lost, wants to be found, or even wants to be lumped into that category.” Hand patted his pocket and found the regular knife that he had been eating an apple with only a short time ago and had then found its way into someone’s throat shortly after. It was tossed into the other cup holder next to his precious water bottle. Mundane kitchen knife able to do something so skillful in a set of hands that knew how to use it. Even he, without the substantial bulk of his powers, survived here. Granted, he was somewhat normal looking by earth standards, but even an idiot could look at his tattoos, or his eyes for that matter and figure out fairly quickly he was not ‘normal’. And if you came down to Camopi, I could show you more…..and just what my business is. “Too hot,” he said rather absently, sandy colored strands whipping around his cheeks, a concealed annoyed sideglance cast to the man that kept talking. He didn’t know why he was annoyed…maybe because he was being forced to think about what his purpose was now. I have in my lands… fairies that had their wings ripped off….. elves whose ears have been sliced apart…. in one of my coffee fields…. a centaur works who was castrated by those…..filthy … humans…. Wow. There was a lot of shit being slung. He knew a lot of humans that wouldn’t even think of doing such a thing, he also knew those that would. Every race it seemed had cruel pockets. Hand picked up a set of binoculars. There was another reason he hated New Jersey… shit ton of freighters left to rot, run aground and capsize. He was looking for a buoy, slowing a bit a scanning the horizon. I offer them haven..... and a chance to feel worth again..... “By working for your business.” It was blunt, and full of implications, eyes still through the binoculars. The man was here obviously to sell him something, a new purpose, a noble cause. He needed to do better than delivering banged up Outworlders to work for the guy who made the cash. He seemed distant, almost standoffish, in actuality he was listening intently with the composure of someone in a high social position had been taught. Normally… he was understated and quiet, staying off the radar. Radar didn’t apply here. “Say you did gather up all these wayward and tortured lambs, and your coffee empire is brimming with Outworlders, what’s to keep your wingless fairies and castrated centaurs from being slaughtered if the tidal wave brimming in Ireland comes crashing over you?” It was a legitimate question. “If they can’t keep from being tortured, how will they defend themselves when the devil finally comes to their door again?” Boat was slowed again almost to a stop, radio picked up. “Maybe they should instead learn how to kill their attackers with a kitchen knife.” Thumb clicked down on the radio and he spoke quickly, listening for a response as he watched the elf. Coordinates. He didn’t want to rip his hull out again. Eyes went back to the binoculars, scanning for change of wave structure, oil slick, something. There should have been a buoy. Sometimes the answers didn’t come quick. He radioed again, sitting for a moment, the boat drifting slightly with the tide as he continued to watch the sleek passenger, the guy probably didn’t know what the hell he’d stopped for. “If they’ve lost the ability to live openly, then they need to learn how to take it back.” Was he really doing this? Is that what it was? Trying to pick a fight with the natives of this spinning blue orb by collecting outcasts? “Waiting for coordinates of a recent freighter wreck in the lane, really don’t want to drag the hull,” he said quietly, looking out over the water. He used to be able to speak to the water, create his own path. Realizing how bitter his expression had become, eyes glanced at the radio in his hand, now he depended on things like this. “If people want to run, and you want to give them a haven, that’s admirable. Just don’t sell that it’s safe. Nothing is ever safe. No haven in the world. They need freedom, you only gain freedom by not being afraid. Teach them to navigate the world without being afraid." He was giving himself advice too. Radio was returned to its cradle. "I've been flying blind out here for ten years after being ripped from a world of shores," inhale and exhale was long, eyes closing a moment. Come on... talk to him. Where was it? ...a goliath in the deep just waiting to tear his boat apart. He didn't think the elf understood to what length he still felt like a bug on a sidewalk. "I am still not afraid."
  6. Birth of the Underground Network

    Down the coast…. if you don’t mind. I have no desire to go further north when everything I seek is south. Nod was soft, eyes still scanning every movement in the harbor. He’d sent people on a wild goose chase, but they’d known enough to come to him. This was a slip he wouldn’t be able to frequent again for a while. He disagreed though, everything north reminded him of what he remembered of his own home. It felt the most, like home. To each their own. Safely away, he reached behind and squeezed the water from his hair with soft thumps, lifting a leather thong from his back khaki pocket and winding it around the topknot he’d created on the top of his skull. Someone had called it a man-bun before. What the fuck was a man-bun? Did men not also use braids and ponytails? Why were knots so frowned on…. I would say Camopi but I don’t think that is practical at the moment. Ocean City I believe is not too far from here? Holy hell, New Jersey. He hated New Jersey, but it was relatively not well travelled so it was a decent idea for a drop-off. Give us a chance to talk about helping our kin survive this world…. He throttled up gently toward New Jersey. “I have no kin here.” It wasn’t sarcastic or angry, just… the truth, a melancholy realism to his words. Why was he doing this? He’d asked himself that often. Because maybe by helping those like him he wouldn’t feel so lost? That maybe some of them would have the secrets of how to get back home? It also spoke volumes with only a few words. He wasn't intimidated or compulsory to the obviously refined and high-born thinking elf. He in fact, was exactly the same. Not arrogance, expectation. His voice was important, so was his presence, and one could feel it in the boatman's words. Bare toes wiggled slightly on the deck. “I hate New Jersey, for the record. It reeks of machines and bent nature. The water groans.” Voice was calmer, perhaps to lighten his sullen mood. He didn’t like that he was drawing attention, and he didn’t like that somebody was trying to box him in to some kind of scheduled agreement of sorts. Maybe he wasn’t. Transportation had to flow, it was a feeling, like political movements. Times were right, and wrong. They couldn’t be rushed or counted on sometimes. “North, I would have more to show you but I’m not sure if I like you or your business yet, so New Jersey will have to do.” He was talking about the Draugr. He’d thought about using it for the trips… but unlike his modern boat, it wasn’t as comfortable to passengers as this one was even though the Draugr was much safer. Perhaps in time.
  7. Spare Me Over Another Year

    He felt the groan on the boat. Telekinetic? Had to be one hell of a telekinetic to fight the weight of his boat AND the momentum… something different then. A speedster as well, and from the look of the woman suddenly making the beeline toward the edge of the boat, a mentalist, or his passenger might just be completely fucking crazy. Was he the target? Doubtful based on everything up to this point. She had trusted him to help whatever she needed help with; he would not betray that trust, especially if she was trying to get out of Ireland. Uncharacteristic anger bubbled onto his features, this was his fight just as much as any. Three against one, not fair. Three against two now with him in the mix? He’d brought down armies before. He’d tried to avoid being overly physical until this point, just brushing it off and riding into the sunset. Obviously trying to get her in the water to try again? Fine. Throttle slammed in reverse, letting out cable before dropping the anchor and cutting the engine, a sharp jerk backward as the anchor set against the sea floor. The boat wasn’t moving backward any more, still several hundred yards out from the dock, unless someone cut the cable. Sliding down the rails instead of stepping on the stairs, strides across the deck were purposeful, rope in his hand and the intricate knot wound through his expert fingers and then looped around her waist and tied off on a cleat. If oblivious zombie girl had the wits to shimmy out of it, he could still go after her, but the knot he’d tied on both ends was an expert one… the time it took someone to figure it out he’d have broken their neck. The speedster stepped on his boat again, he would die. He ducked under into the cabin and pulled a set of blades off the walls, returning upward and kicking off his shoes. Step up on the back of the boat was swift, balancing on the edge of his toes with the grace of a diver as the boat still pitched from the force of the reverse. Blades flicked out at both sides, their curved silver reminiscent of katanas, the blue etching along the hair and elegantly jagged muna hinting they weren’t anything of this world. He balanced fluidly with the rock of the boat, waiting for the speedster, watching the two on the dock. Goading. Daring. He ended up in the water with any of them, they were going to die. Anyone set foot on the ship, they were going to die. Fingers tightened on the hilts for them to make their choice, stepping forward and dropping like a knife into the water to disappear into the black.
  8. Birth of the Underground Network

    It is neither labor nor goods I seek you to handle. Nor is it smuggling. Spit it out. Oh yes…. of course… why had I not thought of such a thing…. and that way they can be more easily slaughtered as they answer the ad? Spit it out. He was about to ask about the ‘they’ when he spoke again. Chewing slowed. As I said… I am not looking for a smuggler…. I need a rescuer. Of course. He had thrown off that vibe from the moment the elf stepped into his cabin, either the man was just that good at reading, or word of his work had gotten that far. A little of both perhaps. The prince was definitely interested to see how much he actually knew. If much, he would have to tell his passengers to be a bit more careful. There was no way he could actually try to “hold back” when someone was attempting to keep a passenger from getting on the boat. They noticed the ‘intruder’ at the same time. Noted. He wasn’t necessarily getting rid of the man for the elf, but it seemed mutually beneficial. Of course he could turn the guy in, but it would do nothing to get whomever this was off his tail. An elf was in his cabin, they were here to sniff around, if that wasn’t a bullseye on his back… Vanguard most likely. The man was cordial enough, the Haugbui hopping deftly from his boat to the dock without the aid of the gangplank. Handshake was strong, the stuffy suit seemed… nice? Overly chatty. He knew what would be said without even having to listen to it, paying more attention to what was going on around them. He could listen without hearing, see without watching. He was being watched, listened to. It wasn’t just the stuffy, pretty elf in his cabin, it was from several directions. An extra car or two in the parking areas near the docks, more joggers than normal maybe. The bohemian boatman with the braid seemed just happy go lucky to listen to the man and finish his apple. He looked at his shoe and adjusted it a few times. “I don’t think I… I’m what you’re looking for. I mean,” he scratched the back of his neck. “I do take people back and forth with my cargo sometimes... we all do, pay isn’t that good but it’s company you know. Sometimes they’re helpful on the trip. Are you looking to transport people from a company or something’?” He rubbed his neck again. He played well. They were either fishing for identities of his passengers, or they wanted him to be a prison ferry. Either were unacceptable. Or to kill him. That would make his day more exciting. “You know I hear there’s a guy… Joe, John maybe? He comes and goes from the dock, not real chatty, keeps to himself. Heard he makes runs back and forth to Ireland? Galway I think.” He finished his apple, holding the core and pointing with the same hand, “that boat over there with the gangplank down. He’s there right now.” Lie. Lie lie lie. The boat was for sale, and nobody was on it. Mr. Stevens seemed delighted, thanking him for his help, shaking his hand and walking off toward the far end of the dock by the end of the pier as he flipped out a phone. He jumped back on his boat, pulling all the lines but one, and trotted down into the cabin. Shoes were kicked off as he opened the side window, core tossed into the trash across the room. “Stay here,” he hissed, knife now in his teeth from somewhere, smoothly pulling himself through the window and dropping into the water without a splash. Honestly… he hated swimming underwater out toward the pier. Muck and debris, engines overhead until he slid up alongside the boat he was looking for and boarded silently from the side facing the ocean. Eyes scanned the harbor, and he slipped in. Several moments later, slipped out and back under the water. He was just as quiet climbing back into the boat, not saying a word to the elf for a moment as he dusted water off himself with a towel and slid on his shoes. “I’ll drop you off up the coast. If you leave now, everything you’ve asked for is compromised, and they'll probably try to kill me. Sorry for the inconvenience,” he didn’t wait for an answer because there was no discussion, trotting up from the cabin and wrapping the last line before hopping up to the bridge and slowly pulling away from the dock. Not any hurry, leaving calmly with the rest of the boats constantly trailing in and out. Lever forward and he opened up into the bay like the others, effectively disappearing and leaving his deed behind. Satisfied after almost fifteen minutes, he coasted to a stop. “Well Mr. Caranthir, where to?” he called down to the cabin, buoy bell chiming in the distance over the span of water. Hands pulled his hair from the plait and squeezed it out, this time just a ponytail. He had made no decisions, but he wasn't about to sell this guy out to the Vanguard. He shook the silver coffee mug. Empty. “Since everyone’s great timing effectively has blacklisted me from that harbor permanently, I need to know where to go.”
  9. Spare Me Over Another Year

    It was an odd feeling, first peppering his skin and then pulling breath from his body. He’d felt it before, someone was manipulating the mana pool. He didn’t quite understand what exactly the mystical thing was that drove this world’s sorcery. For his people, it was innate, a part of them like breathing. Some were stronger than others as it was normal to be unique in one’s own right. To have his ripped away… even years later he was still disoriented. He tried to focus on the magnetic pull, with Outworlder hate he couldn’t just ask how it was done and how he could tap into it- so moments like this were coveted. Of course, there was immediate danger; it was secondary at the moment. If he could just… How could they tap it and he couldn’t, how could they have an incredible power and he left with something he could not control? He didn’t miss the run, before feet had hit the deck he was sliding down the rails to the deck. A speedster. Words were ignored, eyes at a narrowed state, sliding back to the dock. The edges of his vision were flickering so brightly. He could see it! Why couldn’t he tap into it?! "Now, now, you really don't want to start a fight do-" Blink followed the woman’s sudden assault on the invader, and he was now in the middle of the mess being manipulated from the dock that most definitely wasn’t a good thing. Mana… glittering at the edges of his vision. It was hot, drying. It was hurting his eyes… "She's got a bit of an attitude about things." Eyes moved from the dock to the speedster, heels of his hands pressing his temples briefly before a snarl and flicker of muscle pushed his palms downward toward the deck. Water thrummed around the boat, bouncing and peppering like an invisible hailstorm. The crackling lights on the edges of his vision disappeared, and his boat shuddered, moving forward faster than the engines were set. A tug of war, and he refused to lose. The man wasn’t fast enough to walk on water, he’d needed help to get to the boat. Unfortunate. “Hold on to something,” he said quietly to Mack, eyes still on the man. His speed, was blinding as well. Trained. Rehearsed a thousand times. It was evident immediately he was a fighter, first instinct to kill, but it wouldn’t give the dock crew a reason to leave them alone. Instead, a wind knocking kick struck the speedster square in the chest and flipped him off the starboard into the water. He could have left it at that, but a surviving swimmer wasn’t an urgency and his boat and passenger would still be the focus of ire. Rope wound around his forearm and a knife pulled, he dove in after and under, yanking the guy down into the dark water. Not to the bottom like he wanted to, only deep enough that he couldn’t get his head above water, slamming the knife through a clutch of clothing to pin him underwater to the pier before the slack of the rope ran out. Fist tightened to hold on as the rope snapped taught, pulling the boatman away from the drowning speedster into the darkness. So fast. He was dangerously fast in the water. The cards were their’s now. Chase after them, or save their drowning friend. They’d better run. It was straining, but his swimming helped, pulling himself back onto the boat that was still moving forward and practically launching himself to the bridge; vaulting over the railing and cutting the wheel hard to port, pushing the shift lever forward. There was an inlet within a half mile, the turn had to be sharp, dangerously close to the cement slab breakwall and they would disappear behind the rubble of the lighthouse. Lights were snapped off to help as they went straight into the darkness and away from the twilight. He was silent, water still running in rivulets down his neck and clothes. They were going to have to hunker down and wait until trying to cross again to New York. On one hand, he was annoyed, strangely excited on the other. It was a challenge, it was a fight, and he was a fighter. What had happened when the boat broke free from whatever was encapsulating it? That, he had no idea- but a lot of hope.
  10. Small delay, traveling.  Back online tomorrow!

  11. Small delay, traveling.  Back online tomorrow!

  12. Spare Me Over Another Year

    The jump was met with indifference. He’d seen everything, all manner of conditions as they fought their way to his promise of passage. Injured, emaciated, it was as if the whole world was against them and he couldn’t figure out why. Why would it be anybody’s concern what world they were from? They were here, they contributed to a world that had come apart, and were helping to rebuild The same old prejudices it seemed… he was as guilty of that on his own world as any. The difference was what they had done, not who they were. Countenance was unmoving as she explained she had nothing. “I don’t need a thing.” Hand was insistent. “I'm here to get you where you need to go. I travel to New York, make two stops for fuel. If you’d like to work while on the boat, that’s up to you., but I have food, extra clothes, everything you need. From there, I make other ferry trips if you need to travel further.” As soon as she was on, the gangplank was raised and locked into place. “Head below deck, there’s food. We need to hit open water as soon as possible. The first hour is crucial to make sure nobody is following.” He worked quickly on the moor lines, securing them before pulling himself up to the bridge to start the engine. “Name’s Calder. If you need anything, let me know.” With that the engine fired up, and they were moving. He didn't babysit his passengers... the last thing they needed on their travel to freedom was someone breathing down their neck. Sun was setting, and they would soon be in the vastness of darkness in the middle of the ocean where very few dared to go.
  13. Spare Me Over Another Year

    He sat in the captain’s chair, boot up on the rest and the other on the floor… comfortable in his relaxed slouch. Elbow was nonchalantly on the armrest, every now and then pulling the long pipe from his teeth errantly. He was watching the harbor from his slip, comings, goings, setting everything to memory. Galway was dangerous, more so every day. He was a regular, shipping all sorts of fun things back and forth. They knew his face. But he had to keep a staggered schedule. A pattern only those that knew his dealings could follow. Otherwise, he was just a regular looking to trade for whatever he could gather up enough of to make a trip. Nobody had come this time, and it concerned him. He couldn’t stay much longer. Outworlders aside, the hooded eyes had been watching someone for the last half hour, working closer and closer to his boat. Unsure exactly what her goal was. Worse for wear, wandering as if she wanted something but not interacting with anyone enough to give him a clue of what she was searching for… ready to jump in after her if she found her way off the end of the dock. The closer she got... she was asking for passage somewhere, or asking for him by name. Then again, she could just be asking for money. It was a risk. A ferry bound Outworlder out of sorts could jeopardize his entire operation. Someone so damaged that they talked along the way… what did his father always tell him, the needs of many and all that. It was something he didn’t find always applicable in this world. His had been brutal, unforgiving. Earth too, was just that, yet different. People kept sticking fingers in light sockets to help each other even after they knew it hurt like hell. It was something with humans that he’d never been able to quite understand, the self-sacrifice, and he’d come to respect it and even practice it on occasion. This, he wasn’t sure, still… eyes flicked to the horizon and the setting sun. He had to leave or he would miss his window. Foot hit the floor and he tapped the pipe on the carved stone tray before resting it there and pulling on a long sleeved shirt. He wasn’t immortal, and ropes left burns even to the most experienced. Gloves on, he slid down the ladder to the deck and lowered the gangplank in the growing darkness. His boat was starting to light up like a beacon, fiddling with his gloves until she came close, then held out a hand without a word to takes hers and welcome her aboard.
  14. Birth of the Underground Network

    Mr Stevens? Most assuredly not. And I would recommend caution if this was the individual that came in the late noon hour yesterday. My contact advised there was a good chance he was a Vanguard representative. Contacts, Vanguard and covert dealings. He was deep in it now. There was no outward response, or change of expression. The Vanguard didn’t bother him, by the time they caught up with him he could be somewhere else completely, or sitting on a boat in front of them and they wouldn’t notice. He. Lived. The. Sea. If he didn’t know better, it was his blood. Anyone that challenged him on it would lose. Overconfidence, maybe, but he refused to believe that with the loss of his powers he wasn’t a formidable force. The niceties were what they were; small talk. He never tipped his cards. The “prince” had grown up in politics and negotiation, this world was barely different in that regard. Noting the elf asked or requested nothing, he pulled an apple from his small fridge and sat on a carved wooden stool by the table. Small knife from the block was retrieved with a stretch. Not looking for mass freight. That I already have. Far too "visible" for the task at hand. The coffee you are brewing comes from my lands. I recognize its scent easily… and your "friends" now all work for me. It was why they "wanted to go" to the southern continent in the first place. It was one of them that let me know of your…. work. Picking up his mug again, he listened, the apple and knife held in the other hand. Mug clicked quietly on the table, one foot hitching up on a rung. I am looking for someone to regularly bring more "friends" to the southern continent… specifically from the Ireland region at the moment. Crack of the apple’s skin snapped in punctuation of his final statement, the slice of flesh balanced on the knife brought to his lips to eat. He chewed a moment, lips pursing. “I don’t smuggle, labor or goods, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m truly sorry if any passengers I’ve ferried led you to believe that. I’m not sure what could have given them that impression.” It was a simple answer. He wasn’t playing games, he was the game. A man that wanted something didn’t beat around the bush. Mr. Vanguard had beat around the bush. This man was doing it too, but was clearly stating his needs in veiled fashion. Mr. Vanguard just thought he was an idiot and would fall for the “make some money” line. Not everyone was in it for money, and he most certainly didn’t need it to survive regardless of what he’d broadcasted to the man. The elf wanted it so badly, he had to come out and ask. He was alluding… From Mr. Caranthir’s business proposition at face value, it sounded like he wanted labor for his coffee business. Specialized labor, how did he know that the man wasn’t feeding off Outworlders and the gifted to work for him? He didn’t. The guy would have to tell him more. He would have to have the balls to ask him outright. “If you need workers, why don’t you just advertise for them and a fair wage. I’m sure people need work and would be willing to travel to assist you. I’d be happy to transport if they need it. From Ireland, New York… anywhere.” Another slice was cut, entirely too easy from the finger motion in a single hand. He chewed a moment again… brow quirking. Eyes were watching the line of windows just above the elf’s head facing the dock. The knife in his hand disappeared, and the apple spun on his palm before he took a bite out of it. Feet slipped out of his shoes and he made his way silently up the steps to the deck. Well then… he was entirely enjoying this covert conversation until now. “You might want to stay here, Outworlder,” voice was quiet before he opened the door and stepped out. The simple statement was enough to confess everything, it was time to. He heard those that he ferried talk, he didn't ask questions, all he had to do was listen. The man admitted the coffee was his. From South America. They'd wanted to travel there. They worked for him. This was the man they were seeking for protection, not a labor trader. "I’ll get rid of him.” Well, that cat was out of the bag. “Mr. Stevens,” he greeted, padding across the deck and picking up a bucket of paint as he made his way over.
  15. Birth of the Underground Network

    Smile was in his eyes at the elf's confusion, but not on his lips, the relaxed visage more at home that he felt most of the time. He’d been raised to exude relaxed confidence even in the face of danger or certain death. Standing in front of an elf? Fae? …that was asking him questions of the sort he was reluctant to start answering out of the blue did actually fall into that category- as innocent as the conversation looked. The man really did look out of place on his dock. His slip wasn’t run down by any means, but suits were not the typical attire here. …Caranthir. He nodded, peering up through bleached frays that had fallen forward from his plait at the sun. He didn’t like the sun. He loved the winter, the ice in the water. He spent a lot of time in the water during the summer. This guy, Caranthir, was definitely proud of himself, which these days was a death sentence if one was in the wrong place. It was going to get him killed. Muireadach is it? “Mhm,” nod was soft again. First time though in this big blue spinning globe that someone had been even close to pronouncing it correctly. The gentleman yesterday had butchered it. One thing he really hated about this world, people butchered names when they couldn’t pronounce them and were never interested in learning the correct way- as if their inability superseded the right for someone to be called their given name. Interesting though. Two. Two visitors in as many days. Knew his name to boot. It didn’t sit well. The first was usually the jumpstart, hoping to catch someone’s attention in order to catch the business. The second was usually who he really wanted to talk to. He’d been in situations where it had been the opposite, but not often. He was on someone's radar, exactly where he didn't want to be. I have a long term business proposition for you. “Are you following up for Mr. Stevens from yesterday?” It was now apparent, that he himself also was not likely a native of New York; language cadence not quite Swedish… Norwegian… English… Russian… not quite anything, but he spoke and understood English as well as any native and was comfortable with that. A stray line caught his attention and he went to wind it on a clamp. Odd. Clean snap. There were no such things as clean snaps. Eyes began to follow all of his rigging. One I believe you will be interested in because I have reason to believe you are already doing what I would be asking for in your free time. Blink was slow, but the hazel that looked back to him as he was finishing off the tie line had darkened slightly. He yanked it tight and looked over the rest of the rigging within a few moments, enough length of silence to make most uncomfortable standing there. Mr. Stevens had been quite uncomfortable at the boatman's less than chatty interlude. Perhaps we can talk inside? He leaned on the gangplank, the small span of water between them separating their vast worlds, thump of water from his plait to the deck quiet and loud enough ironically to sound like a chiming bell. He’d been betrayed by others like him, whether this man was an Outworlder or merely a homegrown bastard he didn’t know. Long inhale preceded the metallic clank of the gangplank release, letting out the slow breath as metal lowered carefully and the surface of the water thrummed around the boat like heavy rainfall or sputtering surface fish for a mere moment. There it was, his elusive… power. Like a joke at all the wrong times. It was there, he knew it, just out of his reach. A puzzle he couldn't yet solve... a rope he was just inches from grabbing onto. The settle of the aluminum to the dock groaned slightly, and the weird cosmic hoodoo glitch was forgotten like it had never happened. Footsteps were quiet as he beckoned the man on and raised the gangplank again after he’d come aboard, clinking the pin. He didn’t like people just “popping in”. Nearly silent footsteps made their way below deck, the scent of truly scrumptious coffee still lingering from a pot he’d made this morning. The main cabin was quaint, but it was elegant and personalized. Dark smooth woods, clean lines, minimal except for a wall of exotic blades on display. Nestled slyly in the wall of exceptional specimens were his own. He still used them. He still needed them on occasion. He offered the elf a seat and stepped into the small kitchenette. He was brewing coffee, not from some machine contraption… the old fashioned way. “I don’t have free time, Mr. Caranthir. I ship things, that is my time. I picked this coffee up on a trip to South America. Wanted to see if I could actually make the trip, had a few friends that wanted to go, had some things to trade, it looked interesting. Ended up keeping it for myself… that happens sometimes. Want anything to drink, eat? I have an amazing coconut water I picked up south, Kilbeggan I picked up in Galway. Not a fan of the Kilbeggan. Anything from the Isles smells like turpentine to me.” He had a light palate. Dishes clinked quietly. “I would say then… I’m a trader of sorts. People want things, I go get them. People want to go somewhere, I take them there while delivering other things. I have a few regular routes, but mostly go where the business is. Not sure how that could be helpful to you since I'm not large enough for mass freight, but I do go where most won't, which has it's interesting applications.” He took a long drink of his fresh ground heaven in a Japanese coffee cup, no handle... amazing to see unbroken pottery on a ship. Seemingly chatty, it was anything but. Useless information, yet so telling… and definitely revealing of intent in whatever answers the man had for him. A verbal trap. He was good at those.