Post by Raymond Sabbatini on Oct 15, 2007 14:30:50 GMT -5
Riya Inn was crowded tonight, as usual. Most of the locals appeared to be here, as well as any random corsairs that were in the area.
Raymond Sabbatini glanced around, his bloodshot gray eyes narrowed, and turned back to the table he sat at. The graying weasel normally drank at the Inn's bar, but tonight...tonight, he had reasons to sit apart. He'd chosen a corner table, and hoped no-one would bother him.
Sabbatini drank a swallow of the beer next to his left paw and dug around in his pockets. They contained a filthy handkercheif, apparently used for oiling guns more than anything else, a spool of thread, a pawful of lead bullets, and a square of battered parchement. The weasel looked over his shoulder, mumbled a curse at nobody in particular, and shoved the other objects to one side.
The paper was what he'd been looking for. Sabbatini spread it out, turned it to what he thought was rightside up (he'd forgotten how to read, sometime in the last year and a half of regular hangovers), and squinted at it.
It was a map, apparently of the Spanish Isles. He'd found it in the bottom his sea chest the other day. Sabbatini figured he'd been carrying it around for years, and eventually forgotten it was there. The map showed, quite obviously, a treasure route.
The ex-captain studied it for a moment, tapping his claws on the table. The treasure of Captain Rorin Cormick was rumored to be quite large. More than large enough for Sabbatini to retire somewhere near Greece and live out his days...as well as to buy himself out of Captain Riverrider's service. He would have to somehow persuade the captain to sail near the Isles, so as to jump ship (temporarily) and locate the booty.
Something crashed nearby, startling Sabbatini out of his reverie. The weasel looked up suspiciously. Someone was coming toward him, probably wanting to know what he was looking at.
Great.
Raymond Sabbatini glanced around, his bloodshot gray eyes narrowed, and turned back to the table he sat at. The graying weasel normally drank at the Inn's bar, but tonight...tonight, he had reasons to sit apart. He'd chosen a corner table, and hoped no-one would bother him.
Sabbatini drank a swallow of the beer next to his left paw and dug around in his pockets. They contained a filthy handkercheif, apparently used for oiling guns more than anything else, a spool of thread, a pawful of lead bullets, and a square of battered parchement. The weasel looked over his shoulder, mumbled a curse at nobody in particular, and shoved the other objects to one side.
The paper was what he'd been looking for. Sabbatini spread it out, turned it to what he thought was rightside up (he'd forgotten how to read, sometime in the last year and a half of regular hangovers), and squinted at it.
It was a map, apparently of the Spanish Isles. He'd found it in the bottom his sea chest the other day. Sabbatini figured he'd been carrying it around for years, and eventually forgotten it was there. The map showed, quite obviously, a treasure route.
The ex-captain studied it for a moment, tapping his claws on the table. The treasure of Captain Rorin Cormick was rumored to be quite large. More than large enough for Sabbatini to retire somewhere near Greece and live out his days...as well as to buy himself out of Captain Riverrider's service. He would have to somehow persuade the captain to sail near the Isles, so as to jump ship (temporarily) and locate the booty.
Something crashed nearby, startling Sabbatini out of his reverie. The weasel looked up suspiciously. Someone was coming toward him, probably wanting to know what he was looking at.
Great.