The Fathomless Deep (Private)

The smell of stale beer and piss was the scent of home. Kraken had been smelling it his whole life. He had grown up in the Isles of the Dead, and then been aboard ship after ship, crammed in with stinking, filthy horses. And yet it still made him wrinkle his nose in disgust. It was the smell of the destitute - those either poor in money or position, of which he was no longer either, and therefore considered such horses beneath him. But, he had to share their company to retain his lifestyle. Who else could he use as indispensably as those urchins of the Isle docks? That was one reason he was ashore now. Their latest shipment of slaves had been successfully transported to Valore, and he was now returned to await others. But no trip was made without a few... casualties... and he always needed a few gullible replacements. And they were so easily found in the pubs.

He switched his recruiting spots often, never wanting to seem too conspicuous to anyone like himself who might visit several establishments throughout the rogue city, and become aware his shady dealings at each. His last trip home he had visited The Emperor's Palace, a more upscale place. A particular favorite for those naive horses that just had run away from one of Aquore's major cities to find a more adventurous life. While he had found what he needed there (and a higher caliber of ale than one usually found at the docks) there were too many suspicious stares for him to return anytime soon. So he had decided that this time around he would visit a lower class of pub - though one as equally popular.

The Anchor was located off a small alley on the main docks, a favorite of locals and passers-through alike. It was guaranteed to be crowded, and most any horse that wished to remain unnoticed would stay that way. Though for a captain like himself there was bound to be a slight lull in conversation when he entered. He shoved open the door, yellow eyes peering out from his worn, plain brown cloak. Though many of the voices continued, just as many briefly ceased, or fell to a whisper as he scanned the room. His cloak worked well for secrecy in the streets of Inaria, but it was just as obvious a sign of his identity in the Isles as his hidden scars would have been. He often considered buying a new cloak to throw them off, but honestly he liked the fear that he knew it instilled. The anxiety that rippled through the room caused his eyes to shine dangerously, but he ignored all but the bartender. The captain passed through the crowd easily, like a shark moving through water, the crowd instantly parting before him. The bartender watched his approach with a nervous smile, ignoring another customer to scuttle over as soon as the black stallion had reached the bar.

"The usual, sir?" the young server asked, trying to sound welcoming.

Kraken didn't reply. He stared at the bartender for a moment, before turning back to the crowd. The young horse hurried away to begin rifling through the assorted drinks. The voices had picked up again, and few eyes remained on him. Good. He liked to observe his recruits without them knowing. He smiled to himself. They wouldn't even know they were offering to be recruited until he chose them. Then they'd have no choice but to accept. Well... they'd have a choice between one of his crew, or one of his slaves; whichever they picked was fine with him. His harsh gaze flicked to the door, as a large, bay stallion slipped in, practically unnoticed. They locked eyes for only a moment, before the stallion, a rough looking fellow covered in tattoos, moved off into the crowd. Kraken turned back towards the bar as the server set his drink in front of him. Forch, his first mate, was in place. Now, whomever they chose, would have little chance of escape.

He looked up upon realizing the bartender was still standing in front of him, anxiety plastered on his face. Kraken narrowed his eyes at the young stallion. "Go on," he grumbled, and as if released from his captivity the young stallion ducked his head and scuttled away to tend to the line of waiting customers. With his telekinesis he lifted the mug to his lips, his golden aura glowing lightly around the drink as he took a large swig. Grimacing at the taste he set it back down. "Good thing I don't come here for the port," he mumbled to himself. But the horse behind the counter had fixed it perfectly. The drink was a mix of several different spirits, cut heavily with coconut milk. The captain despised drunkenness. How could you remain sharp if your wits were dulled? You forgot things. You became sloppy. He had not allowed himself to get wasted in many, many years, and didn't plan to start tonight. His "usual" at each bar consisted of a similar concoction, one that only the bartenders knew. To not drink would be a shame for a rogue - after all, it was all about appearances in this game. But, as with most of his life, his drinking habits were little more than a lie, and he had drunk many a horse under the table given that his beverage contained a far smaller percentage of alcohol than their own. And so the captain drank it now, rather disliking the taste, but pleased to watch as everyone else around him grew steadily rowdier as the evening wore on and their mugs constantly refilled.