The merchant ship lies quiet in port, offloaded the previous day. Her crew are now free to spend their wages as far from the captain's eye as they can manage. It's then that a figure steals down the single plankway that lies lazily against the pier. It's not the furtive flight of a slave. The glances over his shoulder and casual walk suggest perhaps a sailor who has paid his passage in service and has heard "just one more thing before you can go" a few ports too many. After a few blocks he straightens, switching his small sack of belongings from one shoulder to the other. Though the breeze carries smells of packed humanity and the nearby fish sellers, it adds a spring to his step and small tusks poke out in a smile.
It's a beautiful evening, a fresh sea breeze clearing away the stink of the town. The Formidably Maid overflows with laughter, shouts and frequent scuffles as sailors live their shore leave in a full throated roar. You notice the small sack tucked under a bench and the tusked smile now beaming out of a deep brown face as its owner banters with half a dozen patrons. Though he's clearly of orcish heritage many looks linger on the bold lines of his face. "Oh a tale of cyclops", the lilt of his voice draws you into the group, "a better one is of the magical songs of the Tien that drift across the open sea". Drinks flow and you find yourself part of a friendly argument about which pirates are the most feared and whether one can fight with a rapier while tangled upside down in the sails.
At some point the half orc's attention turns to a dashing corsair who catches his eye, soon following her out the door. Which makes it very odd to see his same face smushed against the side of a barrel just inches from your own as you pull open your crusty eyelids. Is it morning? Where are you? His snoring would wake the dead, which from the feel of your head may include you. At least there is a catchy rhythm to the explosive exhalations and snorts.