Information


Bendae has a minion!

Booze the Ratkist




Bendae
Legacy Name: Bendae


The Nightmare Sheeta
Owner: deadskins

Age: 11 years, 9 months, 1 week

Born: June 16th, 2012

Adopted: 11 years, 9 months, 1 week ago

Adopted: June 16th, 2012

Statistics


  • Level: 1
     
  • Strength: 10
     
  • Defense: 10
     
  • Speed: 10
     
  • Health: 10
     
  • HP: 10/10
     
  • Intelligence: 0
     
  • Books Read: 0
  • Food Eaten: 0
  • Job: Unemployed



Methuselah Sasha "Bendae" Moretti

The port tavern was loud. Lanterns and thick candles lit the place up, banishing the darkness of the small coastal town outside. The air was hot, humid. It stank of salt water and sweat. The tavern itself was a rambunctious crowd of late-night sailors, all fighting and bellowing and drinking among the off-key notes of a ragtag band and the shrieking laughter of wenches.
You had come to hire a ship. Not just any ship. There were rumors of a great, terrifying captain that ran the fastest ship from here to the edge of the world. You were interested. You were skeptical. But some rumors held truth in them, and if this man did run the fastest ship, you wanted to employ it.
After navigating through the crowd of bawdy seamen, you make it to the tap and raise your voice to ask the bar man a few choice questions. He directs you upstairs, down the hall to a room on the end. You thank him with a clink of coin before quickly snaking your way to the rickety tavern steps. Climbing the stairs, the noise of the crowd fades below you. The screams and music are muffled by the thick wooden floor that clunks under your feet. You pause at the end of the hall, rapping lightly on the door here. It creaks, swinging open. It wasn't locked. You jerk back, afraid to offend, but a rasping voice calls from inside.
"Aye, well. Don' run off now. Y'knocked right. No' yer fault with these shoddy doors."
He chuckles. His voice is rusty and waterlogged, but friendly. You carefully edge inside the dark room, your face crinkling at the abrupt, harsh smell of ocean and liquor. He's sitting there, on the other side of the room, past the light of the desk lantern. Smoke drifts from his silhouette as he gazes out over the docks through a dingy set of window panes. After a moment he squelches out the cigarette, pulling another from his pocket. The man leans back in his chair, into the lantern flame to light the new cig. You recoil in horror.
He is not an ordinary sailor. His skin is the color of someone drowned, and his eyes glow a murky orange. He's damp. Bulging pustules mar his left brow, resembling barnacles. His hands are gnarled, crooked, glittering with gold and silver studded with jewels. Tentacles twitch and quiver, dangling from his forearms. He glances up at you as the cigarette catches, and he blossoms into a horrific sort of grin, smoke drifting from his nose.
"Ain't I handsome?" He leans back in the chair again, disappearing into shadow. "Name's Methuselah Moretti! Friends call me Bendae- Don' ask why, ye look like ye've got a weak stomach, lad. Lass? I cannae tell. It doesn't matter either way." He wheezes a laugh, the end of the cigarette glowing brightly. "Here for a hire, right? Aye. Good! I could use the coin. Y'do... Have coin, right?" He eyes you warily, friendly smile disappearing. You nod, and the grin returns in full force. "Good, good!"
The man stands up, boots thumping onto the floor. He's very tall. He grins, clapping you on the shoulder and spinning you for the doorway as he walks out himself. "A drink t'celebrate! We kin talk of the details in the mornin', like!" You smile, his boisterous nature infectious as you descend into the madness of the tavern below.

In the morning- Or rather, in the late afternoon- You wake up groggy and uncomfortable. The muted, overcast sunlight hurts your crusted eyes as you struggle to pry them open. A headache pounds at the back of your skull. As you become more aware of your surroundings, you realize you've been passed out in a muddy gutter, the morning's dirty wash water trickling around you. You quickly sit up, raking a hand through your mussed hair when you realize that you're in your undergarments. You pat yourself down, although there's not much to search through now, before glancing up with panicked eyes.
No Methuselah. No money. You curse loudly, burying your face in your hands.
Bloody pirates!

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