Wood-Ava
Open the portal. Let's jump to the pirates!
The sea is treacherous! If you think you can defeat the elements and their gods, you're either insane or simply feeble-minded. Because it's hard to fight against such an opponent. So ... Do you really want to find it, in order to find your own ...
Let's find out.
Introductory excerpt
Wood-Ava
It was noisy at the port. Three large trading ships anchored in the small bay of Saint Magdalene. The sailors, given a few days of rest and the opportunity to set foot on solid ground, poured out onto the shore and scattered among the local taverns in search of drink and willing ladies for companionship.
All the cheap taverns and upscale restaurants were packed, with drunken songs, the clatter of clay mugs, and the shattering of bottles echoing from every corner. To have a decent drink, one had to search for a spot where they could at least squeeze in among the rowdy, intoxicated sailors.
Dry Jim, moving slowly and swaying slightly, walked along the old, partly crumbling wooden waterfront. Passing a couple tightly embracing at the entrance, he shouldered the door of the "Hoppy Siren." In one hand, he held a bottle of excellent rum (a rarity in this hole), and in the other hand, he carefully held something tucked into his pocket.
The tavern reeked, a stench that could be felt on the skin— a mixture of acrid tobacco smoke, stale alcohol, and long-unwashed feet. The round tables were crowded with rowdy sailors. Some drank, others groped voluptuous girls. In the corner, where the light from the hanging chandeliers didn't reach, sat three individuals. Wide-brimmed hats, thick black coats, and three untouched clay mugs of beer on the table—all indicated that these gentlemen did not come to "Hoppy Siren" for entertainment. Dry Jim had a knack for noticing such things.
Behind the counter, on the opposite side of the entrance, the owner of the "Siren," Sid, bustled about. A friendship bound the old former sailor was peculiar. One of them hadn't set foot on a ship below his ankles for the past few years, and the sturdy, broad-shouldered man with lush mustaches, which were lightly touched by strands of gray. Dry Jim limped over to the counter and carefully placing the bottle on the wooden tabletop. Then he leaning forward slightly, gestured for the tavern owner to come closer.
— Hey, buddy, — rasped Jim, glancing around to make sure no one was eavesdropping, — did any traders come by today? I have valuable goods for them. — He slipped his hand under his dirty canvas shirt and, without fully extracting it, revealed the tip of a gnarled object.
—Are you kidding me? Have you completely lost your mind, old rascal? — Sid burst out laughing. —Why would they need your branches?
Out of the corner of his eye, Jim noticed a slight movement from the trio in the dark corner.
—Keep it down! — hissed Dry Jim, waving his free hand at him. — If you don't know, then don't blabber like a mad seagull! It's not for you, it's for the traders. Were they here or not?
— No, they weren't, — the tavern owner smirked. — Not their concern today.
Jim grabbed the bottle, glanced at the trio, then at the tavern owner, and once again at the trio. He limped towards the exit, holding his precious cargo close under his shirt.
Within seconds, the three hat-wearing figures rose from their seats, leaving three gold coins on the table for the untouched beer, and followed Jim out.
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