Bartel declared she had one more story in her as she twirled around, beer sloshing from her mug. Hernkull, who had been nearby, moved out of the range of Bartel’s splash attacks. The others, including Uilly, cheered on the halfling and started to pound the table, chanting, “Story, Story!” Bartel, while obviously drunk, glowed with excitement.

  “This is the Story of how Sern joined the crew of the Wind’s Whisper.The story takes place seven years ago, in a port town much like this….”

  The story of how they met begins on a fateful day in Stormhaven, their home port. The Wind’s Whisper was docked for repairs and resupply, and we were all busy preparing for our next voyage. Bartel was on the docks, overseeing the sail repairs, her nimble fingers flying as she and others mended the torn fabric. Grendor was on the wheel deck, studying the maps and charts, plotting their course through the treacherous waters ahead. Captain Aleric was nearby, keeping a watchful eye on all the preparations. Hernkull was inspecting the ropes on the dockside, her massive hands ensuring every fray and chafe was was repaired and a fresh coat of tar applied.

  Every ten days, the docks of Stormhaven transformed into a vibrant and chaotic bazaar, and today was the tenth day. The air buzzed with the clamor of merchants calling out to passersby, their voices competing with the rhythmic creak of wooden carts and the constant shuffle of feet on cobblestones. Stalls were bursting with color, the vibrant hues of woven silks, gleaming trinkets, and exotic fruits drawing the eye from every direction. The scent of rich spices, sweet and pungent, mixed with the salty tang of the sea breeze, creating an intoxicating atmosphere that lingered in the air.

  At one corner, a grizzled merchant peddled dried herbs and fragrant oils, their delicate aromas rising in the heat of the midday sun. Nearby, a stall was stacked high with exotic fruits from distant lands—bright oranges, purple figs, and scarlet pomegranates that seemed to glow beneath the market’s canopy of fluttering cloths. The clink of coins and the murmur of haggling filled the air, while the sound of laughter and the occasional shout of a child playing among the crowd added a layer of life to the scene. The bazaar was a sensory overload, a cacophony of sights, sounds, and smells that seemed to pulse with energy.

  It was in the midst of this vibrant madness that a young boy, no older than twelve, darted through the crowd, his movements fluid and fast, like a shadow weaving between the stalls. His clothes were tattered and oversized, the fabric clinging to his wiry frame as he sprinted. His eyes, wide with fear, flicked nervously over his shoulder, scanning the crowded market for any sign of his pursuers. The boy's breath came in sharp, ragged gasps as he dashed, weaving through the throngs of people with an agility that belied his age. Each twist and turn of his body seemed instinctive, a dance learned through necessity rather than choice.

  As he dodged between crates of spices and beneath fluttering cloths, his nimble fingers snatched up small trinkets and baubles from unattended stalls. A silver ring here, a handful of shiny coins there—each item vanished into the folds of his oversized tunic, tucked away with practiced ease. His flight was a thing of grace, a desperate ballet performed in the heart of the bustling bazaar.

  The ruffians chasing the boy were not far behind. They pushed through the crowd with a brutish lack of grace, their voices growling orders to one another as they tried to close the gap. The boy’s agility was his only advantage, and he used it to the fullest, leaping over crates and ducking under awnings with a fluidity that seemed almost unnatural. His feet barely touched the ground before he was off again, his movements so swift and sure that he seemed to glide through the maze of market stalls. But the ruffians were relentless, their grumbling voices growing louder as they closed in, the distance between them shrinking with each frantic step the boy took.

  The open space of the dock and the long wharf ahead of him were his last avenues of escape. The harbor, a sprawling city unto itself, was alive with the hustle and bustle of countless ships unloading their goods. The docks were a maze of merchant vessels, each selling its wares to the city's merchants, a chaotic labyrinth of commerce. It was here, as the ruffians started to close in, sealing off the other exits, that the boy’s hope for escape rested.

  Bartel and Hernkull had been watching from their work at the docks, their eyes catching the boy’s swift movements through the bazaar. They’d noticed his agility, the way his small hands snatched up trinkets and treasures with practiced ease as he dashed between the stalls. It was a sight that piqued their interest—how could a child move with such skill and confidence?

  With a final leap, the boy cleared the bazaar and landed on the wharf, his feet pounding the wood as he sprinted down the less crowded pathways toward the north docks, where he hoped to find a way out. But the ruffians were gaining, their footsteps echoing behind him, and the boy’s chances of escaping through the docks were growing slimmer by the second.

  As the boy darted past Bartel, Hernkull’s sharp eyes locked onto him. In one fluid motion, she reached out and snagged him by the collar, pulling him to safety. “Gotcha!” she said, her voice a mix of amusement and authority, her large hand holding the boy in place.

  The ruffians, now only an arm's reach from the boy, came to a sudden halt as Bartel stepped forward, her fishbone needle gleaming in her hand. She planted herself firmly in front of them, her eyes twinkling with mischief and challenge.

  “Hey, leave the kid alone!” Bartel called out, her voice light but carrying a weight of defiance that dared the ruffians to challenge her.

  The ruffians hesitated, their sneers faltering as they took in the sight of the two women standing before them. When they saw Hernkull, standing tall with her broad shoulders and imposing frame, their bravado evaporated. Hernkull's presence was like a shadow cast over them, her eyes cold and unyielding, the calm before the storm. She was a mountain of muscle, her figure casting a long shadow across the dock, and in that moment, the ruffians realized they were no longer the ones in control.

  The leader of the ruffians, a burly man with a scar running down his cheek, looked between the two women, his confidence draining away. Hernkull’s eyes, usually warm and kind, were now as hard as steel, and the ruffians could see it—there would be no easy fight here. With a deep breath, the ruffian leader took a step back, his sneer replaced with a nervous glance at his companions.

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  With a deep, rumbling voice that seemed to reverberate through the very planks of the dock, Hernkull silenced the crowd. “Back off,” she growled, her tone thick with authority, like a storm ready to break. The words were simple, but they carried a weight that left no room for argument. The crowd, sensing the danger in her voice, parted like the sea before a great wave.

  The ruffians, their bravado shattered, took one last look at the towering figure of Hernkull and the fierce gleam in Bartel’s eyes. Without a word, they turned and slunk away, their tails metaphorically between their legs, disappearing into the bustling market. The boy, still held firmly by Hernkull, let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His chest rose and fell with relief, his pulse racing, but for now, he was safe.

  Bartel turned to the boy in Hernkull’s grasp, her eyes softening with curiosity. “What's your name, boy?”

  Hernkull, still gripping the boy with a firm but gentle hand, glanced around to ensure the ruffians were gone for good. Satisfied, she gave him a little shake, her massive form towering over him. The boy's head jerked slightly, and his wide eyes met hers, the tusks near his face making him flinch.

  “Sern,” the boy replied quickly, his voice strained under Hernkull's gaze.

  Bartel’s brow furrowed, but her tone remained gentle. “You got family, Sern?”

  The boy’s gaze dropped to the planks of the dock, his voice quiet as he spoke. “None I know of still living. My da was a sailor who didn’t return. The streets are my only family now.”

  Bartel exchanged a glance with Hernkull, a silent understanding passing between them. The boy’s story was not an uncommon one, but it still tugged at their hearts.

  Hernkull’s grip tightened for a moment before she gave him a slight shake, bringing him closer. As she did, some of the trinkets and treasures the boy had stolen tumbled to the ground, spilling out in a colorful cascade. Coins, jewelry, and small artifacts clattered across the wooden planks, catching the light and drawing the attention of a few curious onlookers.

  Bartel’s sharp eyes flicked over the scattered loot, her nimble fingers already sorting through the pile. Her attention turned back to Sern, and with a mischievous glint in her eye, she moved closer to him. “Let’s see what else you’ve got,” she said with a playful grin, her voice light but full of intent.

  The boy squirmed slightly, his eyes wide with a mixture of defiance and resignation. He knew better than to protest; the crew had already shown their strength, and he was at their mercy now. As Bartel’s deft hands moved over him, searching his pockets and the folds of his clothing, he couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of familiarity. It wasn’t the first time he had been caught, but something about these two—Hernkull’s commanding presence and Bartel’s playful yet calculating touch—felt different.

  Bartel’s fingers found the hidden pockets in his ragged clothes, pulling out a few more shiny coins and a small, intricately carved figurine. She examined the items with a raised brow, her lips curling into a smile. “Quite the little thief, aren’t you?” she teased, her voice light and teasing, but there was no malice behind it. “You’ve got a talent for finding the good stuff.”

  Sern didn’t answer, his eyes darting nervously between the two women. He was used to the hustle of the streets, but this felt different. These women weren’t like the others who’d caught him before. They were something else entirely.

  With a final pat of his pockets, Bartel straightened up, her smile widening. “You’ve got a good eye for treasure, Sern,” she said, her voice warmer now. “But next time, you might want to be more careful who you steal from.”

  Hernkull, still holding the boy firmly, let out a low chuckle. “He’s got spirit, I’ll give him that.”

  S Sern looked up at them, his expression a mixture of uncertainty and curiosity. “What now?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

  Bartel glanced at Hernkull, her fingers still playing with the trinkets she’d taken from him. “Well,” she said, her voice thoughtful, “you’ve got a lot of potential, kid. And we’re always looking for someone with your... talents.”

  Captain Aleric, observing from the top deck of the Wind’s Whisper, caught Bartel’s gaze and nodded in approval, a smile creeping across his face. The ship had been their home for years, and now, with the bustling port city of Stormhaven as their backdrop, they were ready for new adventures.

  “So here’s the deal, boy,” Hernkull said, her voice low and commanding. “We let you go, keep this all, and you go for a much-needed bath in the bay.” The boy opened his mouth to protest, but Hernkull’s grip tightened slightly, silencing him.

  Bartel chimed in, her tone more persuasive. “Or you can keep a third of the loot, and you join our crew. The other two-thirds goes to us.”

  The boy’s eyes widened, weighing his options. The prospect of joining their crew was tempting, but the thought of losing most of his hard-earned treasures was daunting.

  “What’s it going to be?” Hernkull pressed, her grip still firm but not unkind.

  As the boy considered his choices.

  Finally, the boy sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “Alright, I’ll join your crew,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I want first pick of the loot!”

  “Deal,” Bartel said, her infectious laughter breaking the tension. “Welcome aboard!”

  As they began to gather the scattered loot, a shadow fell over them. Bartel looked up, her expression hardening as she saw a figure standing at the edge of the dock. Cloaked in darkness, the figure’s eyes glinted with dangerous intent, and a cold smile played on their lips.

  “I believe you have something that belongs to me,” the figure said, their voice sending a chill down Bartel’s spine.

  The air seemed to thicken as the crew froze, the lively chatter of the dock suddenly muffled by the weight of the stranger’s presence. Sern, still holding a few trinkets in his hands, glanced nervously at the figure. His mind raced—what had he taken during his frantic sprint for safety? He had grabbed a few things in the chaos, but nothing of particular value, or so he thought.

  Bartel’s eyes narrowed as she sized up the stranger. There was something familiar about the way they stood—too confident, too sure of themselves. Her hand instinctively went to her belt, where her daggers rested, but she kept her cool.

  The stranger took a step forward, their dark cloak swirling around them like smoke. “You’ve been busy, haven’t you?” they said, voice dripping with malice. “I suggest you return what’s mine before things get... unpleasant.”

  A tense silence followed, broken only by the distant sound of the waves lapping against the dock. The crew remained still, waiting for Bartel’s next move.

  But just as the tension reached its peak, the sound of a mug hitting the table echoed across the dock. Bartel, her face flushed from the drink, leaned back in her chair, a grin spreading across her face. The crowd around them, who had been hanging on every word of the story, erupted into laughter and applause.

  Bartel, now swaying slightly in her seat, raised her mug high. “And that, my friends, is how Sern met the dark stranger,” she said, her words slurring slightly. “But you’ll have to wait for the next round to hear what happened next.”

  The crowd, eager for more, begged her to continue, but Bartel’s laughter was the only response. The mug won out, and before anyone could protest, she passed out, her head falling onto the table with a soft thud.