The tavern is dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of saltwater and ale. Around the hearth, sailors, adventurers, and merchants sit, eager for the next story. At the center of the room stands a towering half-orc, his sturdy frame swaying with the rhythm of his drum. With a flick of his tusked grin, he raises his hands, and the crowd falls silent, ready for a tale.

He starts with a heavy, thumping beat, slow and deliberate, like the rumble of thunder on a stormy sea.

Tuk (with drumbeats):

"She came like a storm, ferocious and wild,

A pirate of fury, a marauder defiled.

Her ship, the Wraith’s Kiss, cut through the tide,

A queen on the ocean, where death would reside."

His drum grows louder now, faster, mimicking the growing intensity of a battle.

Tuk (drumming):

"Captain Morgana was her name,

Her legend would scorch the seas in her flame!

With eyes like a storm cloud, and hair black as night,

She took what she wanted, spreading fear and blight."

The crowd leans in as he weaves the tale of her first raid. The half-orc’s voice booms over the growing rhythm, setting the scene.

Tuk (with a fierce growl):

"On a moonless night, they came to the shore,

Her crew roared with hunger, their spirits a roar!

They boarded the ships, swords glistening bright,

And made all the sailors pray to their plight!"

He slams his drum once, and then, as the beats soften, he recounts a particularly chilling part of the tale.

Tuk (softly, with tension):

"But Morgana, oh Morgana, she was no mere thief—

She took the soul of her prey with a fierce belief.

'No riches for me!' she roared,

'Your lives are my treasure, your despair is my hoard!'”

The Skald’s eyes glimmer with the thrill of the next part, his fists pounding into the drum faster, louder, as if reliving the battle himself.

Tuk (drumming wildly):

"On the ship Rising Dawn, she met her match,

A rival, a wretch with a bloodthirsty scratch.

A battle erupted, a storm on the seas,

Blades clashing with fury, each hoping the other to seize!"

The rhythm quickens, mimicking the fierce, violent clash of two great captains. The tavern audience can almost hear the cries of battle and the clash of steel.

Tuk (with fierce energy):

"But Morgana’s heart was steel, pure and untamed,

She felled the rival captain, her soul never shamed.

She stood over him, with a laugh in her eyes,

And then, to his crew, she offered a prize!"

He pauses for effect, letting the silence in the room grow, the tension hanging as his drum hums a low, steady beat.

Tuk (cruelly):

“'Join me, or die, it’s your call to make,

But know, my dear sailors, there’s no room for fake.'

So the crew, now loyal, their hearts filled with dread,

Swore to Morgana, and they follow where she led."

The half-orc grins, his tusks gleaming in the dim light as he winds the tale toward its climax.

Tuk (with a booming voice):

"For years she ruled, a terror untold,

With Morgana, the pirate, the ocean’s own gold.

No ship was safe, no city too tall,

She took them all down, with no fear at all!"

He finishes the drumbeat with a final crash, his voice rising in a crescendo, full of pride and awe.

Tuk (in a low growl, filled with reverence):

"But one fateful day, beneath skies so red,

Morgana was struck down—her crew, they all bled.

But the Wraith’s Kiss sails on, with wind in her wake,

So Morgana’s legend, none can forsake."

The crowd erupts into applause, the drums still echoing in their minds. The half-orc Skald smiles, as he bows slightly before lifting his mug in salute to the tossed coins.

Tuk (cheerfully):

"So drink to the pirate who none could dethrone,

And remember the Captain who ruled on her own!"

Tuk started up a slow rousing drum beat

"Ah, gather ‘round, ye salt-crusted scoundrels and tar-cheeked rogues, while I spin ye a yarn of hubris, folly, and one nobleman’s doomed dalliance with the brine!

the drums pick up with the tale

"Behold! The Lordling of Highwater—yes, that one, with the perfumed gloves and the gait of a crippled peacock—descended from his marble tower, struck with a notion most profound." the drum became mocking for the spoken part "'I shall learn to sail!' he proclaimed, stuffing a gold-handled spyglass into his silken sash as if it were the cutlass of a corsair. 'For what is the ocean but another kingdom, and what are sailors but subjects of the sea?'

the drums return to the main theme

"Thus, with a flourish that sent his velvet cloak billowing (and the dock-hands reeling from the stink of his powdered perfume), the Lordling stepped aboard the Married Barmaid" aside in a mock whisper "Names changed for leeegal reasons, ya ken?" with a wink he sent the tavern in to a roar of laughter "a ship more familiar with the taste of barnacle than bounty. The sailors, rough-handed and twice as rough-mouthed, stared in bemusement as their new lordling clambered over the rail, wincing as the grime of honest labor stained his imported boots."

with the drums he imitated a high stepped strut

"Captain Beverly Eye Tiny, whose hat alone had seen more storms than the Lordlings entire lineage, welcomed His Grace with a sneer. 'Ever handled a rope, m’lord?' she asked, presenting a coil so thick it might have doubled as a noose for the unwary."

he mimed choking himself with a rope to more chuckles

"The Lordling smiled his polished ivory grin. 'But of course! The horse trainers at my estate use leads quite like these.' He grasped the rope with the confidence of a man who once watched a laborer lift something heavy and assumed he understood the technique. With a mighty heave, he attempted to hoist the sail. The rope burned his uncalloused fingers, and with a cry more suited to a startled fawn than a seafaring man, he toppled backward into a coil of netting."

he drummed out what sounded like a series of unfortunate events

"The crew did what any crew would do—they roared with laughter," cheers from the crowd "a chorus of mockery carried upon the sea breeze. The Lordlongs face, redder than the sun setting over a sailor’s last bottle of rum, twisted with indignation. 'I shall master this,' he insisted, rising to his feet with all the dignity a man covered in fish guts can summon."

he waved off an imaginary smell

"Oh, how he tried! He tied knots that could only be undone by divine intervention. He swabbed the deck with the enthusiasm of a man chasing enlightenment, yet left behind streaks of filth as though he had merely rearranged the grime. He climbed the rigging, only to cling there, white-knuckled, when the ship swayed, mewling for assistance like a kitten caught in a storm drain."

the derision and mockery brought some to tears with laughter

"The crew took bets. Would he vomit before or after falling overboard? Would his gloves ever not smell of lavender and cowardice? Would he, gods forbid, ask to steer?"

roars of no! and heaven forbid!

"Ah, and steer he did! With a dramatic flourish, the Lordling seized the helm, declaring, 'I have seen maps! I have studied tides! I shall navigate us true!'

he drummed and swayed, creating an imagery of drunken swaying of a ship badly steered

"The ship groaned. The heavens wept. The crew braced."

more drunken swaying

"With the confidence of a man who had never before experienced consequence, the Lordling spun the wheel. The Married Barmaid lurched sideways, as if recoiling from his touch. The boom swung wildly, knocking a sailor into the sea. The rudder groaned like a wounded beast, and the ship veered off course—straight toward a cluster of jagged rocks."

he drummed out the closest approximation of surf splashing on to shore

"'Hard to port! You pox-ridden dandy, you’re killing us!' roared Captain Eye Tiny, wrenching the wheel from the Lordlings trembling hands."

slowly drumming from a drunken state to a steady one

"With a maneuver so deft it could make the gods weep, the Captain righted the course just in time. The Lordling, meanwhile, slumped against the rail, gasping, his finery now soaked with sweat, salt, and well-earned humiliation."

"The voyage continued, but the Lordling did not. Deposited upon the shore at the next port, he stumbled away without a word, his silk tunic stiff with salt, his pride as tattered as the sails he never learned to mend. He returned to his castle and never spoke of the sea again—except in hushed tones, as one might whisper of a sickness long endured but never quite cured."

the high step drumming had a hitch in it this time

"And thus, the lesson was learned: a nobleman may buy a ship, may read of tides and trade winds, may even don the hat of a sailor—but the ocean does not bow to gold, and salt will always cut softer hands."

he outro'd the drumming to a silence, to the enthusiastic applause and cheers of the crowd

"So drink, ye brine-soaked bastards, and laugh! For though the Lordling may sit upon his cushioned throne once more, the taste of seawater and shame shall never leave his tongue. Now buy me a drink so I may join ye scurvy lot!"