I'm Here For the Booty

The winds of fate had steered his last ship to a nearby port, and having paid his dues, the tall Yamaguchi had made his way to a nearby resort. Not one to spare expenses, as he would travel light onto the next life, if he ever got there, he took up a room with a view to the sea, which had just traversed up to here. It was vast, and beautiful, bringing about a sentiment of hopefulness inside the hardened criminal, as if what he sought could somehow be out there. He smirked, and fell onto the fluffy sheets and foam mattress. After sleeping on a rocky hard bed, the softness caused his eyes to shut and his consciousness slipped away, giving way to a hearty and sound sleep.

When he woke up, he felt dehydrated, sluggish, and he could barely string a chain of thought together. He forgot where he was, and took a few seconds looking about, inching forwards and leaning on his elbows, looking at his luxurious surroundings, until he realized what he had done, where he was, where he had been. Cascading, these thoughts occupied the space where his dream had been, hazy and blurry, and soon they buried it away, never to be remembered. Getting off the bed, he strutted towards the bathroom – or where he assumed he would find one, taking off his shirt along the way, dropping in on the floor nonchalantly. As he passed a wide, tall mirror, he glanced at his figure. His body fat had dropped from traveling in the open sea, so his muscles were more pronounced now. His own skin seemed to be windburnt; he would have to do some caring for it. His hair was a mess, which drew a chuckle out of him, with white wisps now covering the olive branches on the side of his head, as well as covering his chiseled cheeks and jaw. No better time for a bath.

After accidentally walking into the kitchenette with a dining room, he backtracked, and found another door that led to the bathroom proper. He washed himself thoroughly, his hands scrubbing every inch of his skin, tracing over old scars and new scars alike, a thousand proofs that his will to kill had overcome others. Rinsing, he allowed the cold water to cascade over him while he stood motionless, master of his body and mind alike. Getting off the shower, he went in front of the mirror, buck naked, and started preparing his ritual. Knotting the hair atop his head, he coated the sides of his hair and chin with shaving foam, and using a sharp blade, carefully removed the hair, rinsing the blade, then repeating, over and over, until it was all clean, showing his features and tattoos. He passed some more cold water, removing excess foam, and dabbed a towel all around. He would then take some baby oil, and carefully rub it over his arms, his chest, his back and legs. Skin care was of utmost importance for the mercenary, as first impressions meant a lot to him. Next up was his face; more creams to ensure his skin was smooth and supple, to reduce the puffiness under his eyes, to decrease the creases around his mouth and eyes. Releasing the knot on his hair, he dried it as best as he could, before finally blow drying it just to ensure it wouldn’t be wet and sticking in strands, combing it gently, and knotting it along his head into a bundle at the back. Finally, some deodorant and cologne, leaving him sharp as a kunai. He walked out of the bathroom, and onto the room, where he picked some simple clothing before going for breakfast.

Having chosen to be relaxed today, he bore an aquamarine polo shirt, tan shorts, and finally, black flip flops, as he made his way down to check out the breakfast menu. As it turned out, for such a fine resort, they resorted to buffets, which wasn’t ideal in his eyes, but still, he got what he could. Filling a plate up with eggs, bacon, toast, and a glass of orange juice, he found a table to eat, and slowly tasted the food, chewing on it with gusto, ignoring the glances from a nearby group of ladies which gawked and giggled like a bunch of lasses on a hen party. As he ate, one of them dropped by, talking gibberish between nervous giggles; he simply smiled as he cleaned the corners of his mouth with a napkin, and when she handed him a paper with a phone number, he winked and folded it onto his pocket. She left in near hysterical excitement, and he finished his meal, before downing the glass of orange juice. He left the plates on the table, and made his way to the door, reaching onto his pocket for the number of the lass, crumbling it, and dropping it onto a nearby rubbish bin.

The beach was sunny and hot. Looking over it, there was a lot he could do: sunbathe, waterbathe, or womanbathe; he decided on the latter, and made his way to the volleyball game, where young women played along the beach, with bleachers nearby for spectators. Unlike the older gals from the hen party, these women were young and fit, with tremendous physical attributes, enough to make his blood alive. Sitting down next to a redheaded fellow who arrived at the same time as he did, he enjoyed the sight of bouncing balls, as a newer figure approached. Braska heard it, from the edge of perception only due to their proximity, but when a ship approached, he lifted his eyes to it. Not much could be made in this distance, but the flag at the top was black, of that he was sure. He decided to pipe up. “Those are pirates. I would know. I was on another ship trying to track them down a few days ago.”

While the girls jumped about, the redhead and the dark haired youth spoke as if this looked as if it were a dream to them, the latter one mentioning bunda, a word from a far off country, and one he hadn’t heard in a while, which brought a smirk to the white haired man’s lip. But he wasn’t wrong; the bunda and mamocas were all about, feasts for sore eyes. Between their drinking though, it was certain the three of them now saw the ship, fast approaching, sails billowing to the wind, black flag whipping tall in the main mast (the Eagle’s Nest, or the caralho, as some were so affectionate to call it). Braska sucked at his teeth after the redhead confirmed his diagnosis.

This might be an interesting afternoon, after all.

Braska tilted his head towards the man as he tried to understand the speech through the slight slur and overwhelming stink of the alcohol. Having lived with a deck under his feet for a long time, it didn’t bother him much, but it wasn’t pleasant nonetheless. “Something like that, ye”, he replied. The redhead went on about being a deterrent. “I’m more of a soldier of fortune. I go where there’s money to be made. And you said it, good money in hunting pirates.”

The lad had a bad feeling. “Hm”, Braska hummed, wondering what would lead a pirate ship to sail towards a beach. Desperation, to be sure. Yet, the captain must have something stashed away for emergencies, or just out of greed. A jewelry box, some fresh fruits and gunpowder, the booty from a previous adventure, hidden in secrecy. The Yamaguchi nodded. There had to be something on that ship of value.

The redhead said something about taking them, how Braska had been looking for them, and he had been looking for a ship. He was out of the payroll of the sailing company, but he agreed nonetheless. “Certainly” was all he had to add as the obvious ninja produced a bottle of rum out of thin air. Cid was his name, and after his introduction, he offered some rum, which Braska declined with a wave of his hand, similarly to the other young man, whose name he learned was Auron. First names only; likely criminals. “Braska”, he said in return, “and I’m not a professional Pirate hunter… I just do what I’m paid to.”

Getting off the bleachers, he started making his way stoically down the rafters as the ship swerved on its anchor, one of the canons going off and shooting a heavy lead ball through the beach. If he were to die by a canon ball, there wouldn’t be much to be done; he was not yet one of the fabled ninjas of his bloodline, and in fact, he didn’t even see the ball – whatever blur he caught – before it opened a hole on the side of a beachfront hotel. Nets were being cast on the beach goers, and most people had started screaming and running, but Braska muscled his way through the cowards and shriekers.

Soon his long legs made the trek closer to the action, and the first pirate tried his luck, swinging his cutlass wildly. A backstep was enough to avoid it, the steel swooshing sharply in front of his face, enough to displace the air, and as the pirate tried to swing back, Braska abruptly stepped forward, catching the hand and arm swinging the sword, tripping the pirate with a well placed foot behind theirs, and as the fell, he twisted the blade to pierce their throat. The crimson life essence of the man soaked the sand, and Braska acquisitioned his blade, looking at the other pirates, a confident, almost displaced smirk, gracing his lips.

The younger of the trio was nowhere to be seen, having disappeared from the beach entirely, which the white haired lord found peculiar, but he noticed from the corner of his eye how Cid whipped some of the pirated ablaze; this was something he had seen in the past, or at least something similar. The ninja arts. Something Braska had thought about learning, considering his dream…. Something he had yet to decipher. But he knew some ninja had to know something about this. It was too vivid, too real, to be just a dream. He was the Lord of the Horde, and one day, he would join the Horde.

He had to break the cycle. Whatever the cost.

The first pirate down, Cid started going up the ropes to reach the ship, while Braska took advantage of his new sword to cut more of the pirates. Already disadvantaged by the rum that wafted from their breath with each swing and battle cry, the now armed Yamaguchi made quick work of the few pirates still trying to stop him. The others, contending and threatening beach goers, were far unluckier. Braska was not burdened by concepts such as honor or mercy. A strike to the back of the ankle, a cutlass sinking behind a knee, two spine disks severed from each other with a quick slice.

With the people at the bottom freed, Braska caught the steel between his teeth in a tight grip, and grabbed onto a rope, using his musculature to lift his weight up the side of the boat, until he boarded, seeing Cid waiting to fight the pirate by his side. Maximum effort.

The great lumbering beast of a pirate swung his sword wildly. Braska dodged, weaved back and to the sides, once brought the sword up only for it to be deflected back, luckily he had been just strong enough to halt the blade of the pirate captain. He saw how Cid’s whip would swing here and there, yet the pirate gave no quarter, handling the duo as if they were easy marks. Yet, an opening created by Cid’s fire whip, and Braska managed to thrust his cutlass between the ribs of the great beast. With the beast downed, whatever pirate was still alive broke rank, running aimlessly, hoping authorities wouldn’t get to them.

Sweating, Braska looked at Cid, and an emerging Auron. “Well, gentlemen… let’s find the booty.”