Brosef Ortizo Riverman did not look convinced. “This is a helluva way to call in a debt, Ghost-talker. Why are they all staring at me like that? Lookin’ at me but not really lookin’. They’re giving’ me the heebee-jeebies.” He rubbed two-out-of-four thick, calloused hands together nervously while glancing down at his friend and captain. He combed a third hand through the coarse hair atop his head and fidgeted with circlet that rested there, while his fourth hand drummed fingers absently against his fat bare stomach, then drummed against the hilt of his Dagger of Ghost Sight, then switched to tug at his open leather vest.
“Yes, its a bit disconcerting, isn’t it?” Silas Kincadeus responded. The halfling looked up to meet the nervous eyes of his new first mate, and then out across the ghost-crowded deck of the Flying Dutchman. The spirits of the dead waited visibly in front of them. Some stood, some swirled, some wafted… all were awaiting orders. They were his crewmen. Crewsouls? Hundreds of them crowded the ship, maybe thousands, blurring together and overlapping one another. Silas has lost track of how many souls he had rescued, but they were trapped upon this plane and he had yet to figure out how to break through to the Shadowfell to send them home. So he had collected them here, whenever he came across them, to keep them safe.
“I liked it better when I could just chit-chat with them freely.” Silas continued. He glanced up, up, up to meet Brosef’s uneasy gaze. The man was enormous. He stood six and a half feet tall, brown-skinned and built like a gorilla with four beefy arms and a visage half orc-like, half ape-like. “But it is as I explained, Brosef. The crown you’re now wearing keeps them in check. Without it… well they’ve been wandering off, causing mischief or getting eaten by demons.”
Brosef dragged his hand down across his eyes, and then scratched his scraggly beard. “So, you wear it then. Gimme one of Captain Corym’s ships to manage. At least they walk and talk like humans. They’ve got real… bodies.”
Silas chuckled somberly. “Do you really mean that? Command a crew of vampires all dreaming about that thick vein in your neck? Fantasizing about sipping your blood? Alas, Corym has his own leadership already installed upon his ships. Brosef, I need someone trustworthy here to run the Dutchman. I cannot remain with it for we have other important tasks ahead, and the crown must stay aboard or this crew will jus flit away. They’ll follow your every order as long as you wear it. And it’s important work. We’re trying to restore the natural order of this world, and we need to shepherd these poor souls somewhere safe until such time as the Lost are able to send them home.”
Brosef shrugged four shoulders uncomfortably, hitching his thumbs into vest pockets and belt loops. “Well I don’t like it. It ain’t natural.”
“You’ve spent years communicating with your ancestor Simbrus’s spirit, through dreams and meditations. I’ve helped you through quite a bit of your warrior’s journey. I think you’re a natural fit for the job. Besides, you owe me! Haha!” Silas said. He thwacked Brosef genially at the hip, about as high up as he could reach.
