Shaking out the now bare jacket, he examined his handiwork. Not bad, he determined. Not bad. A few smallish tears here and there where his zeal had outpaced his skill; a few dark patches where the insignia had prevented the cloth beneath from fading along with the rest of the jacket, the area beneath the most recent addition - the stripes of a captain - the closest color to the jacket itself. Between the sun and salt and dirt, it would all be the same color soon enough, he reasoned, scuffing over the fabric with the heel of his hand (helping along with the dirt part) before shrugging it back on and using the sleeve to buff the salt stains from his boots.
He stood up, straightened his cuffs and his collar, and walked into Nether's Gate proper. Between the less than disguised coat and the less than piratical ramrod straight posture, he wasn't exactly incognito, but, then, he didn't exactly care. What he cared about was finding a place to get a drink and a start. Several of the places looked fancy, like the sort of places captains would visit. That wasn't what he wanted -- to be offered a berth and a chance to get to work on someone else's ship. He wanted his own ship and his own terms, and he knew he wasn't going to get that from the uppity sorts who liked to pay extra to have their booze in crystal glasses.
Shells of a mermaid, then, it was.
A red lamp. A creaking sign overhead. A mermaid watched all who entered from the safety of her painted wood. With the seashells dangling down from a string her once modestly covered form now left nothing to the imagination. Those were the first couple of things a person noticed when they came before the crumbling old building that housed the "Shells of a Mermaid" brothel. Once a fine establishment it fell upon rough times after the Red Rash. It was a plain whorehouse now as was evident by the looks of the "lady" that stood before the door. She was a pretty girl, but appeared tired and sad. A dirty dress revealed her ample breasts and uncovered her shapely legs, while a garish makeup adorned her face with a sad but bright red smile upon her lips.
The inside was not much better. A small, dark room with three rough tables. A smell of rancid bear and sour wine mixed with a haze of smoke that obscured the view. The back of the room showed a short bar. A large, black skinned man leaned with disinterest while he pretended to clean it with a filthy rag. Thurbal Adams filled the roles of bartender and bouncer. Several girls sat around waiting for customers to take up to one of the rooms up by the stairs that lay next to the bar.
Shells of a mermaid was a run down brothel frequented by the people who seek cheap love and cheap drinks. Owned and run by Klarissa Corsat it was a place where one might hire a thug, learn a juicy rumor or two and, of course find a woman to soothe one's worries. Klarissa rested in the back room and plotted her dealings there. A very bitter woman, she hated Captain Raven and lived only to see his fall.
Her bartender Thurbal was the man to speak with. He knew everyone and everything. For the right sum of course. The amount of information he gave depended on the enquirer's reputation and the amount of money he was offered. A mountain of a man, he was the one that broke up the frequent sailor fights that errupted. Strangely honorable, he had never cheated a client. On the other hand, if somebody cheated on Thurbal he refused to deal with the person ever again. No amount of sweet talk and money would sway his mind. Too much pressure would only lead to a visit by a few of Thurbal's friends.
Morgan made his way to the bar and leaned against it, waiting to catch the bartender's eye. "A measure of rum, and not a skimpy one," he said.