The Nettes (Chyril 27, TradeTide)

[Grant]

While the bulk of the shipping for Nether's Gate ports at Rande's Landing on the eastern shores of the isle, the Nets caters to a more restricted type of sailing vessel and sees far less activity. Home to Nether's Gate's vast population of fishermen and pilots, all manner of small craft can be seen tied up at the low wharves here. While unable to maintain the deep-water vessels, some have been known to anchor well off the coast and launch into Nether's Gate here to avoid too much scrutiny by the locals.

Of course, the wharf stinks routinely of washed flotsam of decaying fish...and many of the small boats or fishing prows pulled up on the banks or tied to the wharves don't appear to be very sea-worthy...so the little harbor is quite frequently deserted for most of the day. Only during the early Gravetide marks, when the fishermen pull out to sea, or the early Tradetide, when they return, can one find any great activity here.

Due to a lack of any kind of upkeep or attention, the wharves and single pier of the Nets are falling into disrepair. The planks are uneven and gapped...the supporting beams are crooked and wobbly...and rotting nets and discarded equipment litter the otherwise lovely beach all around. Still, a vast amount of wealth is harvested from the sea every day for Nether's Gate...and the bulk of that wealth comes through the Nets.

The morningtide saw the daily exodus of fishermen out into the sea, usually well before sunrise. For that reason, precious few boats remained at the Nets...and only a pair of men, both aged and missing limbs. The first was a thick, tall man that lacked most of his right leg, while the other was a thin, gaunt, tiny sailor without a left forearm. They were not too old, but weather worn such that their flesh was not unlike leather. They sat together on a stack of worn planks upon the beach tending to a large, hemp net.

[Marcello di Angelo]

Marcello approached, carrying his chest over his shoulder. "Ahoy," he called "What are you Sea Rovers up to, eh? Anything interesting? Saw that the Myridon just pulled in. Dupre back in the Gate, eh?"

He looked around, his eyes sharp as he roamed over the possible ships. "There is said to be a small sloop in the harbour belonging to a lady. Any idea which one it might be?"

[Grant]

One of the pair of old men (the one missing a leg) raised his weather-beaten face to cast a shrewd scowl at Marcello. He was chewing something...most likely tobacco...and his distinct lack of teeth made that effort almost painful to watch as his bottom jaw worked furiously to gum the lump of tarry tabac into a manageable lump for his lip. Nudging out an elbow towards his mate, the other man finally lifted his eyes, having clearly failed to hear Marcello's approach. Loss of hearing was a sad truth on the Dortese Main in these times, and this old-timer had lost virtually all of his.

"Eh?" came the rather sudden response from the other man (the one without a forearm). Glancing up, he spied Marcello and nodded. "Aye, hello. Ah...what'd he want?" he added, glancing at his comrade. Marcello had to repeat his question...and loud...before the pair would be of any help, for it seemed that one of the two men (the one without a leg) was mute (and perhaps somewhat touched in the head), while the other (the one without a forearm) was deaf. Together they managed well enough, but it required some volume for Marcello to impress upon the pair precisely what he wanted.

Still, they understood...and knew exactly where to send him. Pointing out towards one of the few remaining boats in port, they indicated a rather lovely little ketch moored by a tie-line at the beach (instead of the wharf). She was about fifteen feet in length, with a beam that was right at Marcello's height. A stiff mast poked up well ahead of her beam, and a tiny, stunted mast poked up just over her stern tiller. All told, she couldn't have been more than three tons...hardly big enough to fight...but she could be easily handled by a single man, especially rigged as she was (a traditional ketch, though all her sheets were naturally handed and tied up neatly to her spars). Her stern proudly claimed her to be the Sea Hag, a name that seemed rather unfitting given that her owner seemed to have taken fine care of her.

"Pretty girl left 'er earlier. Had as fine an ass as I've seen this last season," belted out the arm-less man, clearly describing the boat's owner and not the boat. "Not a fisherman, no...though she seen a bit of the sea, I think."