Mordschiff: Beginnings
It wasn’t that he disliked America. Hell, he’d been born there. Not here, certainly. In the West - where depravity was, for the most part, out in the open. He preferred it there. He disliked the lack of organization, the inherent disorder of things. It felt honest, though. The people who meant you harm often had the courtesy to call you out.
Not like here. If a lynch mob didn’t find you, you just vanished. The West might be wild, but everywhere else it was prudish. Beneath the God fearing veneer, there was corruption, manipulation, shady business ventures preformed in secret opium dens. The cities were lousy with it… and, frankly, Charles Ofdensen disliked the competition.
It was dark. The narrow, downtown alleyway Ofdensen was traversing was crowded with the sort of scum that only crawled out at night. The cobblestone path was uneven and slick with rain from the thunderstorm that had just passed. Ofdenson nearly tripped over a couple fornicating between two trash bins.
“Take it inside.” First Mate, Pendletentenmilton kicked at their legs.
Ofdensen didn’t wait to see if the couple followed the order. He stepped over them and continued on to the tavern. It was a large building, a warehouse by day. Tonight it was more crowded than usual. This was partially due to the presence of his own crew; here on ground leave while their captain attended to business. Now that the matter of their cargo was attended to, Ofdensen and the small entourage that had accompanied were free to spend the night as they pleased.
Even then, though. Even accounting for his men, it seemed crowded.
Several of Ofdensen’s crew vacated a table without being asked. He took a seat and was joined by First Mate Pendletentenmilton who, after a nod from Ofdensen, ordered a round for everyone, to much raucous shouting and applause.
There was a wide, rickety wooden platform up front. It served as a stage on which a man was singing folksongs. Or trying to. Most of the lyrics were drowned out by conversation. Those nearest the stage were actively boo’ing the poor fellow, who was starting to look more than a bit nervous.
Ofdensen leaned back in his chair with a sigh. He took the dirty glass that was slid to him. Its contents were rather foul but presumably alcoholic. He drank quickly, watching with mild interest as the fellow on stage was dragged off it by his audience. A crowd closed in on him, and some wet-sounding screams followed. Unfortunate.
Pendletentenmilton offered Ofdenson a second glass. He raised his hand to stop him and shook his head. “I’m going back to the ship.”
Pendletentenmilton’s brow knitted with disappointment. He began to stand as his captain did. “Should I-“
“No,” said Ofdenson. “You’re free to spend the night as you please.” He took some American currency from the inside of his coat and slid this discretely to Pendletentenmilton, in case any bribing on behalf of the crew needed to be done before the night was over.
Pendletentenmilton pocketed the money, and Ofdenson turned to leave. He’d just gotten to the door when cheers erupted. New musicians had taken the stage. There were three of them. They came out, set up, and got started. No requests, no warming up the crowd. Straight to business.
The presence they commanded was much bigger than such a small, shadowy establishment. And their music? It was like nothing Ofdenson had ever heard before. It felt unpolished, incomplete… but even so, there was something to be said about how primal it was, how exhilarating. Ofdensen barely noticed the reasonably well-dressed group that shouldered past him.
“Excuse me,” said one of the men in the group.
Ofdenson stepped to one side of the door, content to let the slight slide before a quick double-take pulled him away from the music completely. Those people weren’t here for drinking and music. Ofdenson knew an angry mob when he saw one.
There were quite a few of them, two dozen maybe. They were moving toward the stage, slowly so as not to attract attention. It was working. Everyone in the building seemed preoccupied by the show onstage.
Ofdenson sighed. He grabbed the nearest member of his crew by the shoulder, a teenaged boy he recognized as apprentice to their ship's mechanic. “Who are they?”
“Hey, geddoff ya-“ The boy’s angry expression fell to one of thinly veiled terror. “Hello, Captain. Sorry, Captain.”
“Who are they?” repeated Ofdenson, raising his voice so that he could be heard over the music.
“Who, Captain?”
“The band.”
“You mean, like, what’re they called?”
“Yes.”
“I hadn’t heard of ‘em before tonight, to be honest. Which is kinda unusual’ish, apparently. They’re all these locals’ll talk about tonight, and-“
“Who are they?”
“Something like Death Clock, I think it was, Captain.”
That meant nothing to Ofdenson. He wasn’t sure why he’d even asked, to be honest. He nodded to the boy and continued on, moving past the angry, advancing mob and closer to the stage. Ofdenson watched them preform as he weighed his options; a man with rather striking orange dreadlocks on the drums, a singularly ugly gentleman on bass, and a broad-shouldered, imposing fellow doing vocals.
Hmm.
Ofdenson turned back to the mob. They were only a few strides from the stage now. Most of them seemed content to remain rooted to that spot; looking offended, nervously stroking crucifixes. One in front was forcing his way through the crowd, eyes staring fixedly at the band. It was difficult to mistake the man’s intent.
Hmm.
The man advancing toward the stage stopped. He cast a quick look about. Everyone, save for Ofdenson, was too entranced by the performance on stage to see the man reaching for his gun.
Ofdenson drew his own firearm as he closed the distance between himself and the would-be assassin. The beginnings of a confused expression had formed on the man’s face before a bullet entered through his jaw, exited through the top of his head, and buried itself somewhere in the ceiling above.
That was all it took. The music stopped. Pandemonium started. The rest of the angry mob drew weapons as most of the tavern’s patrons scattered. The lowlifes around here were a skittish bunch, something this mob had obviously counted on. They were unprepared for pirates. Most people were unprepared for pirates.
Ofdenson holstered his gun. It was useless for fighting in so crowded an area. He wouldn’t want to unintentionally shoot one of his crew. No, Ofdenson was quite content to engage them in hand-to-hand combat.
Predictably, the violent and pious weren’t particularly good brawlers. Unfortunately, they did appear to have backup. Someone had set a fire from the outside. Why they hadn’t done that from the start, Ofdenson couldn’t say. The tavern was little more than kindling in the rough shape of a warehouse, though. He supposed they should make this quick.
Ofdenson fought his way through the crowd and caught First Mate Pendletentenmilton’s attention. “Take everyone outside! Take care of any reinforcements they’ve got waiting!”
Pendletentenmilton nodded, albeit reluctantly. No doubt he was more than a little upset his evening had been ruined. “All right, men! You heard the captain!”
It was doubtful there were any “reinforcements” still loitering about outside. Just the same, Ofdenson suspected it would be bad for morale if he got his crew killed over… a personal project.
A falling beam crushed Pendletentenmilton on his way to the door; leaving a large red puddle under a pile of flaming wreckage.
So much for not getting anyone killed.
A punch to the jaw caught Ofdenson by surprise. As he reeled a step backward, someone caught him by the front of his coat. They threw him, with considerable force, backwards and over the makeshift bar. Several bottles of liquor crashed to the floor with him.
It wasn’t an ideal spot to find oneself in amidst a fire. Ofdensen hefted an unbroken bottle and climbed to his feet. His assailant was a large man, now advancing on him. Ofdenson was about to club him with the bottle, when a fist connected with the man’s face instead.
Ofdenson lowered the bottle as he watched the man drop out of sight. He leaned over the bar just in time to see him catch fire.
“Yeesh,” grunted the one who’d landed him there. It seemed unlikely setting someone on fire had been his intention.
Ofdenson looked at his savior - not that he’d really needed the saving, but still. It’s the thought that counts. “Oh,” he said, pleasantly surprised to see Death Clock’s vocalist standing before him, flanked by the smaller man with the dreadlocks. “Weren’t there three of you?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah. Murderface.” The vocalist motioned over his shoulder.
Across the tavern, the bassist was ushering people out the back door. Something about, “Fire schafety.”
Ofdenson waited until Murderface and the patrons following him were outside before shooting the remainder of the tavern’s occupents. He was fairly sure those left had been part of the angry mob. Better safe than sorry. “We should probably leave now.”
“Just a second.” The one with the dreads hopped the bar.
The vocalist just frowned - not that this was indicative of anything. As far as Ofdenson could tell, he seemed to frown a lot. “So, was that guy trying to kill us?”
Ofdenson nodded. “I suspect so, yes.”
“Good.” The man with the dreadlocks was sifting through the tavern’s wrecked stock of alcohol. “Because otherwise, that’d just make you some, ya know, crazed gunman… Just making an educated guess in assuming you weren’t.” Most of the bottles appeared broken. He stopped searching and eyed a keg appraisingly.
“It’s, uh, probably better if you don’t.” Ofdenson tossed him the bottle he’d been prepared to smash moments before. He motioned for them to follow him outside. The place was on fire, after all. They probably shouldn’t try to escape with a keg, much less stand around chatting. Ofdenson checked to make sure they were close behind and continued on conversationally, “So this sort of thing happens often? Attempts on your life, I mean.”
“I guess,” said the vocalist.
“Yeah, pretty often,” said the drummer. “Religious people, right? Can’t live with ‘em… can’t… I forget where I was going with that one. But, yeah, it happens nearly every show. Not that they’ve managed to kill us yet.”
That went without saying. Ofdenson ignored it and stepped out of the tavern, into the alley. If there had been any reinforcements, they had been dealt with. Some of his crew from the tavern were still waiting. “We’re shipping out tonight!” he told them, raising his voice. A murmer of dissent followed. This was never a popular spot for ground leave, though. Ofdenson imagined they would get over it fast enough. “Spread the word! Now get a move on. Before the police show up.”
That sent them scattering. Ofdenson turned back to the vocalist and drummer - neither of whom appeared the least bit concerned with their recent near-death experience nor the possibility of imminent arrest “Quite the, ah, charmed life you must lead, huh?”
“Huh?” grunted the vocalist.
Ofdenson smiled. “What are your names?”
“I’m Nathan,” said the vocalist. He glanced at the drummer who’d turned from the conversation to watch the tavern burn, making the occasional happy remark in between pulls from the bottle Ofdenson had given him. “And that’s Pickles… Murderface is… I dunno. Somewhere around here.”
“It’s just the three of you?” asked Ofdenson, skeptical, despite having no reason to doubt them.
Nathan made a noncommittal noise and shrugged. “We had a guy on guitar. It didn’t work out.”
“I see.”
“So, are you a pirate or something?”
“Captain. But, yes.”
“Brutal.”
“I suppose… Sometimes, yes… It can be.” Ofdenson changed the subject. “It would be better if I got out of here before any police arrived, so-”
“You need to get back to your pirate ship?”
“Ah… Yes.” Ofdenson had been entertaining an idea since shortly before initiating the massacre and subsequent fire. “You’re welcome to join me, if you like.”
Pickles turned, the conversation suddenly catching his interest. When Nathan didn’t say anything, he nudged him. “I dunno about you, but I’m getting kinda tired of douchebags setting our venues on fire.”
Nathan seemed to be having some difficulty getting his head around the offer. “I’m not sure I want to be a pirate.”
“You’d be more… passengers than pirates,” corrected Ofdenson.
Nathan paused an assumed a thoughtful expression. “I think there was something my dad told me about not taking rides from strangers… I think it was bad… I think pirates are probably strangers, so-”
“Dood, all I know about pirates is that they drink rum and sleep with exotic ladies.”
“I guess,” said Nathan. “Do we have to pay you or something?”
“We’ll… work something out. If it’s disagreeable, you’re welcome to get off at any time.” Ofdenson decided not to mention that actually leaving the ship during the majority of “any time” would almost certainly result in death.
“Yeah, okay,” said Nathan, rather dully downplaying the magnitude of such a decision. “Where are we going?”
“Scandinavia.”
“Anywhere’s better than here,” reasoned Pickles. “I’ll go find Murderface and tell ‘im we’re gonna be pirates.”
Not like here. If a lynch mob didn’t find you, you just vanished. The West might be wild, but everywhere else it was prudish. Beneath the God fearing veneer, there was corruption, manipulation, shady business ventures preformed in secret opium dens. The cities were lousy with it… and, frankly, Charles Ofdensen disliked the competition.
It was dark. The narrow, downtown alleyway Ofdensen was traversing was crowded with the sort of scum that only crawled out at night. The cobblestone path was uneven and slick with rain from the thunderstorm that had just passed. Ofdenson nearly tripped over a couple fornicating between two trash bins.
“Take it inside.” First Mate, Pendletentenmilton kicked at their legs.
Ofdensen didn’t wait to see if the couple followed the order. He stepped over them and continued on to the tavern. It was a large building, a warehouse by day. Tonight it was more crowded than usual. This was partially due to the presence of his own crew; here on ground leave while their captain attended to business. Now that the matter of their cargo was attended to, Ofdensen and the small entourage that had accompanied were free to spend the night as they pleased.
Even then, though. Even accounting for his men, it seemed crowded.
Several of Ofdensen’s crew vacated a table without being asked. He took a seat and was joined by First Mate Pendletentenmilton who, after a nod from Ofdensen, ordered a round for everyone, to much raucous shouting and applause.
There was a wide, rickety wooden platform up front. It served as a stage on which a man was singing folksongs. Or trying to. Most of the lyrics were drowned out by conversation. Those nearest the stage were actively boo’ing the poor fellow, who was starting to look more than a bit nervous.
Ofdensen leaned back in his chair with a sigh. He took the dirty glass that was slid to him. Its contents were rather foul but presumably alcoholic. He drank quickly, watching with mild interest as the fellow on stage was dragged off it by his audience. A crowd closed in on him, and some wet-sounding screams followed. Unfortunate.
Pendletentenmilton offered Ofdenson a second glass. He raised his hand to stop him and shook his head. “I’m going back to the ship.”
Pendletentenmilton’s brow knitted with disappointment. He began to stand as his captain did. “Should I-“
“No,” said Ofdenson. “You’re free to spend the night as you please.” He took some American currency from the inside of his coat and slid this discretely to Pendletentenmilton, in case any bribing on behalf of the crew needed to be done before the night was over.
Pendletentenmilton pocketed the money, and Ofdenson turned to leave. He’d just gotten to the door when cheers erupted. New musicians had taken the stage. There were three of them. They came out, set up, and got started. No requests, no warming up the crowd. Straight to business.
The presence they commanded was much bigger than such a small, shadowy establishment. And their music? It was like nothing Ofdenson had ever heard before. It felt unpolished, incomplete… but even so, there was something to be said about how primal it was, how exhilarating. Ofdensen barely noticed the reasonably well-dressed group that shouldered past him.
“Excuse me,” said one of the men in the group.
Ofdenson stepped to one side of the door, content to let the slight slide before a quick double-take pulled him away from the music completely. Those people weren’t here for drinking and music. Ofdenson knew an angry mob when he saw one.
There were quite a few of them, two dozen maybe. They were moving toward the stage, slowly so as not to attract attention. It was working. Everyone in the building seemed preoccupied by the show onstage.
Ofdenson sighed. He grabbed the nearest member of his crew by the shoulder, a teenaged boy he recognized as apprentice to their ship's mechanic. “Who are they?”
“Hey, geddoff ya-“ The boy’s angry expression fell to one of thinly veiled terror. “Hello, Captain. Sorry, Captain.”
“Who are they?” repeated Ofdenson, raising his voice so that he could be heard over the music.
“Who, Captain?”
“The band.”
“You mean, like, what’re they called?”
“Yes.”
“I hadn’t heard of ‘em before tonight, to be honest. Which is kinda unusual’ish, apparently. They’re all these locals’ll talk about tonight, and-“
“Who are they?”
“Something like Death Clock, I think it was, Captain.”
That meant nothing to Ofdenson. He wasn’t sure why he’d even asked, to be honest. He nodded to the boy and continued on, moving past the angry, advancing mob and closer to the stage. Ofdenson watched them preform as he weighed his options; a man with rather striking orange dreadlocks on the drums, a singularly ugly gentleman on bass, and a broad-shouldered, imposing fellow doing vocals.
Hmm.
Ofdenson turned back to the mob. They were only a few strides from the stage now. Most of them seemed content to remain rooted to that spot; looking offended, nervously stroking crucifixes. One in front was forcing his way through the crowd, eyes staring fixedly at the band. It was difficult to mistake the man’s intent.
Hmm.
The man advancing toward the stage stopped. He cast a quick look about. Everyone, save for Ofdenson, was too entranced by the performance on stage to see the man reaching for his gun.
Ofdenson drew his own firearm as he closed the distance between himself and the would-be assassin. The beginnings of a confused expression had formed on the man’s face before a bullet entered through his jaw, exited through the top of his head, and buried itself somewhere in the ceiling above.
That was all it took. The music stopped. Pandemonium started. The rest of the angry mob drew weapons as most of the tavern’s patrons scattered. The lowlifes around here were a skittish bunch, something this mob had obviously counted on. They were unprepared for pirates. Most people were unprepared for pirates.
Ofdenson holstered his gun. It was useless for fighting in so crowded an area. He wouldn’t want to unintentionally shoot one of his crew. No, Ofdenson was quite content to engage them in hand-to-hand combat.
Predictably, the violent and pious weren’t particularly good brawlers. Unfortunately, they did appear to have backup. Someone had set a fire from the outside. Why they hadn’t done that from the start, Ofdenson couldn’t say. The tavern was little more than kindling in the rough shape of a warehouse, though. He supposed they should make this quick.
Ofdenson fought his way through the crowd and caught First Mate Pendletentenmilton’s attention. “Take everyone outside! Take care of any reinforcements they’ve got waiting!”
Pendletentenmilton nodded, albeit reluctantly. No doubt he was more than a little upset his evening had been ruined. “All right, men! You heard the captain!”
It was doubtful there were any “reinforcements” still loitering about outside. Just the same, Ofdenson suspected it would be bad for morale if he got his crew killed over… a personal project.
A falling beam crushed Pendletentenmilton on his way to the door; leaving a large red puddle under a pile of flaming wreckage.
So much for not getting anyone killed.
A punch to the jaw caught Ofdenson by surprise. As he reeled a step backward, someone caught him by the front of his coat. They threw him, with considerable force, backwards and over the makeshift bar. Several bottles of liquor crashed to the floor with him.
It wasn’t an ideal spot to find oneself in amidst a fire. Ofdensen hefted an unbroken bottle and climbed to his feet. His assailant was a large man, now advancing on him. Ofdenson was about to club him with the bottle, when a fist connected with the man’s face instead.
Ofdenson lowered the bottle as he watched the man drop out of sight. He leaned over the bar just in time to see him catch fire.
“Yeesh,” grunted the one who’d landed him there. It seemed unlikely setting someone on fire had been his intention.
Ofdenson looked at his savior - not that he’d really needed the saving, but still. It’s the thought that counts. “Oh,” he said, pleasantly surprised to see Death Clock’s vocalist standing before him, flanked by the smaller man with the dreadlocks. “Weren’t there three of you?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah. Murderface.” The vocalist motioned over his shoulder.
Across the tavern, the bassist was ushering people out the back door. Something about, “Fire schafety.”
Ofdenson waited until Murderface and the patrons following him were outside before shooting the remainder of the tavern’s occupents. He was fairly sure those left had been part of the angry mob. Better safe than sorry. “We should probably leave now.”
“Just a second.” The one with the dreads hopped the bar.
The vocalist just frowned - not that this was indicative of anything. As far as Ofdenson could tell, he seemed to frown a lot. “So, was that guy trying to kill us?”
Ofdenson nodded. “I suspect so, yes.”
“Good.” The man with the dreadlocks was sifting through the tavern’s wrecked stock of alcohol. “Because otherwise, that’d just make you some, ya know, crazed gunman… Just making an educated guess in assuming you weren’t.” Most of the bottles appeared broken. He stopped searching and eyed a keg appraisingly.
“It’s, uh, probably better if you don’t.” Ofdenson tossed him the bottle he’d been prepared to smash moments before. He motioned for them to follow him outside. The place was on fire, after all. They probably shouldn’t try to escape with a keg, much less stand around chatting. Ofdenson checked to make sure they were close behind and continued on conversationally, “So this sort of thing happens often? Attempts on your life, I mean.”
“I guess,” said the vocalist.
“Yeah, pretty often,” said the drummer. “Religious people, right? Can’t live with ‘em… can’t… I forget where I was going with that one. But, yeah, it happens nearly every show. Not that they’ve managed to kill us yet.”
That went without saying. Ofdenson ignored it and stepped out of the tavern, into the alley. If there had been any reinforcements, they had been dealt with. Some of his crew from the tavern were still waiting. “We’re shipping out tonight!” he told them, raising his voice. A murmer of dissent followed. This was never a popular spot for ground leave, though. Ofdenson imagined they would get over it fast enough. “Spread the word! Now get a move on. Before the police show up.”
That sent them scattering. Ofdenson turned back to the vocalist and drummer - neither of whom appeared the least bit concerned with their recent near-death experience nor the possibility of imminent arrest “Quite the, ah, charmed life you must lead, huh?”
“Huh?” grunted the vocalist.
Ofdenson smiled. “What are your names?”
“I’m Nathan,” said the vocalist. He glanced at the drummer who’d turned from the conversation to watch the tavern burn, making the occasional happy remark in between pulls from the bottle Ofdenson had given him. “And that’s Pickles… Murderface is… I dunno. Somewhere around here.”
“It’s just the three of you?” asked Ofdenson, skeptical, despite having no reason to doubt them.
Nathan made a noncommittal noise and shrugged. “We had a guy on guitar. It didn’t work out.”
“I see.”
“So, are you a pirate or something?”
“Captain. But, yes.”
“Brutal.”
“I suppose… Sometimes, yes… It can be.” Ofdenson changed the subject. “It would be better if I got out of here before any police arrived, so-”
“You need to get back to your pirate ship?”
“Ah… Yes.” Ofdenson had been entertaining an idea since shortly before initiating the massacre and subsequent fire. “You’re welcome to join me, if you like.”
Pickles turned, the conversation suddenly catching his interest. When Nathan didn’t say anything, he nudged him. “I dunno about you, but I’m getting kinda tired of douchebags setting our venues on fire.”
Nathan seemed to be having some difficulty getting his head around the offer. “I’m not sure I want to be a pirate.”
“You’d be more… passengers than pirates,” corrected Ofdenson.
Nathan paused an assumed a thoughtful expression. “I think there was something my dad told me about not taking rides from strangers… I think it was bad… I think pirates are probably strangers, so-”
“Dood, all I know about pirates is that they drink rum and sleep with exotic ladies.”
“I guess,” said Nathan. “Do we have to pay you or something?”
“We’ll… work something out. If it’s disagreeable, you’re welcome to get off at any time.” Ofdenson decided not to mention that actually leaving the ship during the majority of “any time” would almost certainly result in death.
“Yeah, okay,” said Nathan, rather dully downplaying the magnitude of such a decision. “Where are we going?”
“Scandinavia.”
“Anywhere’s better than here,” reasoned Pickles. “I’ll go find Murderface and tell ‘im we’re gonna be pirates.”