[Several years ago] This story features Miss Nixxi Dagon
The Sea Witch's Solace, the Knickers, and the Priestess[]
A cargo ship with captain and crew who took orders and didn't ask too many questions, The Pale Lady of Shells, sailing under the banner of Niima, lay in waters not far from Seareach.
"T'wouldn't naught do that, laddie," the webbed Captain Bane, of the Pale Lady, said with a grimace,
Seareach accent a thick rudder through thick with disapproving tones. "Bloody witch she 'tis."
"Keep y'mouth shut y'will, she's m'prize" the snarled reply was served with a sneer and a glare.
The foul-smelling beastly man strode forward, lips parted in a malicious sneer.
What little of the Shell's crew not bound by rope and magical web lay dead.
Those whom yet breathed strained and grunted and pulled and strained again for good measure.
"I daresay the captain meant it for your safety, sir," came the clipped response. Voice calm. Hands shaking.
The prize in question murmured as she twirled the runestaff over and over in her hands. The pirates laughed.
"Stay still lil' poplin," creature to girl, a nasty laugh from lips a-foul.
"And 'tis priestess, naught witch," girl to her captain, lips painted dark and pretty.
Creature-mates hooped and hollered and cheered and snarled and spat and howled,
The half elf was left to the last on purpose, to be shared and crueled, first by the captain and then crew.
It was here, then, something rather loud and unfortunate happened.
It was here, then, splinters of laughter blew up from the kicked-open door.
Blue. Pink. Yellow. Pale green. Orange. Purple. Riotous rainbows.
Lace. Silk. Frills. Bows. Ribbons. Unmentionable underthings.
"Look'ee 'ere' ca'p'n! Whole trunk o'em!" Desecrating laughter broke into silly giggles.
Bits of colored cloth from clothing best left unseen by such foul eyes flew through the air.
Living on a ship is hard. Living on said ship with reasonably honorable but foul-smelling men is harder.
Living on said ship and being the only one with elven sensibilities is nearly impossible.
Concessions were made long ago. Such as no one touches miss Nixxi's laundry.
And teasing her over her love of soft, and clean, and silk, and bows is considered "high risk" behavior.
Despite the ribbons and satins and silks, the young half elf works as hard -- harder! -- than the rest.
And the retelling of this story over cold rum and roasts of meat had more than one barmaid nodding approvingly.
"Frills", they would say with a glower, "do naught make the weak of body,"
"You try dealing with yer thug-headed louts on y'feet all day and tell me iffin a bath ain' proper-like!"
The creature (troll? goblin? both?) hissed his evil hiss and tossed the colorful clothing about,
Unfortunately unaware of the runestaff whistling through the air as it's wielder leapt forward.
Bright red lace gave way bright red blood as the dying troll-goblin fell with a whet "thunk".
The spells followed, and when mana grew low, an axe was found. Very large. Very sharp.
Now, it would be completely unfair and very untrue to say the half elf took on the pirates and lived.
The kraken, after all, did most of the work.
Perhaps miss Nixxi is somehow favored by the Stormlord, Charl. Perhaps it was fate.
Perhaps the pirates somehow angered the Lord of the Seas. Perhaps it was luck.
Summoned via luck or fate or favor or anger, the result was the same.
Four mast-sized tentacles rose up from the water and thrashed out, swatting and grasping.
And crushing. And killing. And ripping. And tearing. And pulling down into the depths.
And snapping bodies. And bleeding corpses. The calm blue suddenly became violent red.
"She is a witch!" the now-beseiged besiegers shouted at the tops of their soon-to-be visible lungs,
"Fall back and retreat, g'us bloody out of 'ere!" but the kraken would not be sated so easily.
Nixxi didn't bother correcting the subtle but important difference between "witch" and "priest" this time.
She was a mite busy using the moment's respite of terror to cut free her comrades, living and dead.
Both pirate and cargo ships were fouled by the kraken's breath of violence and hunger in the ensuing seconds.
Only one crew made it out alive. To a man, every one of the invaders were killed and eaten.
A sea-logged week later, alive and starving and thirsty beyond compare, the survivors somehow made it to shore.
To the tavern they crawled and creeped and drug each other, retelling the story.
The hungry were fed, the thirsty given drink, the battered healed, and the dead that beached themselves ashore were resurrected.
The story was told in bits. "There was pirates, there was!" "Under-frilly-bits!" "A kraken!" "The witch saved us!"
A firm, calloused hand clapped Nixxi on the shoulder. With this gesture, the rest of the tavern silenced.
"Y'bloody saved us. Charl saved us, I reckon. Don't know how, don't much care, witch."
"Pries--" Nixxi began sternly but quieted upon seeing the clear annoyance in his expression.
"Sailed under Niima fer m'entire life on that tub. Been scared o'you wreckin' it since y'got first boarded."
"Now y'bloody will see here captain, it is hardly my fault!" Nixxi began to retort, anger dissolving elven pretense.
Fire and peppered Seareach-dockgirl attitude flared in her chest as she slowly stood.
"Don't care how y'did it. Don't care iffin y'didn't do it an' just luck," the captain grunted.
"Need a new ship," he continued, glaring at Nixxi affectionately. "Boys want it t'be named after you."
Six Months Later[]
It would be six months before they sailed again. Six. Long. Dry. Months. On land. Torture. The new ship, however, was gorgeous. Clean, fresh and new, with a... peculiar... masthead.
"The bust is a wee too large, no?" Nixxi murmured to the captain, who was brimming with pride over his "Charl protected" ship.
"Ayup," the captain agreed with her, his tone a pleasant enough growl. "Jus' like I like 'em. S'perfect."
Nixxi blushed before the overly indulged, statuesque statue. She reached up and tickled the cheek and nose.
She walked casually to the rear of the ship to read the name, a jaunty flip in her step.
She read aloud slowly, "Sea Witch's Solace... Wait. Wait, wait! 'Sea Witch's Solace'?!"
"Ayup," the dockhand happily agreed as he began the work of unmooring the small vessel. "Protected b'witch o'Charl, they say."
"I'm naught a witch! I'm a priestess!"
"Whut s'th' difference?" the dockhand stared at her blankly.