The ship’s cabin rocked and lurched with the motion of the waves, yet the captain inside sat upon his desk and scratched endlessly at parchment letters and updating ledger books. Time was valuable, after all, even if he now had an eternity of it. Ever meticulous about tracking the details of his many inventories of goods and their coming and going and fond of arithmetic and accounting, he was consumed by the mental toil. His work was fazed neither by any seasickness nor by the cabin’s near complete blackness that was broken only by a few tiny cracks of feeble moonlight that wriggled through gaps between the planks. His eyes no longer cared much for the light; a good thing to be sure, for light itself was now a scarcer thing in these waters so near to Leria.

A brief flash followed by a whip-crack of thunder punctuated the midnight hour. A storm was coming, but it was still a ways off, and he was not long from his destination. They would make it to safety yet before the brunt of that storm struck. But he was getting ahead of himself -- it was about time for his daily ritual.

The smuggler set aside his quill and papers for the moment, rose from his chair with steady feet on the rocking floor, straightened his silk robes, and made his way out of the cabin and onto the deck. His ship was a sleek galley, its sides painted a dull gray to blend in with the dark waves at night and not reflect the moonlight. The sails were dark too, but they were furled up now as the ship made its way directly into the northerly wind. There was a rhythmic splashing of oars as the ghouls below deck rowed at double time in perfect unison, without the slightest hint of fatigue nor need for shanty or drumbeat to keep them in time. No living rowers could have ever competed, be they hardened galley slaves whipped into shape or free oarsmen who made a profession out of the work.

Besides the incessant sounds of the oars, the sea, and the distant storm, there was utter silence. Deckhands dressed in flamboyant yellow, green, and orange stood statuesque along the sides of the deck, gripping the railing or the rigging. When there was not work that needed to be done, they always maintained a silent vigil over the horizon, keeping watch for any ships of the living. Fortunately the oncoming storm had driven away any blockading fleets that might have dared to prowl so close to the Meridions, sending them back to calmer waters and to their safeharbors across the White Straits. For that reason the Merchant was in a sense [i]grateful[/i] for the poor weather; there were always silver linings.

As he came to the edge of the deck beside one of the ghouls in his Motley Crew, the undead sailor turned its head to silently face its master. Its visage was a ghastly sight indeed, crusted with brine and with a gaping wound where one eye had been gouged out by a brave seagull, and yet regular dousings of aqua vitae had staved off rotting for the most part. Faustus saw his ghouls as any other sort of equipment, and so he spent what it took to keep them well maintained. In this case it had the secondary effect of making the whole ship reek of potent spirits, though the cloying odor of liquor was doubtless a familiar and friendly companion to many a living sailor as well.

Faustus untied the turban wrapped around his head and then tore off the wax mask that had been underneath to hide and protect the rest of his face, handing both over to the expectant ghoul beside him. The cool sea-spray brushed against his now exposed face, embracing him like a long-lost lover. He grimaced at the water’s touch upon his skin and at the near-forgotten memories of life that it evoked, then leaned over the rail, opened his mouth, and [i]retched.[/i] A cascade of vile fluid darker than the night poured out into the sea, though of course there was no bile or bits of food to be seen in the revolting mixture. He retched a second time, with less fluid coming out. Then again, sputtering out only a few drops, and again, until there was no more. At no point did he ever gag; with undeath had come complete and unnatural control over all the muscles, even those in the stomach and throat, while most of his sense of taste and his ‘natural’ reflexes had vanished.

Having purged those spent fluids, he skulked back into his cabin with the sailor holding his turban and mask close on his heels, but also followed by three or four more deckhands. Faustus reached into pouches and pockets hidden in the folds of his extravagant robe to procure a collection of vials filled with strange salves and tinctures, laying them all out on the desk. He used a handkerchief to wipe off the bit of seaspray that had clung to his face, and then one of the several sailors acting as his attendant stepped forward in the cramped room to almost hover over its master. Faustus removed his gloves and handed them to that one, then began removing his robes to toss to another. Then came free the clothes under those robes, and the suit under that, and so on, the revenant shedding clothes like a moulting insect until he was left near naked in nothing but his undergarments. His body was abhorrent, but not in the manner of most undead. There was not a scrap of bone nor spot of rot to be seen; instead, his appearance was merely...bloated. He looked near-immaculate with no old wounds or telltale signs of meatworkers’ hands anywhere to be seen. The flesh was soft and supple like that of a baby, and paler than the yellow moon. Unnaturally pale -- whiter than even milk, if that were possible.

His aides held all of his clothes all with ginger hands, trying not to taint the lavish cloth too much with their scent or rot. He began with his routine, going through the array of embalming fluids, disinfectants, moisturizers, and other, stranger poultices and tonics. He drank many, gargled a few, put a few drops of some clear solution into his eyes, merely wet his lips with dabs of others, rubbed some into the skin all across his body. One more thing was left -- a vial reeking of metal, filled with a carmine broth. He downed the contents of the whole thing, licking his anemic lips, and then was finished. He set about wiping off the bits of remaining poultice that hadn’t been rubbed all the way into his skin, and then he slowly clothed himself once again with the assistance of the ghouls. When it was finished the sailors filed out and closed the door, leaving their master to his devices in the cabin once more. He put the assortment of vials back into their places, then resumed his work.

[hr]

An hour or two later, there was a light rapping of bony knuckles upon his cabin door. They’d nearly arrived. Quickly packing up the papers and ledgers that were the only personal effects he’d cared to bring besides the clothes upon his back, Faustus carried out an armful of those things as he left the cabin to oversee the ghouls’ careful maneuvering of the galley onto its dock. A small assembly had waited like statues upon the deck in expectancy of their master’s return. They stirred to life as the ship finally bumped against the dock and the Motley Crew slammed down the gangplank, laid anchor, and tied down the ship.

Among the waiting ghouls upon the dock were many guards clad in well-oiled steel plate that gleamed with each flash of ever-closer lightning. In life they’d all been fighter-types of some sort, and even now in death they retained their skill. Their bodies were mostly intact, whatever wounds that had killed them having been stitched shut and carefully repaired by skilled meatworkers. Faustus had enough wealth to have his choosing of ghouls, and he only paid for the best. As with the sailors, he used abundant aqua vitae to keep their muscles and flesh from decaying too badly. Sharpened blades and pikes filled their hands as always, for the ever-ready guardsmen had no need for sheathes. 

With Eagoth’s coquest of Leria had come the so-called [i]Pax Mortis[/i], with infighting forbidden and commerce allowed to go more unimpeded than ever before in history. That had bred an air of apathy bordering arrogance in the minds of many a revenant who thought himself untouchable, who no longer feared for the security of himself or his many things. Faustus was an exception to this; he had always kept a healthy paranoia and skepticism. It was better to be safe than sorry, for the occasional squabble between greedy, quarrelsome, or frankly just opportunistic rivals could lead to goods being requisitioned and loyal ghouls going...missing. Besides, it wasn’t as though these guards demanded wages, so he kept a great many of them and he kept such guards stationed at all of his many staches and warehouses across Leria. The paltry fee that was required for their aqua vitae and maintenance was well worth the security and peace of mind that they brought to him, and it was always good to have eyes across the lands ready to watch for any intrigue, and sharp blades standing by should they ever be needed.

But not all of these lost souls assembled on the dock before him were armed guards; there were also several dozen ghouls that were unarmed and much more harrowing in appearance, wearing little more than mere tattered rags if anything upon their backs. Many had crude prosthetics grafted to their bodies or were outright missing entire limbs -- these were cheap labor, mere porters. By virtue of their being so expendable, Faustus didn’t care much for their appearance or make efforts for their preservation and long-term maintenance.

Faustus was the first to stalk off the ship, his bulk making surprisingly light footsteps as he paced down the gangplank with his ledger books clutched tightly between his arm and breast, his papers neatly folded and tucked into his pockets. As soon as he cleared the gangplank, the porters sprang into motion and moved to shamble up onto the ship. The Motley Crew opened the hatch that led below deck and retreated down into the darkness, leaving the porters to follow them down and haul out all the ship’s cargo.

A half dozen of his waiting guardsmen broke off of their formation without being told, leading the way down the dock for their master at a quick trot. At the end of the pier was an old but sturdy warehouse, windows thoroughly boarded up and  a heavy lock upon the double doors that were the only way inside. One of the guards, never so much as loosening the grip on his drawn blade, used a free left hand to produce a rusted key and unlock the doors. The combined strength of four of the surprisingly powerful ghouls was enough to quickly throw the doors wide open, and after pushing their way in they stood to the side. Faustus advanced into the darkness within, followed a few minutes later by the dozens of ghouls carrying heavy crates and filled chests, every container being slowly moved and always supported by no less than a dozen hands and shoulders lest one of the mindless ghouls bearing the burden suddenly have a leg give out or a muscle fail. It was inefficient perhaps, but Faustus still had it done that way out of an abundance of caution. The cargo could not be dropped or made to risk damage, after all; for its value was a hundredfold that of the ghouls which carried it.

Despite its frequent use, the darkened warehouse was filled with decaying floorboards and cobwebs, with a floor littered with dirt tracked in from outside and with dead insects. Faustus was not as meticulous about cleanliness as were the mad zealots that dwelled in not-so-distant Luminara. His mind was the pragmatic sort and he cared about function above appearances, so despite the grime, the warehouse was kept well stocked and he had stockpiles of many different goods within, all well sorted and placed into sections of their own: there was everything from caskets filled with jewels, bullion, and coinage stamped with the marks a hundred realms, both Lerian and foreign, fallen and still-standing, to great crates filled to the brim with clay amphorae and glass bottles of aqua vitae and undistilled wines and beers. And oof course he had all sorts of other strange things between wealth and liquor, like weaponry and tools. The Broker had at least a hand to some extent in nearly every trade in Leria, even that of the ghoul laborers themselves. In one entire corner of the empty warehouse there stood a hundred animated corpses, packed shoulder to shoulder, arranged by states of decay that varied from being worse than that of the rotting porters to nearly as fine as the guards outside. The stockpile of ghouls all silently stood awaiting their eventual orders should Faustus find a purpose of his own for them, or else for their new master should he trade them away to another revenant.

As there was little profit to be made in the petty cultivation of grain or harvesting of iron, or even in the refining of those goods that came afterward, he chose to use his time to greater effect and bought those things in bulk when a good deal was presented and only peddled them for higher prices as a side-task whilst he was working on more important things and facilitating the movement of more valuable goods. None of these sorts of goods or petty forms of commerce were more lucrative for Faustus than the trade of information that had earned him the moniker ‘Whisperer’, or his other specialty, the acquisition of rare and exotic things specially requested by various revenants major to be imported from abroad, smuggled past the troublesome blockades. And right now, it just so happened that he had many special orders and shipments due to Necron, far to the north. Not trusting his ghouls to travel nearly so long a ways unsupervised, and not wanting to unnecessarily risk the naval blockades and the storms to sail his way so much further up the coast, he immediately got to work organizing a land caravan that he would personally lead. It was good to see the countryside on occasion, after all, and he could do some petty trading along the way just for the fun of it.