Sweet-Toothed Savages

Episode 1

Carn-EVIL Candy Clipper

The Ringleader: Captain Rumguts Radke

Red Crest. Largest, and only, port city of Dunegrave, the Land of Sand and Sorrow. It is dusk, and the city squats sullenly on the delta at the mouth of the river formed by the confluence of the tributaries, Glory and Dominion.

The frequently blooming algae has turned the water in Delirium Bay a deep crimson. A dozen ships of varied size and design rode the sanguine waterline of the docks. The piers were, to a one, thoroughly ramshackle, for while Red Crest is a relatively new settlement, with many ships coming and going on a regular basis, things have a way of corrupting and eroding quicker than they should. A smart captain stays at Red Crest only as long as he has to.

In an alley behind the ignominiously named bayside pub, The Cock and Thistle, a small puff of amethyst-colored smoke appears and quickly dissipates to reveal a young man with the look of someone who has just been smacked across the face with a wet marmot.

He adjusts his glasses and pats himself down to make sure all his pieces are where they should be. He swings the strap of his videotape recorder over his head so the camera rests atop the satchel bulging at his hip.

“What the f—?” He is interrupted by the back door of the pub banging open and a figure stumbling out into the alley.

Steve, “Fudgey Steve” to his mates on the message board, steps back from the horrid figure before him. It sways from side to side, attempting to maintain balance with a bottle of a foul green color clutched in one grey, desiccated hand, and a tumbler of the same liquid smoking in the other.

“There ye be!” he belched through his long, black (and immaculately kept) beard. “I thought I might’ve dropped ye over the Wyldelands, and that would have been unfortunate.”

The figure wore an outfit of blue and gold, open at the chest to reveal little more inside than a pale spine yellowed as if with great age, a darkness that could swallow souls, and green sparkles that mimicked the toxic color of the liquid in the bottle in his hand. The tricorn hat on his head was worn backwards with the flat side facing forward, a skull and crossbones emblazoned on the front. An ornate, yet empty sheath for a sword lay hanging from his belt.

“What is happening? Where are we?” Steve blurted, digging into his jeans pocket for his inhaler. If he wasn’t seeing people in old-timey garb wandering down the muddy street, and coming in and out of the dilapidated buildings, Steve would have thought the town to be an abandoned ghost town.

He was half right.

The weaving figure gestured around him with an expansive sweep, sloshing half of his drink into the mud. “We, my dear mutton-head, are in the grand city of Red Crest, and as for what is happening?”

He took a long pull off the bottle, seemingly forgetting there was a glass in the other hand. “Well, did ye not say ye were an admirer of the Sweet-Toothed Savages and their vessel, The Carn-EVIL Candy Clipper? ‘Number belch number one fan,’ if ol’ Squiffy recalls.”

“Squiffy?” Steve asked of the strange man.

“Squiffy Planks,” the figure said, drawing out each syllable dramatically. “‘Squiffy’ to some, ‘Daddy’ to others, and ‘Not In the Face’ to quite a few.”

“But, back to your original queries, me old flummoxed lummox…” Squiffy takes a quick drink from his glass, seeming to remember it exists. “Per your unspoken wish, I have brought ye forth to Skalmarune so ye can observe the creatures ye seem to feel so fondly towards.” Squiffy gestured grandly towards the red waters of Delirium Bay.

Sitting at the furthest pier, the other ships giving half a dozen empty piers of distance, sat what could only be the Carn-EVIL. Steve knew it instantly from his complete set of Sweet-Toothed Savages Trading Cards.

A medium-sized clipper, the appearance of the Carn-EVIL was enough to make one want to vomit or cry for your mommy. Perhaps both. She had a narrower hull than many of the other ships docked at Red Crest. The craftsmanship was hard to discern due to the fact that she was covered in sticky brown and red bits that dripped from the rails to the waterline. Steve watched as one particularly large, meaty chunk slid into the water with a thick slosh he could hear from where he stood.

The limp black sails hanging from the masts were the only things that didn’t look like they needed repair. They were numerous, more than Steve could count. The mainsail bore a white, silver, and crimson design of a candy cane crossed with a meat cleaver dripping red from the edge. Attached to the prow was a figure that Steve couldn’t quite make out, but he could see that it had a mass of tentacles where a mouth should be. A shiver ran up his spine as he realized he didn’t recall a figurehead like that from his collections.

As Steve and Squiffy watched, a sound began to emanate from the ship. It was a piping sound that carried across the waves and struck Steve in his chest like the cry of a mother mourning her dead child.

In response to the horrid noise, the deck of the Carn-EVIL came alive with activity. Figures appeared, akin to specters from beyond the veil of death, and began shuffling around the ship preparing it for departure. Steve couldn’t quite make out exactly what they were doing, but it clearly involved a fair amount of twisted cackling.

A bulky figure came to the head of the gangway. With a booming laugh, the figure bellowed, “Time to set sail, ye worthless dogs!”

Squiffy placed a hand on Steve’s shoulder to get his attention, and then nodded with a wink towards the dock.

A small ketch appeared, rising from the bloody water, its two masts and three sails dripping water that disappeared before it hit the deck.

Steve blinked and turned to Squiffy. “I don’t know how to sail!” he whined.

“Don’t you worry your empty little head, me old fop-doodle. The ‘Shirley’ sails herself. I’ve told her to follow behind the Carn-EVIL wherever the winds blow her.”

Steve’s excitement at getting to observe his heroes prevented him from uttering little more than a grunt as he checked his satchel for extra tapes before sprinting towards the Shirley.

“ONE YEAR!” Squiffy called out after Steve. “MEET ME HERE IN ONE YEAR IF YE BE WANTIN’ TO GO HOME!”

Squiffy’s eyes, completely white and lacking irises, were incapable of tears, but he swiped his cheek regardless and gave a sniff. “Glad to be of help.” He tossed the last of his drink, tumbler and all, into his mouth and crunched down on the glass before giving a final belch.

With a pat to his empty sheath, Squiffy disappeared in a puff of amethyst smoke.