The stench of cheap alcohol tickled Andrew's nostrils as he slowly strolled past the shabby tables where lone drunkards and other shady creatures rested their elbows on. The giggling, scantily clad women at the counter weren't any less drunk than the men they entwined around and they had just the same cheap impression on him like everything else in the bar.
It was dark and dull and Andrew arrived at the counter, hoping to kill time by finding something drinkable. The reason he came here was a mystery to him, it almost seemed as if it had been someone else who made him go to this miserable place. Miserable as in the people mostly, but at least they didn't pose a threat to him. Luckily, his reputation with the Hessians wasn't as bad as he had feared it would be.
Andrew didn't know why he kept thinking there was someone in here who might be able to help him.
*a heavy man in an armor, who's sitting on a bar chair, surrounded by two modestly dressed women, with a horned helm and a gray beard, points his finger in Andrew's direction. His eyes look absolutely drunk, but there is some kind of a flame burning in them. He is Olaf Fromm, the infamous, fearsome and occult captain of the Hvannadalshnukur, a Red Hessian battleship with the same characteristics*
You little man! Bah, and Helga gave herself for... for... this! Come here, you weakling! Nobody *hick*... Nobody crosses Olaf Fromm!
*Confused, but confident that his soberness will give him an advantage, at least at running, over Olaf, Andrew approaches*
Helga... *looks upwards, not at the ceiling, but at his memories* Helga was my first... *hick* My first woman. She still wasn't a woman, nor I was a man. Those were good times, the times when we were still young and unripe, when our little innocent minds still didn't get the complexity of this CURSED BLOODY life *hick*, nor cared about it.
*he pauses and breaths in and out*
You may take Helga. She's now old and wrinkled like my shirt which has nobody to wash it! I need a woman! One who would sit there and wash, not just complain about my salary... I need a bigger salary, as well.
*he pauses a bit, trying to remember where did he stop*
Ah! Lad, never trust a woman! *hick* Women - you can't live with them, but you can't live without *hick* them!
*Olaf grabs a woman's breast, kneading it a bit, and then pushes the slut away, making himself lose balance and fall. The other whore runs away*
Argharghmrph hmph! *hick* Give me a hand, would you? Ah, thank you! I feel like ready for another mug of mead. Bartender, give me two of that your mead, that which would shake mighty Odin himself!
*the bartender pours the mead into the mugs until it starts spilling out, and puts them onto the table. Olaf drinks his at once*
Another one, bartender! Ah, thank you! Now, young lad, I wanted to tell you something important. Forget Helga, I told you you may take her. This is much more important than a wrinkled old slut. *hick*
Odin is losing his believers. That means a handful of us must offer him more sacrifice. He lusts for more blood. But, those FAT, ANEMIC RHEINLAND PIGS eat too much luxury food, smoke too much tobacco and drink too much beer! *hick* Their fat is increasing, while they are becoming anemic, forcing me to catch more of them!
*short pause*
I want you to intercept every and any convoy in Rheinland, carry..*hick* Carrying anything what can be unhealthy for them! I know it isn't logical to make your enemy healthier, but Odin just won't receive some musty swamps instead of fresh blood! Destroy those goods, blow the transports up if you can. I'm not very rich, but I can pay you a million, or two. Just make them healthier.
Also, the Sairs are dirtier than ever before. You don't have to, but I'd like you to deliver them some soap, if you can. I won't pay you, it is your choice weather you'll do it, or not. I just don't like the smell when I slaughter their piteous bodies. *hick* The contract would also include protecting my little battleship if I request.
*Olaf rises his full mug like he wants to knock it with Andrew's to cheer, spilling a bit of mead out*
During Olaf's performance, Andrew had uttered nothing but a bit of murmuring since the man hadn't really given him an opportunity to speak anyway. Now it was his turn, he presumed. And surprisingly enough, Andrew was confronted with a job offer fairly viable in his eyes. Ambushing silly Rheinlanders, slay them, assume their possessions, run, rinse and repeat. An activity just like he sought. Why care about the goofy religious beliefs of this comical figure? If it's a sacrifice for some stupid imaginary god, yeah, why not. Didn't mean Andrew himself would renounce on luxury food, beer and tobacco, no way, that's what made life live-worthy. Which brought him back to another aspect which made life more enjoyable: women. Although Olaf had rejected the topic already, he was interested in it. It appeared to be a place where such ware could be acquired easily and, most of all, cheaply, after all. Yes, of course good women delivered greater amounts of joy and you didn't get bored of them so quickly, but, as Andrew had learnt over the past years, it wasn't always about quality or sensitizing one's attitude to long-term convenient matters. No, sometimes he just needed it quick and uncomplicated. So, he started to speak in an uncomplicated manner:
"A battleship you have, you say.. well this would be a suitable base of operation for my raids, because, frankly, you have one of the best Roc bomber pilots of all Sirius before you, and I will bring death and destruction to upright Rheinland citizens if that's what you'll pay me for... and Sairs are always the icing on the cake, if you know what I mean. They fit for every season, for every time of the day, are always a pleasure to stumble upon. Other than that..."
He lowered his voice a little and got closer to Olaf's face. Rotten mouth odour entered Andrew's nostrils.
"I see you're on quite favourable terms with women in this place. Maybe you could err.. grant me access to some of them every once in a while.. hehe, of course I'd reciprocate for that service."
Hm. Well. As for the first suggestion, I can agree. I don't... *hick* I don't bloody care about how good you fly, I just need those goods far from the pigs. As for the Sairs - do whatever you want. It is only certain that they're hopeless, infidels.
*Impatient, he drinks a bit of his mead*
However, you also mentioned my women. MY women. I already gave you Helga. More women would me... *hick* would mean a greater discount. I can give you one of my spares per minimum one... Two... Err... Five... *hick* Oh. Let an old man think. Hm. Errr... One hundred and... and ten thousand would be enough. No less. So, how much do you need to do that work?
*Impatient to finally drink that mead, Olaf rises his mug to knock it with Andrew's*
Olaf's glance was spiritless, his eyes were never fully open and one eyelid looked as if it was half-open all the time, no matter if he had his eyes supposedly closed or wide-open. The opulent facial hair looked scruffy and glowed greasily in the dim light of the bar. He often had his mouth half-open, even when not speaking. Arguably no gentleman pirate, Andrew thought. Concerns rose within him while eyeing Olaf up. Working together with such an ever-drunk, lardy geezer with a strong leaning towards religious nonsense and a generally bad hygiene? An idea Andrew sure had trouble familiarizing himself with. In spite of all this, he had a strange sort of intuition that this was a man he could and should rely on for this next chapter in his life. And it was the same kind of inward suggestion Andrew used to experience before every major shift in the past. That feeling was the only thing which actually prevented him from simply getting the hell out of this rotten hole.
"Err."
Andrew suffered from an unjustified feeling of embarrassment when Olaf was trumpeting around about his 'women'.
"You know, variety is what we all want, right? Maybe four a month would be nice, and- you know what, we can actually talk about this later, okay? Let's rather come to business topics."
Long time after, Andrew still wondered why he had ask such an obviously pointless question:
"Why does your battleship bear such an extraordinary name, by the way? I can hardly pronounce it.. Hvannadalshnukur.. whatever..."
*he drinks that mead finally and looks at his hand, trying to count four fingers.*
FOUR A MONTH!? FOUR women per ONE mon... Wait.
*counts the fingers again*
Ah. Four. Hm. Four per one month...
*Olaf looks at his thoughts, or at least looks like that*
Ah. Not as bad as I thought. Alright. You will have four. When you destroy the first load of goods, I will give you one. You will get another one for the second load, and the remaining... Hm... The remaining two at the end of the month.
Bartender, another one!
*Olaf takes the mug of mead and drinks it all not much later*
Now, what did you also ask me... *hick* Ah! The name! Hvannanana...
*shakes his head*
Hvannadalshnukur *hick* is the the place where mighty Odin's blacksmi... *stutters* blacksmiths forged him the deadliest weapons! *hick* My battleship is his weapon, which he uses by controlling my faithful sou *hick* soul...
*Olaf stutters and falls down, spilling some of his unbearably smelly saliva*
Andrew was leaning against the table, his hand folded and with his left eyebrow raised while watching Olaf stuttering and drooling like a child. As he fell over and spilled both beverage and saliva of interesting colour all over scruffy clothes, ground and furniture, Andrew began to wonder how a drunkard of this kind actually managed to obtain the command of a battleship. He drew the conclusion that every Hessian commanding a warship needed to be similar to Olaf, who relied on roaring manliness, raw barbarism and coarse charisma rather than professionalism, sublimity and sophistication. Andrew generally disliked these people, he didn't get along with brutes. Andrew tried to be a gentleman wherever possible and suitable. Mostly in his way of conversing with others, and especially with the poor souls he was about to take away their most precious possessions of. He admitted that it had not always been like that. Being forced to operate with bad company ruined both character and manners, that is, with mindless killers or bloodthirsty lunatics. Olaf resembled a bloodthirsty lunatic.. with a serious alcohol issue. Andrew ordered another drink and intended to interrogate Olaf about his religious beliefs.. more for amusement than actual information.
"You all right there? Your Odin must have vested you with a specially robust liver..."
*Olaf falls asleep and starts snoring. As he's breathing out, his intoxicated saliva is sprinkling out of his mouth. Out of some corner, a rough, middle aged man appears. His face is ruddy and looks healthy, but he has unhealthy teeth, he's flap-eared, and he looks drunk. He is Patrick MacArthur, the first officer of the Hvannadalshnukur. He was watching Olaf all the time, waiting until he falls of utter intoxication*
Ah, ye drunkard, me drunken sailor Olaf!
*Patrick tries to lift Olaf, but fails*
You there, help a bit, don't just stand there 'nd stare! Bah, ol' drunkard! He could n'ver balance his lust f'r ale with his c'pacity! Bloody drunken bugger... Let's carry him to his room.
*Smiles, showing his rotten teeth, colored with a disgusting combination of black and yellow. Only their stench can sting a man's nostrils much harder than any other black and yellow colored thing*
Boi the way, I'm Patrick MacArthur! Ye can call me Paddy!
The longer Andrew was staring at Olaf, the less he believed him to be human. He gradually reminded him of some silly vampire-style monster in the shape of a man of some pitiful horror movie he'd seen when he was young. And then came Arthur. Not only from his name, but also from his language, the looks and the gestures he used, Andrew concluded that he couldn't be a real Rheinlander. Molly is all he came to think of in that moment. With a quick nod he emptied his glass, put the glass on the table, bent over and clutched Olaf's shoulders, which were, to Andrew's dismay, of immense breadth and size. As Andrew had worked as a mechanic for quite a while in his early twenties, his hands were fairly hardened and beefy and he hardly refrained from dirtying them. Olaf though was in no way a light weight. Andrew clearly struggled with this task. While attempting to keep up with Patrick's pace he noticed that he was much more trained, it almost looked as though it was routine for him to drag his boss out of the bar at night.
"Well, Paddy, you ain't from Rheinland, are ya?
Andrew found himself breathing heavily which made him feel embarrassed. He feared it would make him look weak. A pulsating ache cropped up in the surroundings of his spine.
![[Image: 396AUfe.png]](https://i.imgur.com/396AUfe.png)