It had been a long, hot, and bright day out on the ocean. On several occasions, Garrick had found himself drenched with cool seawater only for it to boil and evaporate from his skin in seconds, leaving behind a crusty and sticky layer of salt. The evening was quickly advancing now, and the sun was finally beginning to lay itself to rest below the horizon. Brilliant shades of orange and rose red lashed the western sky, followed closely by softer hues of purple and blue. Soon, to the east, the speckled black cloak of night was coming, awaiting the sun's final winking dip behind the walls and buildings of Dennar, Florida.
Garrick stepped off his father's fishing vessel. What was once a small vessel, now no longer fit traditional classifications of smaller ships, as it had been repaired and upgraded repeatedly over generations. His bare feet hit the dock and he stretched his clenched fists far above his head and bowed his back in an exaggerated effort to relieve his weary muscles. Dirty and smelling of sweat, fish slime, and salt, he probably looked every bit like the weary sailor he was, but he would at least fit in at his favorite hangout.
"Go on, Garr," his father offered, waving a dismissive hand. Tall and lanky, he wasn't an old thing yet, but thankfully young enough to still handle unloading a small fortune in fish from his own boat; he simply brought along his youngest son to keep him company and haul in the nets when they were tangled with a shark. He'd pushed his other children into far more profitable pursuits long ago, and once Garrick was a little older, would do the same to him.
Garrick glanced at his wizened face, his wiry chin, and failing hair, now going grey with age and sun, and he smiled with great affection and waved in return.
"Thanks, Da'. I'll be at the Tanner Shoal," he responded before his father could once more protest his 'drinking habit' and went on his way. His father rolled his eyes and let out a disgruntled sigh but smiled and waved at his son's fading form.
Garrick's hair was still deep in its color; where once it had been chocolate, it was now bleached auburn with bright copper hues. Furthermore, his eyes hadn't succumbed to sun blindness or taken on the wild intensity of his father's gaze, but this might be attributed to his mother's influence, with her lovely red hair and soft, kind green eyes. Unlike his siblings, he had inherited very few of his father's features and the entirety of his mother's, much to her delight and his dismay.
Upon his leaving, he had grabbed his leather boots from the boat and pulled them on as he hobbled along the dock. Though he'd start each morning off wearing his boots on the ship, the formidable swells of crashing waves would fill them to the brim with seawater, ultimately leading to their removal.
He deftly ducked and dodged around bustling sailors loading and unloading a large ship that had come to port. Its hull was blackened – though possibly just a dark brown – and though the furled sails concealed their true colors, they appeared crimson, though they could have easily been ochre or copper. A name was inlaid in what appeared to be heavily tarnished gold lettering across her bow, Red- something, which stirred a sense of unease in him.
As he passed the first gangplank, his attention was seized by a captivating young woman, with hair that resembled blood in the water. It was pulled back and sat high on her head, and would have cascaded to her knees, but fluttered unnaturally as she moved her head. He thought it odd the way that it shifted and shimmered fluidly, like water rather than hair. The uncanny way that it remained unaffected by the late evening breeze was particularly unusual.
Clad in leathers and a soft cotton shirt that fell open at her shoulders, she carried a parchment board and wielded one of those new, and rather fancy, fountain pens, though it may as well have been a weapon rather than a writing instrument. He imagined her attire would only be a considerable distraction on a ship, with the way it complemented voluptuous features.
The words 'beautiful' and 'well-built' breezed through his mind just before she began issuing orders. Her voice transformed into a thunderclap amidst ringing church bells, taking on all the dangerous qualities of a brewing storm. The way these men bowed under her terrifying authority made her that much more intimidating. With little time to waste, Garrick ripped his gaze away and hurried along, pinning his eyes down on the sun-bleached dock boards beneath his shuffling feet.
With a ship that big, who would bother landing in teeny tiny Dennar? Especially this side of the Atlantic, with far more enticing and prosperous destinations in every direction nearby. Few dared to venture this way for trade unless they were desperate…or worse, pirates. With the Free States of America being so near to the north and the smattering of islands that constituted the Commercial Federation of the Caribbean to the south, encounters with pirates were often ones of looting and pillaging, though rumors suggested the Imperial Navy usually sorted things out fairly quickly. If they could deign to be anywhere nearby, that is. Even the Navy hesitated to spend much time in the Gulf due to its predominantly hostile nature.
As Garrick stepped off the docks and onto the cobblestone pavement, he couldn't help but notice the peculiar absence of guards or even militiamen in town. To his surprise, he found the registration station, a solid oak counter bolted into the dock used by the harbormaster to manage and record events at the dock, noticeably devoid of officers. Typically, they guarded the registration station alongside the harbormaster. Even their dear old harbormaster was not at his post, despite the man's assertions that he'd never leave it until the day he died. Garrick's heart chilled at the thought of crazy old Gill finally leaving them. He shivered a little and rubbed his arms vigorously, though not for the breeze on his neck.