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Also appropriate adventure music and sound effects are needed. I could perhaps be helpful in that if you like. 2012-01-09 06:49:51 GMT 2012-02-09 06:00:00 (GMT -05:00) Eastern Time (US & Canada) Yes (click here to learn more about ) Closed 0 0 4 direct invitation(s) have been sent by the voice seeker resulting in 0 audition(s) and/or proposal(s) so far. Voice123 SmartCast is seeking 20 auditions and/or proposals for this project (approx.) Invitations sent by SmartCast have resulted in 0 audition(s) and/or proposal(s) so far.
• Add music AND
• Add special effects
Two Parts of a Map, Three Endings
The first thing you notice is the smell. It hangs like an almost visible miasma in the sluggish air of Darkwater – or, at least it does here, in the meanest, rottenest and generally most lethal part of Darkwater, the only town on Booty Island and in its turn the meanest, rottenest and generally most lethal part of the Toxic Archipelago. Darkwater is probably the only town in the whole wide world of Sagaria where murder isn't a criminal offense: in the local terminology it's called "justifiable homicide." The men here will slit your throat for free and send a selection of your bodily organs to your loved ones for no more than the cost of the postage stamp.
The women are worse.
And as for the kids? Don't even ask.
The smell that hangs around the tavern called The Moldy Claw, here in the dankest, dismalest, most corpse-littered part of Darkwater, is made up of varying parts of stale ale, rigor mortis, unwashed undergarments, rotting teeth, dead fish, deader rats, salty dogs, stagnant pools of various excretions and, not least, the outhouse behind The Moldy Claw, a structure of awesome venerability and the source of a stench so profound that, on those rare occasions when sunlight manages to penetrate the oily clouds above Darkwater, the outhouse's very brickwork seems to shimmer yellowly. No one in a generation has dared – not even the cutthroats who frequent The Moldy Claw, who've been known to face down sea monsters and sorcerers – make use of the outhouse of their own volition. Or, if they have, none have returned to tell the tale. Skullface Jack Moriarty, the cruelest pirate who ever sailed the seas of Sagaria, used to have his worst enemies thrown in through its age-smirched doorway, and some say that, on those cold nights when the stars seem to be made of crystal, you can still hear their screams.
Tonight, for once, no one had smashed the streetlight that stands on the corner outside The Moldy Claw. Through a layer of dead insects trapped inside the glass, it cast its pale illumination over a plain of broken barrels and bottles, making them appear to smolder with a sickly yellow glow – a glow the same color as the smell, in fact.
Inside the tavern, if you'd been foolhardy enough to go there, the noise would have hit you like a punch on the nose – that is, if the real punch on the nose hadn't reached you first. Most of the clientele who could still stand up were gathered in the far corner eagerly cheering on either Thick-Skulled Skully or Stoneface Muldoon, who were displaying all the tactical intricacies and strategic subtleties possible within a head-banging contest. Spectators and contestants alike were pouring rum down their throats at frequent intervals and by the flagonful, almost as if it were water – although it wasn't, in fact, quite as brown as the local water. Some had profitable looting to celebrate. Others were merely drowning their sorrows. All had reached the state where you couldn't tell the difference.
At this time of night, only the lowest and foulest of pirates roamed the streets. Anyone else who had any common sense, or at least a trace of survival instinct, stayed well clear of the harbor area – or, preferably, the entire town. Best of all was to avoid Booty Island altogether. No one in their right mind would stand in the dock area, just on the edge of the nervous pool of light The Moldy Claw's streetlamp cast, trying to tempt the rare passerby with bits of assorted booty, and yet two individuals were doing exactly this. They weren't exactly planning to sell the stuff, you understand: just lure people with trinkets of silver and precious stones, then slit their throats, take all their money, grab their rings and other jewelry, and throw their corpses into the deep, dark, obliterating waters of the harbor. Then they'd offer the newly acquired gewgaws to the next person . . . and so on. It was what folk with a firmer grip on the technicalities of commerce might have called stock rotation.
The taller of the two was dressed in a long coat whose high collar reached all the way up to the greasy bandanna wrapped around what was presumably a forehead. All you could see of him was the occasional flash of an earring, or the glint of jingling jewelry as he proffered it to any late-arriving cutthroat who was headed for the tavern. The other peddler, slightly shorter, eschewed a shorter coat so that people could better see the cutlass hanging at his side and the dirk stuck in his belt. It wasn't hard to guess that he, though the smaller, was the Muscle to his companion's Brains.
"Brains" being a strictly relative term, of course.
"Heard that he's back on the island, eh?" said Brains.
"Aye, that he is," replied Muscle, batting his arms together as if to keep out the chill of the night, even though the air of Darkwater was always too laden with fermenting chemicals to cool down much.
"Arrived this morning, so I heard. Came here on the lookout for something. Something or someone. The good news is he ain't killed no one yet. They say he has to kill a man every day or he can't digest his supper right."
"The day ain't over yet," observed Brains. "Not quite."
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