Note: This post refers to events that took place in the middle of the Aftermath Campaign, when Ragnar joined the party.
“You’re probably wondering why I’m showing up to work late, covered in vomit, still a little drunk, and with a black eye. Not exactly appropriate behaviour for a junior clerk, I know. But I can explain. So I was at the Hunter’s Inn last night, finishing up some of the minor contract details for some of my clients. I’d spent the evening furiously taking notes, only drinking water, I hasten to add. After the clients left, I was finishing off the paper work, when this mountain of a man sits down at the table. “You use words good. Write this for me.” Massive he was, stout belly, ragged beard, booming voice. My mind was reeling, but he had a strange charm to him. I think that’s what caused me to automatically start writing what he said. At some point, my sense returned, and I mumbled something about fees and agreements, to which he promptly threw a bag of gold at me. I got his name, Ragnar, he made a mark on the form so it’s all official. Here, please, take the gold. So I wrote what he said. Amazing accounts of him and his crew plundering up and down the west coast of the Theocracy. Danger and brushes with death on the high seas, blood split in battle and enjoying the excesses earned in victory. He even told me all the sordid details of his many affairs. So many, and such decadent variety. Suffice to say it was not something I’d been well prepared for from all my contract work and drafting of legal briefs. I tried to tell him as much, but after we’d had a drink (he did insist, despite my protests), we seemed to have formed an odd bond. I don’t rightly understand it myself. But yes, by the time I had to describe in detail the fifth disembowelling, I felt the beer was necessary. He spoke about how he had been sailing with his father and siblings for a while. The elder reaver had no problem in finding his illegitimate offspring at various ports along that coast. Ragnar seemed to worship his father, who by all accounts seems a nasty sort. But the worst traits may not have been passed down.
So we get to the end of his chronicles, where he had joined a new crew to see his own fortune and destiny, only to be shipwrecked in a storm. He got picked up by Felix Rex and was left off here in Diyun. With just a little gold left, he didn’t seem to have many options, but he was in good spirit regardless. He was sure something would come along. So I finished the epic tale, wondering if it was going to be used to impress a possible employer, or sold to a bard, or used for his last will. But he grabs the quill from my hand, makes a crude X at the bottom, tells me "Sign it:
Keep well Mother,
My mind reeled at imagining a woman reading such violent and explicit tales from their own flesh and blood. Still, not for us to judge our clients. I was about to ask the more mundane detail of how exactly we were supposed to get the missive to his no-doubt-just-as-impressive mother, but at that time the bar brawl had erupted and he was fighting in a table. No, not on, in. He jumped down from the first floor balcony and was basically wearing a table. He was up against Theocrats, most of them fell quickly. One did manage to stand his ground, clocked him a nice one on the chin. But it didn’t leave much of a mark on him. In fact, he seemed to be even more full of energy and vitality when the watch came to take everyone away than he was before the fight began. As you can see, the same can’t be said for myself. Hiding under the table didn’t keep me as safe as I hoped. And of course I had to follow him to the Watch House to get is mother’s address, where I picked up these various … ejecta from the nights drunks. Still, all things considered, spending an evening with a reaver could have gone a lot worse."