46 - In the Tavern

Read 15 more chapters on Patreon

https://Patreon.com/rez540

--------------

The tavern reeked of stale rum and sweat, the thick air pressing down like an omen. Shadows flickered across the dimly lit walls, cast by the sputtering lanterns swaying overhead. Amidst the cacophony of drunken laughter and whispered conspiracies, one man sat unmoved.

Wes.

The tavern owner had seen all manner of scoundrels pass through his doors—mercenaries, smugglers, bounty hunters—but something about this one unsettled him. Wes had the look of someone who belonged nowhere yet commanded presence everywhere. His posture was relaxed, his expression unreadable, yet there was an aura of quiet danger surrounding him.

The owner swallowed hard.

"What do you want to ask, guest?" His voice, laced with a newfound respect, barely concealed the tremor in his hands as he slid a glass of rum across the bar.

Wes lifted the drink but didn't take a sip. Instead, his cold gaze locked onto the owner. "Jack Sparrow."

The name dropped like an anchor into the sea of voices. A hush spread through the room, rippling outward as if a stone had struck still waters. A pirate at the far table turned his head sharply, eyes widening in recognition. Another leaned in, whispering excitedly to his companion.

"Jack Sparrow? He's looking for the captain of the Black Pearl," a voice echoed, sharp with intrigue.

The atmosphere in the tavern shifted. Jack Sparrow. To these men, he was legend and folly entwined—a rogue whose name was spoken in admiration and exasperation alike. They murmured about his escapades, his wit, his luck that never seemed to run dry.

Wes watched them, his lips curling into a knowing smirk. "Seems that guy is quite the star."

The owner hesitated. He could sense the weight of expectation in Wes's gaze—like a predator waiting for its prey to break. Before he could speak, two figures pushed through the crowd, their steps uneven, their movements dripping with intoxicated bravado.

One of them, face flushed with drink, lifted a flintlock pistol and pressed the barrel lazily against Wes's temple. "What's a fine gentleman like you doing askin' about Sparrow?"

The second pirate—a wiry man with a twisted grin—snatched the untouched rum from Wes's grip. "Too good for our drink, are ya?" He laughed, tipping the glass back before slamming it onto the counter. "You think you're better than us?"

"My name is Bucky," the drunkard declared, chest puffed with misplaced pride. "And I sailed aboard the Black Pearl."

A collective gasp swept through the room. The noise surged, men whispering, some stepping closer with eager expressions. To claim association with the Black Pearl was to claim a piece of legend itself.

Bucky reveled in the attention, his grin stretching wide. "That's right! I was there, among the fiercest crew on the seven seas!" His words slurred slightly, but his arrogance remained steady. "Now, why don't you be a good lad and hand over those gold coins? I might let you leave with your head still attached."

The stench of rum on his breath was suffocating.

Wes barely acknowledged him. He exhaled softly, eyes half-lidded with disinterest. With a flick of his wrist, he made a simple motion through the air—graceful, effortless.

The effect was instant.

The pirate with the flintlock was hurled backwards as if struck by an invisible force. He crashed into a cluster of tables, sending mugs, plates, and wooden chairs clattering in all directions. The tavern fell silent.

Bucky froze, eyes wide. "Wh-What the hell was that?!"

A whisper slithered through the crowd. "A wizard..."

The word sent a ripple of unease through the tavern. Pirates were superstitious by nature. Wizards were not men to be trifled with. They were forces of chaos, of curses and power beyond mortal understanding. Several men stepped back, their expressions wary, hands tightening around their weapons as if any blade or bullet could match the supernatural.

Bucky's body stiffened unnaturally. His limbs locked, his breath hitched, panic creeping into his wide, bloodshot eyes. He struggled, his fingers twitching, his legs refusing to obey his will.

Petrified.

Wes took a step forward, the wooden floor creaking beneath his weight. Bucky's lips parted, but no sound came out. He trembled, cold sweat sliding down his temples.

Then came the final horror.

Wes's eyes—dark and infinite—bore into his own. A pull, like the tide dragging a drowning man under, seized Bucky's mind. His memories unraveled, laid bare before Wes like pages of an open book.

Everything. Every moment on the Black Pearl. Every whispered secret. Every fear, every lie, every scrap of knowledge. Wes sifted through it all.

But it was useless.

Bucky had left the ship long ago. He knew nothing of Jack Sparrow's whereabouts.

Wes exhaled sharply, his disappointment evident. "Waste of time."

The tension in the room was suffocating. All eyes darted between Wes and the frozen form of Bucky, their minds teetering between horror and awe.

Wes turned his attention back to the tavern owner. "I've already been disappointed once. Don't make me regret asking you."

The owner felt his legs weaken. He had once thought himself a man who feared nothing. He had been wrong. Fear coiled in his gut, sinking its claws deep. He forced a smile—thin, desperate.

"O-Of course not, sir. I wouldn't dare."

Sweat dripped down his brow as he recounted everything he knew. The rumors. The whispers. The stories passed from sailor to sailor. Jack Sparrow had vanished after defeating Davy Jones. He had faded from the seas like a ghost, but none believed he was gone for good. Somewhere out there, he was planning, scheming.

"Hector Barbossa lost his leg to Blackbeard. He's joined the British now, hunting pirates with the Royal Navy." The owner's voice shook, the need to please outweighing the desire to withhold information. "That's all I know. I swear it."

Wes considered this.

"The Fountain of Youth, then?" he murmured to himself, the puzzle pieces clicking into place.

Reaching into his coat, he pulled out a gold coin and flicked it toward the owner. It landed with a dull clink on the wooden counter.

"For your troubles. And for the furniture."

The tavern owner caught the coin, gripping it tightly as if it might vanish. He barely dared to breathe as Wes turned, stepping away from the bar. The pirates parted before him like the sea before a storm, not one daring to meet his gaze.

The owner glanced at the coin in his palm. A prize, yet a curse. He could almost hear his own thoughts whispering—spend it fast, pass the misfortune to another.

Muttering a quiet prayer, he bent down, grasped the petrified Bucky by the collar, and dragged him toward the door. "Best let the streets decide his fate."

With a grunt, he tossed the cursed man onto the cobbled road outside. The night wind howled past, carrying the scent of salt and secrets.

And far off, beyond the horizon, the sea churned, as if awaiting the return of a legend.

(Give me good reviews please)