Wetfoot Jack

I met Wetfoot Jack for the first time in a raggedy harbour pub in Tillwater Piers, a port town on the belt-island Undine.

It was rainy outside, one of those grey autumn days that bring storm into the bay and onto the isles, cold hail and harsh winds.

I just had a little stop in Tillwater Piers, my wagon I had left in a barn near the market square and I wanted to use the terrible weather as an excuse to snoop around the city's taverns and inns, before taking the ferry to Loreley next morning.

I got stuck in the "Anchorbreaker" – a grungy pub in the middle of the port district, between wharves and shipping companies. They promised good Grog – right what I needed on such a nasty day.

And so I sat in said harbour pub right at the bar, had a banter with the barkeeper about the trustworth of mercenaries during the times of winterly raids in the north, when an old man entered the "Anchorbreaker".

The creaking door made a few heads pop up already, but everyone turned toward the entrance when heavy steps, followed by the awkward bickering and splatter of spilled water resounded in the room.

There stood a geriatric haggard, surely not less than eighty years of age, in a most possibly once green fishercoat, old and patchy now, his hands pulled up into the sleeves to shield them from the nasty rain and hail outside. His feet stuck deep in chunky, ancient leather boots. His whole appearance was, although familiar, strangely curious. He did not look much different from any other fisherman in Tillwater Piers, but he had something heavily awry about him, drawing everyone's attention toward him. Some smirked and chuckled upon recognizing him, others frowned their brows and followed him with their eyes until the old boy grumblingly started trudging toward the bar.

Then I saw it.

With every step the old dotard took toward me – or rather toward the free stool next to me, a little bit of water spilled from his boots and splattered onto the ground, as if his shoes were filled to the brim with water.

Then and now a spoonful of wet sand, a strand of seaweed or even a tiny shell would splat from his boots onto the ancient planks of the tavern.

As the old man sat down next to me at the bar, dismissively leaving a seat of space between us, I could inspect his shoes further – the leathern kickers were crusted by sand and seaweed, dripping wet and to top it all off, over and over covered and overgrown in barnacles and tiny sea snails and shells. Those boots looked like they had been rotting on the ground of the harbour basin for fifty years before the old loon had fished them out and put them on right away.

Even now that he had taken seat and ordered a grog as well – he seemed to be a man of taste – still, with the slightest movement, water spilled from his boots – saltwater. Most definitely, seawater, smelling of salt, sand and wind, splat from his boots onto the ground beneath his stool.

"Grog, heh? Ye sure? Do you even taste any of that, old boy?" the barkeeper joked.

"Eeeh don't put me up. Warm saltwater with a shot is better than cold water without anything." the old man growled between shut teeth under his bushy beard.

Fascinated, I watched the grumpy dotard, who was either used to being stared at, or did not realize it at all anymore, at least he did not mind me looking.

The keeper put a cup of grog in front of him – the old man took a sip, then grumbled disappointedly, while slowly a little puddle of water gathered beneath his boots on the planks.

Discontented, the old haggard took a few more sips from the cup, then swaying it around, picking in it with a spoon, apparently lost in thought.

Eager to learn, I turned toward the barkeeper, who smirkingly noticed my nosiness.