A seafaring man without a boat is like a sword without a sheath, thought Sterkvark: naked, rusty and easily blunted. To make matters worse, like every jack ashore his thoughts had turned to love.
But with neither loot nor liquor nor a ship at his command he was at a considerable disadvantage when it came to wooing and wenching.
Not that he didn't try, but the women at the pirate encampment in Howling Fjord were either too drunk to notice him or laughed in his face.
"See here, shorty!" laughed a comely cutthroat, "If you've any chance with me you must defeat the very best of our crew."
"Best fighters?" shot back Sterkvark, for hell hath no fury like a pirate spurned, "I'll have their guts for garters!"
"No!" laughed the wicked wench dismissively; "our best dancers!"
Sterkvark made a valiant effort, but had to contend with a severe racial handicap; there is nothing sexy about a dancing dwarf...
Finally, our redfaced ruffian had enough. "To the devil with wenches!" he snarled, and with a wheeling high kick laid two contestants low. While this was not enough for him to win the covetted Northrend Idol award, it was nonethess more satisfaction than he was likely to get from Olga the Serving Wench...
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