Mac McCaw

This tale begins on a nameless little island in the tropics. So small was it, that maps to this day have never deemed it worth mentioning. A little lush sliver of land floating in the south seas. Home to a couple of small tribes of fishermen, assorted creatures, and flora. The land and its inhabitants are colorful and lively. Fed by the boundless sun and the bounty of the sea the small island flourished, but as in all stories that would not last. The world is full of curious creatures and peoples, exploring conquering, and questing evermore into the uncharted. So it was by chance the little nameless island had its first visitors in many centuries.

The island was surrounded by several reefs and rocky outcroppings, making it perilous for any large ship to navigate. However, this made it ideal for escaping them, and a group of smugglers, avoiding a contingent on navy vessels took refuge one day. Their boats were smaller and unhampered by the shallow water and rocks. They descended upon the island intending to hide and wait out the navy searching for them.

Days past and they eventually encountered the natives of the land. The smugglers were cruel hardened creatures of the sea, and diplomacy to them came from the business end of a blade. They slaughtered the villagers, pillaged their food stores, and took refuge in their former homes. There they stayed for weeks, on edge until they could no longer see any traces of the imperial navy. The group was led by an especially calloused bastard name Crailgard. The Dragonborn captain who led the scruffy collective had a penchant for violence, drink and plunder. A man born for the profession. He dressed in a long coat, and could never be seen without his hat. He dreamed of being a pirate lord and dressed the part as much as he could.

The image in his mind of what a pirate captain should be drudged straight from the tales of every bandit port and sea shanty one could imagine.

While waiting on the island for the navy to piss off on their merry way, and after making sport of the locals he had an abundance of time left to explore the island. It was beautiful but more than that the birds there were like those from the stories. Parrots! Macaws to be more precise. If he was going to be a proper pirate lord he needed a parrot, and the colors of these were unlike any he has seen before. So he set out a challenge to the crews and reward whoever could bring him what he desired. As time went by there was no luck, as they proved incredibly difficult to capture, having wings and all that. Until one day a group of the ruffians stumbled upon a nest of several of what they thought were parrot eggs and brought them back to the captain. Not being of the naturally nurturing type or for that matter particularly bright they struggled to find a method to hatch the eggs. Eventually, after some care and a series of borderline comical attempts of imitating mother bird behavior one finally hatched, and low and behold there it was a baby McCaw or so Crailgard thought at the time. Its wings were a little odd looking but he’s no bird scholar so what does he know.

Being a horribly unimaginative man he named it Mac. He treated Mac more like an accessory than a living thing. It was part of his ensemble and took him one step closer to his dream. He soon found out that parrots are miserable creatures, that mimic whatever they hear. In his case, it meant it was a mean spirited parrot constantly talking shit about the crew and whatever else displeased Crailgard. It was a mini-version of himself that inflated his ever-swelling narcissism, he loved it.

But Mac was always just that. It, Mac was a thing to him. Like his hat, Mac never left his side for very long and was always within his sight. Even the crew had to admit the Mac was entertaining and helped pass the long hours at sea even if it was basically spouting and an endless stream of profanity at them.

As time passed Crailgard noticed some peculiarities with Mac. Compared to what he had envisioned, something definitely seemed off. He wasn’t an expert on birds but he was still fairly confident parrots should have wings. Macs wings didn’t develop so much into wings as into talons, attached to humanoid arms and he grew. He also grew in mass and size more than a parrot to the point it became quite obvious that Mac was indeed not a parrot. He had feathers, vivid as the tropics, a beak, all the marking of a McCaw but was some form of a humanoid bird creature. He didn’t have wings, and couldn’t fly. Crailgard had heard of this type of creature before and vaguely recalled seeing something similar years back at some backwater port.

This of course would not do, a pirate lord had parrots not whatever the hell Mac was. This was an insult and embarrassing, so characteristically he flew into a rage and proceeded to murder Mac in a needlessly excessive manner.

Chasing Mac around the ship firing crossbow bolts at him from a small hand crossbow he kept on him with reckless disdain for anything that was caught in the way. The rest of the crew soon joined in on the hunt, some eager for the chance to put a splinter into the smack-talking sidekick of their bastard of a captain.

Mac dipped and dodged time and time again barely avoiding the bolts. The fact the captain and most of the crew were donkey bucking drunk didn’t help their aim but definitely helped poor Mac. As he was cornered and Crailgard fired he jumped from side to side and started cussing as he’d learned to do. The others joined in, and after a short period, there was enough firing at him to keep him constantly moving even while the others reloaded. So this little parrot man danced around in a circle cussing while they all fired and then burst out laughing. Mac didn’t understand much but he knew that before when they laughed it was a good thing.

Crailgard usually stern mirthless expression cracking as he too burst into tears with laughter.

Well, he may not be a parrot but he’d be damned if Mac wasn’t at very least entertaining. Crailgard put down the crossbow and laughed hard. Then he commanded the rest of the crew to do the same and in the morning, teach it how to swab the deck, and do the shit work of a ship. Hell, it’s worth keeping it around for the laughs. He couldn’t remember the last time he had honestly laughed that hard. I’ll get a proper parrot sometime.

They continued their life of crime on the high seas. Mac and Crailgard never returned to the way things were and nobody really put any effort into teaching Mac how to properly speak as they just thought him a stupid beast, but at least it danced and could mop. They would spend long hours tormenting him for entertainment when the voyages grew dull, and Mac learned the best way to avoid torment was to dance and mop and sometimes combine the two.

This would have been the sum of Macs life amongst the sea scum if it were not for the love of drink and gambling that finds home in the hearts of those that ply the waves. During a visit, to unload some recently liberated goods the captain and best mate found themselves in a gambling den deep, into their cups. They brought Mac along to dance for entertainment and act as a busboy while they gambled.

The night dragged on and the liquor flowed, the group had a couple of unusual participants. The drinks went down and the stakes went up, gold flowed from hand to hand until Crailgard came up short, but he felt he had this hand. He needed collateral to play though. He smirked, and he bet them Mac. The rest of the night was a little hazy but in the morning the ship left port with one fewer passenger.

The monk opened her eyes, the suns rays assaulting pupils as they retreated from its torment. The ringing in her head akin to the toll of the dead. She awoke to wonder what tabaxi had snuck in and used her mouth as a commode without her knowledge as she reached around timidly for the water gourd she kept for occasions such as this. Even by her standards, this was a hell of a hangover. Her hands grasped around the gourd as she lifted it, eyes opening fully as she realized she was taking it from an outstretched hand.

There before her squatted a scrawny parrot child handing her the water gourd and staring intently. She instinctively popped the cork and consumed the contents without even active thought. The water rushing down her throat accompanied by a stream of random images from the night before as she struggled to kickstart her mind again. She took a combat stance swaying gently fist raised as she sized up the bird.

It was at this moment she realized her shirt was on inside out and on backward, she was missing one shoe and there were several torn and ruined playing cards stuck to her clothes at various points by grime much and what smelled to be low-grade grog.

“Who are you and why are you here! You want a piece of me?”.

The birdman who seemed to get suddenly nervous started dancing back and forth looking utterly confused all the time holding out the water gourd.

The dance seemed familiar and suddenly the random images started to coalesce and take on a narrative.

“Ohh no.no no no! Noooo! Ohh shit, what did it do last night? Ohh no, please god don’t tell me.”

The bird opened his mouth and out came Crailgards voice.

“I’m in! I’ll bet you the dancing bird!”

It opened its mouth again and her own voice came out.

“You're on! I’ll take your gold and the little liquor bird! No show them card you lippy lizard!”.

She slumped down to her knees dumbfounded.

“Aww hell…”.

The bird pointed to himself and said.

“Mac!" Then let out a piercing whistle the likes of which split into her hungover ears like a thundercrack.

“FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU…..” She replied the later part drowned out by the shrill tune of Mac’s exuberant whistling.

The two were discovered by the other monks shortly after, and they were taken to the leaders as the situation was discussed. The head of the organization decided on a fitting punishment that they believed would also benefit the child. They were monks but not without a sense of humor, and an abundance of sensability.

Mac would become the pupil of the drunk monk who won him in the gambling house. A punitive sentence, he was now her responsibility. She would raise him and teach him to be a productive member of society in order to redeem her own shameful actions. She was absolutely rueful of this, she hated people and kids. Part of the reason she had joined the monastery was to avoid the cities. She, however, frequented them due to her love of drink and the general lack thereof at the monastery, she followed the path of the drunken master and felt getting into character was important or at least that is what she would say when questioned why she was absolutely shit faced at nine bells. To her credit, she was an excellent fighter but had no desire to be a teacher or a parent and having both forcibly thrust upon her did nothing to improve her disposition to that. She was not the talkative type most of the time barely saying more than a word or two, the only time she would lose her tongue was when absolutely wasted.

Not buzzed, not tipsy, not drunk. Wasted. As a result, she never managed to teach Mac to speak or thought to for that matter. She never actually told Mac her name but Mac heard some people speak of her as “Ginn” so he assumed that was her name and would use it from that moment on.

Ginn didn’t hate Mac as much as she expected, he was sort of endearing actually and pretty comical as he did everything he was told to an exaggerated degree. Mac had no social filter or sense of embarrassment. Regardless of this she wanted to spend as little time teaching as possible and work on her own “studies”. Now they said she had to teach him but never mentioned how, so she thought up a method that would work for her and be entertaining at least. She didn’t really need to teach him all that theory and spiritualism she just needed to look like she was. So she taught him basic martial arts and thought it would be hilarious to tell him all of the various movements and techniques had a specific name. Everything had a name, even the most mundane movement. Also, it was important to say the names out loud as you did them! As that gave them power.

This was, of course, false and she made up the names purely to entertain herself when teaching the techniques. Each would be based on some vague metaphor for the action depending on her mood that day. Usually involving some sort of animal and often nonsensical.

The theory was nonsense, but Macs ability to learn and mimic actions was truly a skill to behold and in a startlingly short amount of time became quite a component fighter. He would hang around and watch her as she spared and trained by herself and subsequently drained whatever vile grain alcohol she could muster into her guts before continuing to spar.

The second half of the unorthodox training regime was a truly brilliant part. Ginn didn’t want to have to take care of this kid and it was a constant reminder to her fellow monks when he was around that she had brought shame to them. So she wanted to have him gone as much as possible. Now since he’s becoming a monk she told him that part of the training was secret missions away from the monastery and that he needed to go into the city and accomplish all sort of secret missions. He was to report back to her only when absolutely necessary.

Mac spent most of his time, in the mean streets of the city as a result. Living the life of an urchin only ever returning to report his mission status to Ginn as instructed. He grew up tough, and quickly in the dirty streets. He had already learned violence, cruelty, martial arts, and dance the rest of what one needs to survive on the street came quite easily to him. So the cycle continued for many years. The streets taught him lessons the monastery and Ginn would not, while the monastery unintentionally made him into an increasingly efficient fighting machine. He became more and more like his master as he aged emulating her more and more but building on his own experiences. Unfortunately, he also fell into the clutches of drink and found therein a second home.

Eventually, he became somewhat of an urban legend. People finding themselves alone at night would often hear something like “Squirrel takes nuts!” screamed from the darkness before being knocked out cold by a flying jump kick. Only to awaken several hours later with little more than their pants left.

One year when he returned to the monastery to report mission status, Ginn was gone. The other monks informed Mac that she had disappeared without warning some time ago. When he asked about his mission status, and who would give him new orders they were all puzzled.

There was no mission regiment or anything along those lines. Soon they determined what she had done to poor Mac all these years. They offered condolences and apologized profusely for the shame she had brought and their own part in not noticing. Mac did not blame them, there were many students there and she and Mac were a pair of pariahs, he blamed Ginn. The one person he thought he could trust and was somewhat nice to him betrayed and lied to him since he was a child.

To say he was enraged does not do justice to the seething level of anger that brewed inside. Mac stopped and recounted his life events in a new light. As was his way he fell deep into his cups to ponder. The monastery offered him her old room and compensation as much as they could for the suffering she had caused. During the week of meditation that looked more like an epic bender than a soul-searching retreat Mac found clarity of purpose. He had a plan. He would find and confront those that had abandoned him so cruelly. Then do what he needed to do to get closure. First things first he needed to get sober if he was going to focus on the task ahead.

The monks found this an agreeable path and one of redemption for all involved so they funded his journey and send word to other monasteries of the faith to assist if they could. With that, he collected his meager belongings and headed out.

Sobriety lasted all of 2 days before he fell into old habits. He hasn’t been sober a single day since. He stalks the land looking for signs of his old master Ginn and the asshole captain Craiglard. However, that was several years of alcohol abuse, head wounds, and hard living ago.

Mac barely remembers what they look like, or any real details for that matter. Just that they have very punchable faces and knows he will recognize them when he finds them...probably.

He wanders now a mercenary for hire, drifting from one den on iniquity to another thinking that eventually they will cross paths again and he can deliver a righteous thrashing, that or just drink himself to death in the process. It’s a win either way as far as he’s concerned.

So there you have it. The story of Mac and why he’s the way he is. A twice orphaned monk, with a serious substance abuse problem.

Nobody taught him to speak properly, barely says a word unless making an outrageous attack statement, has a wide random assortment of phrases from various wandering encounters picked up along the way and mimic'd with astonishing accuracy but could not hold up a conversation to save his life.

Learned that if people are laughing they are less likely to try and hurt you so does everything in an outrageous comical manner, and dances whenever he doesn’t understand a social situation to try and make people laugh. Plus a twirl changes into a roundhouse so easily...just sayin.

This is the rummored beginnings of Mac McMcaw’s journey across the lands. Well, more of a vague coordinated series of stumbles between tragedies but that’s still a journey of sorts.

Should your paths cross don’t be afraid, just remember one essential rule and you’ll be fine.

Squawk shit, get hit.