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Vague memories of the night before come as flashes of light and sound, disrupting whatever peace you have found in the dark recesses of your unconsciousness. There was ringing laughter of a wild night, the heavy aroma of stew, ale, and perfume. The sound of woman’s cry for help, being beset upon in dark alleys, drinking too much to remember the night before, and recognizing a certain familiarity in the tales of a press-gang drugging.
Everything begins to come back into focus, the creak of old wooden floors. There are sounds of many footfalls, maybe folks running along the docks, and the periodic wash of salt air as the wind blows it over the port. One thing doesn’t seem to feel right, however, as the gentle sway feels like it belongs to that of a swinging hammock, and not the boards on which you lay. Realization slowly creeps in, that these things are not coming from tavern floors, or Port Peril alleyways. These are the accoutrements of a vessel at sea.
The sound of heavy boots nears, and the dark is pierced suddenly by the bright glow of a lantern. The light digs into the space behind your eyes, and introduces a piercing headache. The dull throb makes the swaying feel as if the drink is still in control of all your motor skills. As your eyes adjust, you are fully woken by a loud angry crack rending the stale air. The noise brings you to a sense of understanding, as you realize you sit in the back of a ship’s hold, and the sound is the tell-tale sign of the kind of attention you don’t want from a boatswain.
Finally adjusting to the lantern in the darkness, you see before you a group of men, six rough looking sailors armed with saps, but the one in the lead looks the most threatening. He is of a decent height, with a medium, greasy, black beard. He wears a long black jacket, and swirls a wicked looking whip in his right hand. His face appears to be a grimace of pain, held in by yellowed teeth, but upon further inspection is clearly an unsettling smile. He cracks the whip once again for effect. “Still abed with the sun over the yardarm? On your feet, ye filthy swabs! Get up on deck and report for duty before Cap’n Harrigan flays your flesh into sausage skins and has Fishguts fry ye up for breakfast!” His grimace of a smile grows as the crowd of thugs behind him chuckle at the idea of the punishment offered.
With the threat before you, the instinctual grab for the means to defend yourself finds you empty handed. You are fully aware of your vulnerability, no armor, no weapons; they even took your coin. Only one of you has anything beyond the clothes on your back, which turns out to be a simple healer’s satchel, and it doesn’t look like it would be as much help in a fight as it would be after one.
Bringing you back to the situation as it stands, the Bosun cracks his whip again, “Well, what d’ye be gawking at? Get to movin’ or ye be feelin’ the taste o’ the lash long before the Bloody Hour!”
In that case i'm still dressed as a boy - will post as such until its revealed.
Ciera woke with a start at the rough sound of the bearded man's words, he clutched his head to stop the stinging headache that stabbed through his temples and woozily and unsteadily half-fell to the floor from the raised hammock. Blearily he looked around taking in the unmistakable view of a ship's hold - A ship that was, judging from the rolling deck, at sea.
He looked around desperately for Ally, but his friend didn't seem to be amongst the small group who were all crawling from their hammocks looking just as head-sore as himself. At the second crack of the horrible man's whip Ciera moved towards the doorway, trying to adjust to the roll of the deck below his feet.
Balsooma sits up with a drawn-out groan, holding a heavy hand before his eyes to block the lantern's cruel glare. The pounding in his head is worse than hammer on anvil, but a broad grin gradually forms on his face as he surveys the surroundings: beneath him the rolling hull of a ship, before him a crew of surly-looking sailors. Tavern-keep did tell me Besmara's destiny lay at the bottom of a bottle.
He makes an attempt at standing, before notching up his estimate: Must've been the bottom of the second bottle.
Turning his head - with a series of cracks that would make a gale-blown tree proud - he surveys his fellow new-bloods: two men, and a boy. Dim memories of the night before swim in a groggy, rum-stinking sea. Wasn't that the lad half-curled like a flexed bow? Ah, well, Besmara's briny bosom cares not about years, merely skills.
He levers himself to his feet, hands pressed to the ceiling to steady himself, and neck bent to avoid clouting his head on a beam. "I'm up, I'm up. Would rather the taste of food, not lashes, for breakfast." He turns to offer his hand to those still prone.
Clutching the sides of his head, Kelly struggles to gain both his balance, and his sight, both of which seem to have been knocked clear of his skull by the combination of the booze and sap of...well it seems like last night. Still struggling to lift the heavy burden of his eyelids the scrawny young man makes a well practiced grab toward a pouch on his belt, only to find it conspicuously absent.
In the groggy haze of marginal consciousness Kelly babbles, "Not the best job offer I've received...definitely not the worst either."
The reality of the situation rushes in quickly as the danger of his predicament slaps his harshly across the face. If he doesn't want it followed by that whip across his back Kelly decides he best comply with the instructions bellowed at him. As he finishes standing, and shuffling in the general direction of what should be heading toward deck, he finally realizes that there are three others in the same situation as him, his instincts take over at that point as he begins to take stock of injuries and maladies, another practiced and instinctual reach shows him that his healers kit seems to have been left intact, a quick nudge tells him that it seems to not have been tampered with and seems fully stocked.
Now on his feet and fully aware of what seems to be happening, Kelly begins to shamble onward, being that he was never overly respectful, Kelly decides not to reply with any sort of honorific to the man with the whip, but also not being a total fool, he gives him a sharp nod of acknowledgement as he moves in the requested direction, keeping his expression as neutral as he can manage.
Holgur comes to his senses groggily. This itself is unusual and makes it plain to him that all is not right. Press-ganged! I was press-ganged!He thinks to himself as the man with the whip made his speech. Holgur did not need to listen to all the details since he had heard it before from the other vantage point. Only two things stuck out in his mind: that the sun was already over the yardarm and the name of the captain. One told him that he had been unconscious for a great while. The second was the name Harrigan. Did he know that name?
Knowledge(Local)regarding Captain Harrigan
1d20 + 4 ⇒ (18) + 4 = 22
Holgur sat a moment to time the rolling of the ship in order to use it to help him rise. It would not do to fall in front of the welcome gang. No, the first impression that he made upon them would be crucial. The last thing he wanted to do was strike them as a green land-lubber. They received the worst treatment on a ship for having a lack of skill and because that was pirate custom.
He looked at the others and took stock of them. A big fellow, a young lad and another who looked learned in something. They were all in the tavern last night weren't they? This is so embarassing. To be taken unawares like a fish in a net. Best go out and meet the crew, then. Hopefully none of them are old chums from the 'Maw
With that thought, Holgur makes his way out onto the deck.
The bosun almost seems disappointed that he didn't get a chance to whip any upstarts, but he ushers the group onward anyways. As you walk the length of the ship you are afforded the opportunity to take into account your surroundings, at least as best you can by lantern light with a mob of brutes at your back. Following the bosun, you can see that he keeps the whip held firmly, swishing it back and forth, ready to strike at the first sign of dissention.
First he leads you up the length of the ship's hold, draped heavily with hammocks every few feet. This is obviously the 'crew quarters'. Halfway across you see a hatch in the floor, most likely leading to the bilge. As you pass the base of the mainmast, you near a set of stairs leading up, nestled in the space before the base of the formast.
Heading up the stairs, the spaces above are a little roomier. The ceiling sits roughly fifteen feet high, with sunlight streaming in through the grates of the hatches above. There are various crates and barrels of cargo, and seperate rooms at the stern. Among them is a set of stairs going up, but you are led away from instead of toward them. As you round the stairs you came up, you notice that there is a second set of stairs just to the fore of the foremast. Nearing them there is a rattle of chain, and movement catches your eye.
A large brute of a man, shaved bare and covered with splatters of tar, each one bearing a tuft of feathers, stands as the group nears. He looks on questioningly, with tilted head, but doesn't move, most-likely due to the short chains holding him close to the foremast. Suddenly he speaks, "HAHA, Crunchy!" and shoves two small finger sized crabs in his mouth and chews them whole. The brutes laugh, but not with him, and he backs away when the bosun fixes him a glare.
Climbing the second set of stairs, the ones before the foremast, you come up into a smaller room, hung with only a few hammocks, and fewer pallets on the floor. There are a couple small trunks here, and four doors leading toward the stern, one of which, the second from the right, is open to the outside where the sun streams in brightly.
If you made the perception,
Will post a little more later, when I'm not getting wife aggro for being on the computer. Feel free to talk amongst yourselves.
1d20 + 5 ⇒ (12) + 5 = 17
1d20 ⇒ 16
1d20 + 4 ⇒ (1) + 4 = 5
When the light hits his eyes Holgur squints and holds his hand up to shield them. He wishes it were night so that he could get an idea of where they are by looking at the stars. Then he looks about at the crew members. He is especially interested in seeing if any of them are not tanned yet. Any pale ones are typically new to the ship and usually came by way of press-gang. They would not be loyal to the crew and might even be potential recruits in against the others. Holgur also seeks out anyone showing signs of recent wounds on their limbs. They are often crew picked up from defeated ships and impressed into service. A fresh grudge often goes along with a fresh cut. These too would be possible allies. And they would have sailing skills as well.
We must be a full day's sail from shore at this point. There is no point trying to make a fuss about being here now. Best to wait for one of the others to draw the bosun's attention first. I want to take his measure based on how he respondsHolgur thinks to himself.
1d20 + 4 ⇒ (18) + 4 = 22
1d20 + 6 ⇒ (5) + 6 = 11
1d20 + 8 ⇒ (3) + 8 = 11
Hanging his head and smacking his tongue as if to get rid of a nasty taste, Kelly shakes his head in a deprecating manner and unconsciously starts fidgeting with his healer’s kit.
Int: 1d20 - 1 ⇒ (10) - 1 = 9
Perception: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (3) + 7 = 10
Balsooma steps out into the sun's glare, rubbing haze from his eyes and trying to identify the strange taste on his tongue. Perhaps there was a third bottle. A strange one at that.
The grin broadens on his face as the brisk sea breeze helps clear his head. I'm on a ship, and not passenger but crew. Though, what sort of crew? He looks around, trying to gauge the nature of the boat and her crew. The bosun seems keen enough on his whip, but is that just for us land-lubbers? At this point, Balsooma notices the missing weight of the sword from his back. Its absence makes him uncomfortable. I hope no-one's fool enough that anything comes to blows.
Int: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (16) + 2 = 18
Perc: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (17) + 3 = 20
Ciera steps into the light of the day and the bright light invades her eyes like a thousand needles. Groaning quietly he shields his eyes, letting them adjust to the brightness. Moving to his alloted place and wiping the horrid taste from his tounge, he glanced at his companions (3 men) and around at the rough-looking crew.
Looking around at the crew, are there any females or are all of them men?
Balsooma and Ciera, don't forget that knowledge checks up to DC 10 can be made by anyone untrained.
You exit out of the smaller room, onto the deck of a decent-sized sailing ship, roughly a hundred feet by thirty feet. Having exited a room on the bow, you face the stern of the ship and can see the coast as nothing more than an ochre lump of a stain on the horizon. The ship sports three large masts, a fore and mizzen, with the mainmast standing a good sixty feet from the deck. Hanging from the mizzenmast, overhead of the poop deck, is a an iron cage with a man inside. It is unclear whether he still lives, but the mangy parrot that stands atop it may. On the poop deck itself stand two men, one on either side of the wheel.
One of the men, a broad, muscular Garundi man with a shaven head, a long beard bound with gold rings, and an eye patch, is clearly the Captain. He addresses the bosun, with a deep baritone, befitting his size "Master Scourge, are these the last of the recruits?"
The bosun responds accordingly, his grimaced grin showing his pleasure "Aye Cap'n, these be the filthy lubbers.", as he nods and backs away, his whip still twitching and swaying like a cat's tail.
The Captain looks down on the lot of you, the rest of the crew all bunched up on the rigging and decks to watch, women and men alike. He speaks, "Glad you could join us at last! Welcome to the Wormwood!" He sweeps his arm wide to encompass the whole of the ship, pride evident in his features. "My thanks for 'volunteering' to join my crew. I'm Barnabas Harrigan. That's Captain Barnabas Harrigan to you, not that you'll ever need to address me. I have only one rule - don't speak to me. I like talk, but I don't like your talk. Follow that rule and we'll all get along fine. Oh, and one more thing. Even with you new recruits, we're still short-handed, and I aim to keep what crew I have. There'll be a keel-haulin' for anyone caught killin' anyone. Mr. Plugg! If you'd be so kind as to make pirates out of these landlubbers, it'll save me having to put them in the sweatbox for a year and a day before I make pies out of 'em."
The man he addresses is the other standing beside the wheel. He is a much younger man, with his head shaven bald except for a long black ponytail in the back. He wears a long blue coat, and is carrying a well-used cat-o'-nine-tails. His features, calm as he nods to the Captains orders, turn sinister as he faces you. He slowly makes his way down the stairs to the side, stroking his cat-o'-nine-tails as he does, looking the four of you over. You see him glancing at four others, they stand apart from the crew and are possibly other recent recruits, before he comes close and speaks to you. His sneer of derision as he talks to you is filled with disappointment, "Here's how were gonna do things. I need a few different positions filled, and you all get to show me who's goin' where. When I give the signal, I want the four of you to climb up this rigging to the nest at the top. The first one up is our new rigger. On three, 1... 2... 3!"
To climb the rigging make four climb checks with a -5 to the roll.
I'd forgotten that. Knowledge(Nature): 1d20 - 1 ⇒ (12) - 1 = 11
Balsooma's tongue finally identifies the strange aftertaste tainting it. Poison? Hah. Two bottles then.
He's shaken out of his thoughts by the captain's booming voice. Listening along, he finds himself nodding agreement. Those are fair enough rules. However, at Mr. Plugg's approach, his gut sours. He looks like the kind of man to hate another for being taller than he. There might be the taste of whip for breakfast after all.
At the order up the rigging, Balsooma reaches for the nearest rope, using his immense strength to haul himself bodily up towards the top.
1. 1d20 + 8 - 5 ⇒ (12) + 8 - 5 = 15
2. 1d20 + 8 - 5 ⇒ (15) + 8 - 5 = 18
3. 1d20 + 8 - 5 ⇒ (13) + 8 - 5 = 16
4. 1d20 + 8 - 5 ⇒ (10) + 8 - 5 = 13
As his arms strain mightily with the effort, and the distance between him and the deck grows, Balsooma reassures himself: It's just like climbing a palm tree for coconuts, but with ropes, and the ground beneath the tree is rippling like the open sea. Yeah, just like a palm tree.
1d20 + 7 ⇒ (16) + 7 = 23
1d20 + 7 ⇒ (16) + 7 = 23
1d20 + 7 ⇒ (16) + 7 = 23
1d20 + 7 ⇒ (13) + 7 = 20
As he climbs Holgur sneaks a peak at Balsooma. The tall man uses his arms too much and his legs too little.
Harrigan seems more of a tyrant than a captain. Men like him often incite mutinies. It is likely that he keeps his underlings divided against eachother and ignorant of his plans. That results in little fiefs around subordinate officers.
Edit: Forgot the -5 modifier
Kelly trudges up to the rigging begrudingly, and obvious look of contempt on his face directed in no specific direction. An absent minded reach toward the missing bandoleer elicits an exasperated sigh. "Huh, rigging..."
With no desire whatsoever to climb the rigging, Kelly doesn't even feign effort and makes but the barest token of an attempt at participation in this circus act.
"I'm a doctor, not Monkey."
Climb: 1d20 + 0 - 5 ⇒ (3) + 0 - 5 = -2
Climb: 1d20 + 0 - 5 ⇒ (4) + 0 - 5 = -1
Climb: 1d20 + 0 - 5 ⇒ (2) + 0 - 5 = -3
Climb: 1d20 + 0 - 5 ⇒ (3) + 0 - 5 = -2
How's that for the dice reflecting intent?
1d20 + 5 - 5 ⇒ (20) + 5 - 5 = 20
1d20 + 5 - 5 ⇒ (1) + 5 - 5 = 1
1d20 + 5 - 5 ⇒ (14) + 5 - 5 = 14
1d20 + 5 - 5 ⇒ (12) + 5 - 5 = 12
Used to heights, and to climbing ropes Ciera nimbly works her way up the ropes as quickly as possible, her arm and leg muscles working hard to clamber upwards.
Ciera starts strong, with a jump, grab, twist and flip for the first leg, but his enthusiasm gets him nothing to show for it beyond a twisted arm. By the time he works it out, the two bigger men have gained a lead. Balsooma's ability to haul himself up bodily is fairly impressive, but it is Holgur that makes it to the top first, managing to find all the right hand and footholds. Kelly moves over to the rigging and proves his statement of not being a monkey, by managing to get himself thoroughly entwined within the ropes. This sets the crew to laughing, and shaking their heads, and Mr. Plugg calls out with derision, "If you cut as nimbly as you handle rope, 'Dr. Hangman', I don't want you anywhere near the crew's injuries.", even at the crew's appreciation of his joke he fails to crack a smile.
As the others make their way down off the rigging, he points to Holgur, "Congratulations, ya mangy cur, you have the dubious honor of being a rigger and work directly for me now. With that messy business outta the way, who can cook? It's not a hard question, so you remaining boneheads shouldn't have to think about it too long." he looks at the three of you remaining, expectantly, like you can't answer fast enough.
JIC it was missed above, a picture of the Captain was linked in the post he was introduced in. Also, Ciera showed us how the skill Crits/Fumbles work by rolling a 30, and then a -9.
Balsooma is grunting with exertion when he finally makes the top of the mast. "You climb well: like a man for whom deck and rigging are the same," he says to the man who had reached the top before him. He touches his free hand to his broad chest: "I am Balsooma. Once smith, now pirate, it seems"
Upon reaching the deck once more, Balsooma rubs his arms while waiting for Mr. Plugg to be done scowling - a task to which the man's face seems to take to with a passion. To the man's query for a cook, Balsooma volunteers: "I can cook steel and bake ingots. Kitchens and forges are much the same, it seems: lots of fire, blunt blades, and cursing."
I noticed that. An impressive pair of rolls.
Balsooma is grunting with exertion when he finally makes the top of the mast. "You climb well: like a man for whom deck and rigging are the same," he says to the man who had reached the top before him. He touches his free hand to his broad chest: "I am Balsooma. Once smith, now pirate, it seems"
When Holgur gets back to the deck he extends his hand to Balsooma."I'm Holgur, a fellow pirate and now the rigger. You climb well, you just need to time yourself better."
If the surgeon has any skill he should be fine. The lad is agile but he was overly anxious. His time on the Wormwood might well be harsh if does not show some useful ability quickly.
He then turns to Plugg and nods. "Which shift do I take, Mr. Plugg?"
With the contemptuous look growing even more severe in intensity Kelly disentangles himself from the rigging. As soon as he regain his freedom, he rushes to examine the young boy who, though much more capable, is the only one who seems to have had a worse time than himself.
"That seemed a nasty twist there, arms are not usually meant to bend in that direction. Would you mind if I took a look at it, to make sure you haven't damaged it."
Kelly begins a cursory examination, trying to observe and gain as much information as possible about the hurt arm. Visible damage, hampered movements or anything else that might betray an injury.
Flushing red in embarassment at his clumsiness, Ciera scrambles sheepishly to the mast-top to join the others. "Bloody good job" he says looking at Holgur. "Thought I 'ad ya there fer a moment. But that slip really slowed me down."
When he returns back to the deck, and Kelly approaches, Ciera stretches his arm gingerly but steps back from the Churigon's ministrations.
"Nah its alright, I've 'ad much worse before. Nothin' to worry yerself 'bout.
Still in a more hushed tone, Kelly accepts the dismal from Ciera but adds, "Take care then, it may seem a simple pain now, but there may be greater damage underlying. If you need aid later, seek me out, assuming I'm not tied to the mast by then."
Having kept Mr. Plugg waiting enough, Kelly turns to him, placing himself bodily between Mr. Plugg and young man behind him and replies,"Mr. Plugg, it seems that if you had need of cooks you should perhaps have plied your recruitment trade elsewhere. I, am a fixer, of people, of ships, and...other concoctions, but seeing as I have been relieved of my personal effects... If you happen to have need of those services, I will be happy to render them, have you not." Kelly cocks an eyebrow and turns to look disparagingly off into the distance.
As each of them answer in turn, he reacts by shaking his head slightly at Balsooma, but still looks him up and down as if sizing him up. To Holgur he waves him off, as if to say 'I wasn't talking to you, wait your turn.' As the other two fall in line and respond he stops. He cocks his head, thought purses his brow, as he nods along to what Kelly is saying. When Kelly stops speaking, Mr. Plugg stares at him coldly, before he looks away over the man's shoulder and then back.
It isn't long before it's made clear who the look was intended for, as the loud crack of the whip rends the sea air. The biting sting of Master Scourge's lash finds a place across Kelly's back.
Mr. Plugg gets in his face and begins to berate him, "I don't think you quite understand the situation you're in! I didn't ask for your advice, Dr. Hangman, I demand your obedience! If I want your opinion, I will give it to you, until then you will shut your mouth and do what you're told!" His face is red, but his expression cools almost as fast as his anger arose.
Turning back to Balsooma he adds, "You're the new cook's mate, and will report to Fishguts down in the galley." facing Ciera and Kelly he finishes, "That leaves this sorry lot to you as new swabs, Master Scourge."
Master scourge nods and swishes his whip, "Aye, Mr. Plugg, they goin' to be busy fer sure."
Whip attack 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (9) + 6 = 15, damage 1d3 + 2 ⇒ (2) + 2 = 4 Non-lethal.
Assigned tasks will be posted shortly.
Balsooma reaches out to the unfortunately-nicknamed 'Dr. Hangman' to rest a heavy hand on the man's shoulder to steady him, though his eyes never leave Mr. Plugg's sour face. Have to beat iron to strengthen it, that I know. But is he a smith, or just cruel? Balsooma tries to gauge the man's reaction to the whipping, if he seems overly pleased by it or no.
Sense Motive: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (12) + 7 = 19
The former I can respect, though disagree with. The latter is a problem.
Once the tension of the situation dies down, Balsooma will venture below-decks to try and find the galley and this "Fishguts" person.
Ciera smiles at Kelly before the churigon turns to speak to Mr Plugg, as he does so Ciera winces, shut up ya' fool. he thinks to himslef Now's not th' time t' start mounthin' off.
Ciera visably winces again as the whip cracks across Kelly's back but stands staring straight ahead, doing his best to remain stoic.
Kelly 1d6 ⇒ 2, 1d12 ⇒ 1
Ciera 1d6 ⇒ 3, 1d12 ⇒ 8
Balsooma 1d6 ⇒ 2
This is your day's work. Look at the 'Daytime actions' in the campaign tab to see what you can do during the day's work.
After assigning positions, Mr. Plugg walks toward Holgur and indicates that he should follow him. "You're in luck cur, you get the honor of being on mainsail duty. Get up there with Maheem and make sure you don't screw it up." The sailor he indicated, Maheem, is a big Rahadoumi bearing a far-from-friendly scowl that looks to have found a permanent home on his face.
Make either a Profession (Sailor) check -OR- a Strength check
Also, make a Constitution check.
Master Scourge addresses his two new swabs, "C'mon ya pinkbellies, Ah gots plenty o' work fer ya's. heh heh." His chuckle only slightly less disturbing than the very man himself. To Kelly he gives an empty bucket, "Ya get ta chase rats, see if'n ya can fill this bucket. Join, the whore Sandara belowdecks." Turning to Ciera he leads her over to one of the buckets on deck, fishes a mop out of a pile of supplies, "Here ya go swab... now swab." At the mention of swabbing, the other sailor on mop detail, a tall Mwangi female, looks up to see who Master Scourge is talking to. "Shivikah, make sure this lad know what need be done tha right way." At this the Mwangi nods.
Make either a Stealth -OR- Survival -OR- Dexterity check.
Make either a Strength -OR- Constitution check.
Balsooma can tell that Mr. Plugg seemed pleased with the punishment, like he had been waiting for someone to speak up so they could be put in their place. Balsooma Makes his way belowdecks, once again through the small quarters in the bow, past the tarred and feathered big man, and toward the stairs in the stern. At the back of the ship is the galley, and upon entering he is met by a rotund man. It's tough to tell whether the name 'Fishguts' is for the contents of the food, or the stains of his apron. What is clear, however, is how much the man likes his drink. He stands groggily swaying near the stove, a knife in one hand, a half-empty bottle of rum in the other, and a black hen resting comfortably on his shoulder.
It takes him a little to notice you've entered, but he greets you cheerfully, "Hey, so you mush be the new cooksh mate? Nise to meechu, tha name's Ambrose, but they all call me Fishgus. Yur gonna hep me here inna kishen, mosely juss hep cookin and fishin." he sets about to giving you tasks, mostly along the lines of fetching ingredients or utensils here and there. Despite his drunkeness, he seems to be a fairly capable cook. The galley is mostly a disaster, with two wooden tables, several wooden cupboards, and two small stoves against the port wall. There is also virtually every cooking utensil imaginable, and a frightening array of meat cleavers. A score of chickens and three goats wander freely about the room.
Best not to make a bad first impression, especially when working so high up. Holgur works dilligently and tries to make sure that Maheem can see that he is an experienced sailor. If Maheem does not have to be concerned that this new rigger is green then he be less likely to watch watch him intently. Hopefully this will give Holgur an opportunity to look around the ship for anything that might be interesting. Still, it galls him to be doing work usually given to lubbers.
Take 10 + 5 + 4 Work Diligently = 19
If he cannot take 10:
1d20 + 9 ⇒ (6) + 9 = 15
1d20 + 2 ⇒ (20) + 2 = 22
Holgur works effectively, and manages to stay focused on the task. When done properly, the job is merely tiring, instead of back-aching labor. Maheem doesn't have a single word to spare with Holgur, at most pointing to whatever needs doing, but rarely needs to due to the new rigger's diligence. Regardless of his decent performance, Mr. Plugg remains less than impressed.
Seeing as Fishguts hasn't drunk enough of the rum to impair his apparently substantial cooking expertise - even in the organised chaos that is the ship's galley - Balsooma will offer light, but earnest help - fetching utensils, stirring and chopping, and herding the goats out of the way - while both trying to influence the cook to like him and ply some information from the sodden fellow.
Not sure what check is needed. I assume Diplomacy is an option: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (16) + 1 = 17
"Uh, Fishguts. Being as I'm fresh-aboard the ship and all, it seems a man like you would be able to set me on the right heading about a few things. For one, do you know what might've happened to the gear I had on me when I was taken? Had a few things that were precious to me - more rich in thought than coin though - I'd hope they weren't pawned off before we left port.
The lash across the back was expected, but even expecting it, and being blind-sided, the pain was nearly unbearable. Kelly keeps his reaction to a moderate yelp of pain, and somehow manages to keep from going to his, but just barely. After several long moments Kelly regains his composure and his expression shift from one of pain and contempt to one of relieved concern. He whispers to Ceria, "Figured they were going to get one of us, lets hope that's out of the way now."
Being taken below Kelly seeks out Sandra, and tries to strike up a conversation, seeing what there is to learn about life aboard this ship, and see if there are any friends to be made.
While doing so however, he sets about trying to round up some vermin to fulfill his task, commenting how if he had the right supplies this job would be significantly easier.
Dex Check: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (17) + 2 = 19
Despite the pain and soreness from the lashing, Kelly manages to move fairly quickly, but finds that the pain does make it hard to concentrate on work and conversation at the same time.
Ciera stifles a moan at the command to swab. He'd been given the task early on aboard the Crimson Wave and had hated every minute. He'd much rather be chasing rats - That sounded kinda fun, and would present the opportunity to explore below decks a little!
Well its best to get started i rekon, he'll be watchin' close 't first an' I don't wanna get a taste o' that whip.
Ciera takes the mop from the big man and gets to work (working diligantly), casting the occassional glance at his companion to see if he's working well enough.
1d20 + 5 ⇒ (14) + 5 = 19 (+1 St, +4 Working Diligantly)
Balsooma finds that Ambrose is an amicable drunk, and rather quite cheerful. "Huh? Yur shtuff? Oh that'd be leff with muh pal Grok o'er there." He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, in the direction of a room off the back of the galley. Standing in the doorway is a reedy female half-orc, a large pink scar runs across her throat. She's dressed in dark leathers, leaning on the haft of a notched greataxe, with an array of handaxes hanging from her belt. "She's tha quartemashter, an' a fren o' mine. An' thas hard ta fine 'round here." He leans in close, taking on a rather serious tone.
"Ish poison, this ship, but don led anyone hear ya say id aloud. The hull lisshens, see, an' the Cap'n hears id all. Poison the Wormwood is, though, rodden to tha core. You'll not meet a more nashty, sour piece o' work than Cap'n Harrigan in all yer daysh at sea, an' his crew's the same. 'Speshli tha first mate, Mr. Plugg. Vishus liddle sod, he is. He'd take his own mother's liver to tha butcher to make pies with, he would. But they leave me alone, mostly. They know ah can't 'arm 'em."
Despite referring to her as the 'Whore Sandara', after what Master Scourge called her, the woman Kelly works with seems rather friendly. She looks every part the pirate. She has fiery red locks, and dresses to accentuate her figure. She has a seagull feather in her tricorne hat, and her arms are festoooned with sailor tattoos. In the corner of her mouth sits a clay pipe that she takes a tug from every now and again.
It seems every time Kelly tries to speak to her he sticks his foot in his mouth. As soon as he begins she puts her hand up to get him to stop, and they continue working. At one point she does actually speak to him, letting him know she understands, "Life on ship can be a little tough to get used to, when you're press-ganged into the service of a wicked man. Don't you worry none, later after work, I can talk to you all." Regardless of her pleasant nature, she seems rather annoyed every time Kelly talks.
Between the two of them they manage to get the bucket almost half-filled with all manner of vermin. Either it speaks to their success in catching them, or to the amount present on board that they are able to catch so much.
As Ciera swabs, Shivikah looks over periodically. Seeing that she doesn't have to correct the boy, and he is doing well enough on his own, she has few words for him beyond an angry word spit out in Mwangi. Periodically, a fellow crewman would stop by and make some quiet joke in Ciera's direction, and the two would laugh at the boy.
When Holgur is climbing down from the masts he takes the opportunity afforded by the elevation to look about the ship for anything of interest, unusual activity, recent damage, listing that suggests an uneven balast etc.
1d20 + 5 ⇒ (1) + 5 = 6
Can't see a damned thing with this flock of tarrasques flying about the ship!
Between the pain of the lash still wearing on him and the shock of the misperception of his mental image of "the whore Sandara" he finds himself effectively tongue tied. Every attempt at conversation proves even further that he possesses no more conversational skill at the moment than an ox. After she cuts off his clumsy attempts at conversation, and tells him that she would be speaking with all his counterparts later, Kelly just gives up on any attempts to making intelligible speech and focuses on ignoring the pain so he can finish his task with no additional lashes.
Holgur tries to get a good look about the ship, but he picks just the wrong time to look and gets a bright flash of sunlight off the water. It takes him a while to get the sunspots to clear from his vision, blinking often to try and refresh his eyesight.
As the day grows long, and the sun begins to set, a red glow shines across the waters. A clock on the mast, a macabre brass-and-copper object depicting worms writhing through whale corpses and hanging from the mainmast above the whipping post, rings the onset of dusk. The Bloody hour has come, and the crew gathers as one to witness the events as they unfold. They all take up seats on the foredeck and poop deck, propped up in the rigging, or standing leaned against the rails. Up from belowdecks, a bound man is being led by Mr. Plugg and Master Scourge, the lead in the latter's hands gets tugged both cruelly and gleefully whenever the prisoner stumbles. The look and smell of him as he passes indicates that you had not seen him during the day due having been in the bilges. They come to a stop in the middle of the main deck, as Master Scourge ties the man's bound hands to a length of rope, Mr. Plugg speaks to the crew.
"This man that stands before you, Jakes Magpie, will suffer for the crimes he has committed against the Captain and his crew. He thought that his wants stood above the law of the sea, and he was caught the night before stealing from the quartermaster's stores. He admitted as much to Master Scourge and I with but a few simple questions. For his crimes, he will be keel-hauled." The grin on Mr. Plugg's face at this last is reminiscent of a cat toying with a mouse.
As Master Scourge finishes, Mr. Plugg takes the lead for Jakes and pulls him behind up toward the bow of the ship. Once they stand just behind the figurehead at the bow, Mr. Plugg wraps the furthest end of the rope around his wrists, and pushes Jakes over the railing of the ship. As he holds the rope over the side, he walks slowly and precisely down the length of the ship. Down from the foredeck, across the main deck, and back up the poop deck to the stern. As he reaches the end of the walk, he slowly hauls the rope back up the side, coiling it at his feet as he does so. What rises up over the side has been cut to shreds, and he briefly displays it to the crew before he tosses the lifeless body overboard, most likely the food for sharks.
After the task is done, Mr. Plugg the First mate, dusts his hands and announces dinner time. He instructs Fishguts and his cook's mate to give the cabin-girl, Caulky, the officer's meals and then feed the crew and dole out the rum rations.
Any actions? Otherwise, see Rum rations in the campaign tab, and take Evening actions.
Perception: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (15) + 6 = 21
Kelly turns from the perverse display, shaking his head in utter disgust. He quickly turns shuffling toward the front of the mess line. Upon getting his food he scarfs it down, and using unnatural talent disposes of his rum in a similar fashion.
Con Damage: 1d3 ⇒ 3
Rum Fort Attack: 1d20 - 5 ⇒ (10) - 5 = 5
The Rum burns fiercely as it goes down, the effects are nearly immediate, but with it goes most of the pain and fatigue of the day. Feeling the effects of his liquid courage, he goes to seek out the quarter master, to see about reclaiming his effects.
Diplomacy: 1d20 - 1 + 2 ⇒ (18) - 1 + 2 = 19
The rum apparently having an equal effect on improving his conversational skills as it did in improving his disposition, and it seems his brashness in taking his drink has earned him a smile or two and even a lifted mug here and there.
The day's work complete, Balsooma heads up to the main deck, deep in thought. Ambrose seems an honest man. Why he has to live in fear is strange. There's something rotten about this ship, it seems. It's certainly unlike the stories.
Perception: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (1) + 7 = 8
He barely registers the keelhauling, eyes flicking amongst the assembled crew. They can't all be rotten, can they? It seems I must tread carefully for the next few days at least. Ambrose seems trustworthy, and that Holgur looked like he knew what he was about.
He drinks his rum normally, trying to keep his wits about him, and watches whatever entertainments the pirates spend their evening at.
As the day's work ends, Ciera wipes his brow, straigtens and streatches backwards like a cat to loosen his tired muscles, then leans forwards to touch his hands flat to the now clean ship's deck. As the crew begin to assemble Ciera climbs up into the rigging to see what's happening.
When he sees that ship's justice is to be meeted out he pales and does his best to ignore the poor man's struggles. As the bloody execution is carried out he whitens further and turns so as not to see the inevitable result.
Following the keel-hauling Ciera moves into line and gratefully accepts a bowl of muck from the cabin-girl Caulky, wolfing it down despite its greasy taste following the hard-day's work. Not keen for a repetition of this morning's headache, he surreptitiously poors the rum over the side as she approaches Caulky who he greets with a cocky smile and a word of thanks for the meal.
Rum action: Fake it! (Slight of Hand: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (12) + 8 = 20)
Evening action: Influence NPC (Befriend Caulky): (Diplomacy?: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (20) + 3 = 23)
Ciera will try, in the course of the coversation, to find out how women are treated aboard the ship and its general layout.
Sorry about the delay in posting. I seems that some wives take umbrage with spouses who spend too much time on "that stupid computer."
Holgur watches the keelhauling with feigned impassion. It is only the third time he has ever witnessed this practice but he recognizes the bosun's play for effect at the end of it. 'Besmara show him the currents to swim that will take him to Pharasma's Boneyard.' The Wormwood is every bit as bad as the tales he heard about her. What could the sailor have wanted in the stores that was worth risking his life over? he thinks to himself.
When the rum is served he takes his share along with his food. He does not overindulge. Most of the crew who are impressed by that are susceptible to being impressed in other ways.
If any of the other newly impressed crew are nearby he will make his way over to them and introduce himself to Kelly and Ciera since he has already done so with Balsooma.
Kelly, The influence is towards a single NPC.
Holgur and Balsooma, are either of you taking an evening action?
Ciera, sorry, but Caulky has nothing to say to any of the crew. She stops by the galley long enough to bring the officer's their food and that's it. I will allow you to keep the roll, but you should pick a different sailor.
That being the case, I will put a list of the crew into the campaign tab.
During the evening's meal Sandara approaches each of you, offers a greeting, and slips each of you a little something of yours that had been taken. She whispers, "I managed to talk Grok out of some of your stuff, but I wasn't able to get any weapons or armor." She slips Kelly his component pouch, Balsooma his Holy symbol, Ciera his wrist sheath, and Holgur his tar bomb. As she hands the symbol to Balsooma, she taps the one at her throat in recognition.
She offers a word of warning to each, which may be unnecessary, "Avoid the bosun and first mate as much as you can. They are a nasty lot, and not likely to show mercy for any reason."
"Thank you much, miss" Holgur says as he stashes the tar-bomb in his shirt. He makes it look like he is attempting an impromptu grooming in front of her. Then he sits back down to his meal.
But first he looks up at the night sky to see if he can tell the ships's direction from the stars.
1d20 + 5 ⇒ (6) + 5 = 11
Maheen will probably have something going with one of the human lasses on the rigging crew. Since I don't know which one I would be better off trying to ingratiate myself with one of the gents. With that in mind he looks for the gnome, shortstone and makes an attempt at conversation.
"How long have you been with the Wormwood?"