This thread is for in-character posts relating to the plot!
Dotting in!
Dot Dot, sucka!
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Oathday, Gozran 13th 4711
The sun is shining high in the sky on this beautiful spring day in Absalom as the five ships of the Arcadian Expeditionary Force are outfitted and crewed for their final departure. The Expeditionary Force is composed of six ships, two of which already left a fortnight past, fast ships filled with loggers and construction workers, a few farmers and quite a few mercenaries (including, Karzok has learned, Breddaric Valethorn and his men). Their job is to arrive early and establish the systems and residences that the larger group will eventually live in. The larger ships which carry the bulk of the group are slower, and large groups of people need lots of things in order to not die, after all. The expedition is headed by a huge and beautiful ship called The Odyssey, the first ocean-going ship to have internal, non-wind power capabilities. The other ships that are part of the voyage are two galleons and a caravel, and the four are going as one caravan.
Each of you is going aboard The Marie Celeste, an 80-meter wooden passenger ship, along with about three hundred and fifty passengers and crew. The Legacy, the other passenger vessel, carries another three hundred, and the caravel Destiny carries only forty or so sailors.
The docks are filled to the brim with departing sailors, crying family members, dockworkers carrying crates of canned and dried food onto the ships, the smell of sweat and fish, and breath tinged by rum. The crowds push and shove and shuffle their slow way back and forth, some people trying to get on board the ships, others trying to get somewhere that they can see and wave their handkerchiefs at departing loved ones.
The chatter from the many thousands of people present quiets down as a mighty horn's call sounds from the deck of The Odyssey. A second call, and all are silent. Atop the deck of the ship one can see Oscar Remington, one of the principal investors for this venture and the captain of the Odyssey. Oscar is an extremely wealthy middle-aged man, self-made with business and investments. A hand is cupped to his mouth in a mime of blowing a horn. He lowers his horn-hand and grins widely as he has the attention of all present, if only for a moment. His voice booms and echoes with unnatural volume as he addresses everyone. At his words, the captains of the remaining ships get into overdrive, wanting to weigh anchor and set sail before the lead ship gets too much lead. Passengers are ushered on board quickly and give final hugs and kisses to those that they leave behind lest they be stranded. Sails are set! The warm spring wind is caught! The voyage began!
- - - - - - - -
Sea voyages are not very exciting. Day after day of the same stuff, the same social structures, the same work (for those who do work), and the same preserved food tend to wear on a person after awhile. The caravan of ships is taking a wide berth around the Lost Continent of Azlant on the way to its destination. It is said that the continent is infested with a variety of dangerous monsters, that the waters around the archipelago are filled with eldritch and tentacular monsters and that any who set foot on the islands are never seen again. The colony efforts on the archipelago have universally failed. However, the sight of land even from a distance is enough to get most of the ship up onto the deck to see. Not only is there land, but there are two lands. To the northeast on the starboard side of the ship, a pair of islands can be seen, though they are barely more than brown blips on the horizon. To the northwest and west, the horizon is rising and deepening into a thick green line. Samuel Redgrave, the Marie Celeste's captain, stands at the ship's bow beaming, shaking hands with people and telling them how great it is that all have made it. One of the only ones not immediately on the deck of the ship is Murob, who has been asked to look after several passengers and a crewmen struck by scurvy. The illness striking these people is fairly new, but all are exhausted and have painful, bleeding gums and soreness in their limbs. Murob at least needs to make sure they're comfortable before she goes up to see the land if she's interested in doing so.
The ships have a long way north to go yet in order to reach their destination, but the fact that land can even be seen is enough to get everyone speculating and hoping again. After weeks on end of the same b+*~%@#+ day after day though, people had started to get into ship-routine and had largely forgotten about their destination. With it in sight, however, peoples' dreams were on the tongue again. Ehiz, Arven pulls you up onto the deck to observe the sighting of land. "Isn't it exciting?" he asks. "My grandfather told me I was a fool when I decided to come along on this voyage, but now look: we can see land!" He turns to Ehiz, beaming. "What sorts of places do you think we'll find?"
The other ships in the caravan are barely within sight as it is. The Legacy is an older and smaller vessel, and has fallen behind multiple mules. The Odyssey on the other hand is newer, more expensive, and much nicer, and is several miles ahead. The caravel Destiny must be ahead of the Odyssey, scoping out the terrain ahead.
Yosiah and his Devoted brethren have been tasked with defending the Arcadian Coalition for much longer than any living Arcadian can remember. Devoted are called upon for a wide variety of tasks including monster extermination, border defense, rebellion quashing, and more.
At this moment, Yosiah is being send on an assignment that, frankly, is infamous among the soldiers for its undesirability.
The Wall of Heaven, the mountain range that separates civilized, Northern Arcadia from the much more dangerous reaches of Southern Arcadia, needs to be watched. There are towers atop the mountains, and these towers are staffed with evokers, diviners, archers, and scouts, as well as syrinx who deign to join the Devoted. But then there are also listening posts and garrisons at the foot of the nearly-impossible mountain range, especially around its singular valley, the Gate of Heaven. Southern Arcadia's tenacious and monstrous inhabitants have never been allowed to cross the Gate of Heaven, and today is not the day that they are going to start.
So Yosiah along with a few more of his contemporaries are being moved from their placement in core regions to a rotation at a fort on the outside of the Gate of Heaven, a fortress called Trituradora near the head of the valley. This castle commands not only a view of all of the surrounding land, but also the entry into the valley itself. It houses the Arcadian commanders who lead all of the nearby military outposts as well, which means that while he is stationed here, Yosiah could be assigned to missions anywhere within the Arcadian military's purview here.
Currently Yosiah is on bull-back, riding with his squadmates Baldric, Cleo, and Helga. Baldric is a Devoted of Cixyron, an unsettling daemon harbinger who grants his followers knowledge of and power over strange weapons, while Cleo and Helga both follow Sarenrae, the most popular and common goddess to be Devoted to, as knights.
As the four ride the last leg towards the Triturador, Cleo speaks up.
"I for one am happy to have been assigned here." he says. As a response to Helga's raised eyebrows, he says, "It's an excuse to serve our nation in the most raw way. Imagine a monster attack. We could be on the front lines of keeping our people safe!"
Helga laughs. "You just want stories to tell the ladies when we get home again," he says, her eyes glittering.
Gozran 13th 4711
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Sorala inhaled deeply. The air was so different here in Absalom; dirtier for sure, but also in its way, a story. There was sweat, obviously, lot of it. But also smoke, and salt. Sorala couldn't get used to the smell of sea water, even though she'd first seen it many months back, along the Varisian coast. It was just so not the clear, cold, icy water of Glacier Lake. And pigs! Pigs--t!
The Squire stepped aside as a pack of sows was herded, between two rails, into the cargo hold of The Odyssey. Inhaling deeply again, Sorala gave Karzok a quick nudge with her elbow, and then pointed to great ship. "Too bad we're not riding aboard that one, eh? At least for me. I'd probably have no work at all. Just kick back and enjoy the ride, like a noble aboard a, what're they called, a howdah?"
Pulling her work papers from her pocket, the Irrisenian sighed. Yep, she'd not misread a thing, much to her disappointment. The handwriting was neat, printed, and mostly understandable, even though it was in Taldane, a language Sorala had merely studied until she fled south. The Marie Celeste. And further down the page: Swab. Sorala sighed again, for just a moment feeling a twinge of homesickness. Shaking her head, the Squire picked up her pack, and looking once at Karzok, headed towards The Marie Celeste, murmuring under her breath.
"Nope. Don't go there, girl. You know you'd be frozen solid by now, had you stayed."
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Sarenith 14th
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Sorala grimaced as her hand slipped on the holystone, drawing blood. The pumice rock had been brutal to her hands the entire journey, paying Sorala back for every streak and drop she scrubbed from the deck with seeming vengeance; the young woman's hands were covered with cuts and bruises. Sitting up, the swab leaned back on her heels and sucked on her knuckle, willing the blood to stop.
Henne was belaying nearby, and Sorala noticed, with annoyance, the Ulfen sailor was smirking. "Maybe you should just take that sword strapped to your back and cut the dirt from the deck, eh? More damage to the deck, perhaps, but less to those dainty hands of yours."
So accustomed to working with her White Blade strapped to back, Sorala had begun to forget it was even there. Still, she wasn't leaving the blade in her locker, or in her cot, unattended. Especially with Henne - again - showing interest in the blade. Sorala reflexively reached up and touched the hilt of the falcata, irritation showing on her face.
"Stuff it, Henne. You should--" Her irritation vanished with the call - "Land Ho!" - filtering down from the crow's nest. Henne, her sword, and her wounded hand forgotten, Sorala pushed to the front of the guards, and looked out to sea. At first, she couldn't see anything. Then, land to the northeast. And to the northwest, more land! Lots more land!
"Blimey. Blimey!" Sorala says, to no one in particular, trying out that strange southern word. She decides it doesn't quite fit. "Where do you think we are?" the Irrisenian says to the sailor next to her. "North or south of Absalom, if you drew a straight line across the ocean?"
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Gozran 13th 4711
Murob edges towards the docks, being jostled at every step by the eager crowd, feeling clumsy and terribly out of place. Despite the sunny weather, the hood of her cloak is pulled low over her face as she tries to conceal her skin. Even in cosmopolitan Abaslom she hadn't escaped the glares, the suspicion, the insults. She briefly regrets that she isn't big and burly like some other half-orcs she'd seen - then maybe people would be less free with such behaviour. Sighing, she switches her satchel to the other shoulder and pushes through the throngs, murmuring excuses as she passes those seeing off their loved ones. She had said her farewells back in Nirmathas, before setting off on a journey of many months, travelling mostly on foot and sleeping rough to save coin. All the family savings are with her, sewn into the lining of her boots and the leather of her belt, with only a handful of coppers in her purse for absolute necessities. A gloved hand reaches up to scratch under the hood, unobtrusively flicking away a louse. Murob was revolted by her own uncleanliness, but it couldn't be helped for now. The flophouse she'd slept in for the past few nights was the cheapest in the city, and even so it had put a frightening dent into her funds. The scenes of farewell all around make her recall the parting from her family. Her parents had been stoical, imparting practical advice for the journey, while her brother ... Durzum had tried to be brave, but in the end he had sobbed in her arms, clinging to her fiercely. Strangely, this had made her even more determined to set out and change their fortune. She didn't want her brother to continue living in a place where the meanness of people left him bruised and bloodied, inside and out. She gritted her teeth and tightened her grip on her satchel, pushing faster through the crowd, a mix of elation and apprehension filling her as the Marie Celeste comes into full view at last. She felt incredibly lucky to have secured a job as one of the assistants of the ship's medics, a position that would allow her to practice what she was good at rather than some menial work. The horn and the sudden quieting of the crowd wrenches her attention towards the majestic ship, and she cannot help but feel a surge of enthusiasm at the captain's brief speech. A slight smile twisting the corners of her mouth, she sets a foot onto the gangplank.
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Sarenith 14th 4711
"Take these twice a day. I will come 'round again tomorrow and see how you feel."
The man takes the reddish cubes from Murob's hand, grumbling. "Yucky orc medicine, 's a wonder it don't kill me worse than th' disease." With a grimace, he pops one into his mouth and starts chewing, his expression changing to one of delighted surprise. "'Ei, this thing don't taste 'alf bad!"
Murob shakes her head and smiles. "Of course, it's dried berries and rosehip, not demon blood. Fool man." She gives him a pat on the arm as she rises from her crouch, still smiling. It feels so good to be able to help these people and be accepted by them. It hadn't been easy at first, but once they had seen her skill and hard work, and through the long weeks of being all cooped up together on the ship, a camaraderie had grown between the young half-orc woman and many of the sailors and prospective colonists on board. She arches her back in a stretch, slinging her kit across one shoulder as she prepares to continue her rounds among those afflicted. She had been sick at first as well, her body unused to the constant motion and the strange new smells. But after two months at sea all traces of that were gone and she no longer needed the support of walls and railings as she made her way across the ship.
Her thoughts are interrupted by the sound of feet pounding on the stairs leading up to the deck, and she follows the commotion curiously. As she emerges in the open air, she is drawn towards the people crowded around the deck railings and pointing excitedly. She shades her eyes against the glare of sun on water as her gaze sweeps the horizon. Having lived in sight of mountains all her life, the flatness of the ocean was difficult to get used to. The eye had no anchor in the vastness, and distances were hard to judge. But now... now, the flat line is broken by shapes rising above the waters. As she watches the land that is their destination, an image floats into her awareness - Durzum bent over a painstakingly drawn map as he tracks her voyage, his forehead creased in concentration. A pang of longing stabs through her and she grips the railing hard, blinking away the tears.
She turns away from the sight of the new land, her eye falling on the old, noticing the strange cloud over the Azlanti islands with its intermittent green glow. Hesitantly, she points it out to a sailor. "Is that a storm, do you think? I hope it's not heading our way."
The topdeck of the ship is absolutely cramped, but after a relatively short time the crowd starts to thin as people get bored and wander back down to the main deck to resume their f#&@ing, dice games, chatting, drawing, vomiting or sleeping. The man next to Murob looks like a marine, and he shakes his head. "No way," he says, and turns to point up into the crow's nest. A dashing young soldier sits up there, his eye on the horizon. "Dareon read the weather this morning, and it said clear skies and sun for the next two days. We're all good."
The person next to Sorala looks about to answer when they're rudely shoved aside by Henne, who leans his arms on the wooden railway, laughing. "Sorala, you know that we're not north or south of Absalom! We're west of Absalom!" He chuckles.
The Squire stepped aside as a pack of sows was herded, between two rails, into the cargo hold of The Odyssey. Inhaling deeply again, Sorala gave Karzok a quick nudge with her elbow, and then pointed to great ship. "Too bad we're not riding aboard that one, eh? At least for me. I'd probably have no work at all. Just kick back and enjoy the ride, like a noble aboard a, what're they called, a howdah?"
Dodging the animals, Karzok considers, ”I wasn’t given a job, so I guess it’ll be like that for me either way.” He shrugs. ”Although I’m not sure how much I’ll enjoy the ride.” He looks out over the open seas, the first time he’d ever laid eyes on something so vast, ”Then again, this is truly a wonderful display of our natural world. With an awesome sight like this, how can one be so caught up in one’s own inner demons?” He fingers the thick heavy ring on his right hand.
--
Karzok’s head snaps up when the call that land has been spotted rings out. He squints his eyes at the blinding horizon, but finally he sees the thin line of green. His palms begin to sweat and his knuckles turn white as he grips the railing. "Somewhere out there Breddaric and his men are already infecting the land. Their taint will be purified by my blood-soaked hands."
His vengeful reverie is broken as a storm over the shattered remains of Azlant catches his eye. "That can't be good." He says to no one in particular.
Yosiah's mind wanders as he gazes down into the valley, allowing his body to shift back and forth in accordance with the bull's plodding, rhythmic demand. It's beautiful. I hope it's safe. I'd love to show Mazi.
"It's an excuse to serve our nation in the most raw way. Imagine a monster attack. We could be on the front lines of keeping our people safe!"
The words "monster attack" snap Yosiah back out of his reverie, a nervous scowl forming on his face. "You know Cleo, I can't say I agree with you on this. I hope the most dangerous thing we have to fight off is a case of boredom, or a hunger pang. I know we can all handle ourselves, but I'd rather we didn't have to. It's too easy for luck to turn bad, and for things to get dangerous in a hurry."
He turns to Baldric, eyeing the man nervously. I cannot fathom what would make a person Devote to Cixyron. All grim work and sour moods, that one, even after months on the road together. "Baldric, tell me you don't agree with Cleo? Helga?" Cpl. Crint looked at his squadmates, his voice jokingly pleading. "I just need to know I'm not the only bloodthirsty son-of-a-cow stationed at Trituradora?"
Baldric snorts, adjusting his mechanics' kit that rests behind him, pulling out a blacksmith's puzzle. His voice is flat as he begins to fiddle with it. "I couldn't care less one way or another. All I can say is that it is the monsters that should be afraid of us. We are the more advanced ones. We have organized armies, and fortresses, and weapons which they cannot fathom."
Cleo raises an eyebrow, but agrees. "You might not be wrong, Baldric. I've never understood why we haven't conquered the Lowlands."
Ehiz eyes the box and tackle and for a moment wonders if the merchant still laughs whenever he thinks back of selling a fishing kit to an ocean-going traveler. Apparently, so Ehiz found over the last couple of days through experience and talks with the sailors, oceans are absolutely horrible for fishing. At least, on the surface. You'll come in handy in due time, I'm sure of it.
Next to the rugged farmer stands a younger man, face ablaze with fiery hope and optimism. Ehiz frowns as he sees Arven lean ever more periously forward, praying to Erastil the lad won't topple over. T'is the question that he poses that draws Ehiz back to the here and now and as always, the man's tongue is honest to a fault. "Ones as unwelcoming and harsh as all the others. Luckily, there are plenty of people around who know what they're doing and in due time, we'll overcome the challenges this new land has to offer us. Work hard and you'll make your pa proud, but more importantly, yourself and our new community."
Quietly he shuffles forward and joins Arven at the ship's railing, peering out over the endless ocean. What he sees bothers him. "A good thing we ain't going there. That storm, or whatever it is, don't seem natural to me. But that's enough staring for me. Don't stare too long, because it will only make the time we have yet to spend at sea take all that much longer, Arven."
With a firm push he then distances himself from the railing and picks up his box and tackle before heading back to his cabin. The only thing this crowd was doing was stand in the way of the sailors doing their job. So far the ride had been uneventful, but to state the obvious would be to invoke the attention Gods most unwanted. Devout as ever, Ehiz send one last prayer upwards before heading down. I hope you're watching over us, old man.
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Mogwai watches with curiosity and excitement as the large ships are readied. He had rarely - if ever - seen anything so... majestic, though he didn't know that word and wouldn't have known quite how to describe them. So enchanted was he that he nearly boarded the wrong one.
As he walks up the gangplank, he spares a single look back, his eyes searching for Kejal. It was silly, he knew - she had no idea he was here. He hadn't even seen her for years. He hoped that wherever she was, she was proud of him. And if she wasn't already, she would be. Puffing out his chest, he continues boarding the ship.
At the Captain's speech, Mogwai's own feeling of pride grows. 'Destiny' was a word Kejal had used often, and it makes Mogwai feel like she's there with him. And he knows that Sarenrae is, too.
Not having work to do, Mogwai settles in and immediately goes up on deck, watching the land he has known get smaller and smaller in the distance, until there is nothing but ocean on all sides. It's only now that Mogwai realises he can't swim, and hopes that nothing happens to the boat.
Mogwai peers into the pot, his large ears folded downward in front of him, wafting the smell closer to his nose. "Mogwai not understand." He says, peering up at the Orc in front of him, his nose wrinkled. "Why Azeban make more stew? Mogwai sick of stew."
Laughter rumbles from the Orc, deep but quiet - as he knows it's not something he should be doing. "Well, little Mogwai," He replies, waiting for the goblin to look up, before spreading his arms around the small kitchen, and the lack of ingredients within. "As you can see, we don't have much else to work with."
Mogwai's ears droop, remembering how much better they'd eaten the first few days. "Will there be good food there?" He asks. Azeban shrugs. "If the gods will it. I'm sure we'll make do in any case." He smiles, but not happily this time. "We always do."
Nodding, Mogwai jumps down from the table. He opens his mouth to say something, but is interrupted by shouts from above about land. His ears perking up, Mogwai's mouth opens into a huge grin, displaying far too many teeth, all seemingly going in multiple directions at once. "Land!" He repeats with excitement. Dashing from the room, he scurries up on deck. Pausing a second to check for Azeban behind him, Mogwai remembers that he's not allowed, and frowns. 'Everyone should be allowed to see land after months at sea.' he decides. The deck fills up with more and more people hoping to see it, and after a few moments Mogwai's own vision is obscured by the larger bodies and he finds himself unable to see land, doubling down on his previous decision.
Mogwai begins jumping up and down, trying to see over the shoulders of some of the others. He catches glimpses of some things on the island itself - stormclouds, a green glow, but he doesn't understand what they mean.
Sorala nods as Karzok speaks, her eyes unfocused, as if she's lost in thought. "Yeah. I remember my first long water journey." Reflexively, the Squire glanced around, uncomfortable speaking about her past in such a crowded setting. "Three days and nights out on Glacier Lake. It was bitterly cold at night, we all gathered around the coal lamps and under a mountain of furs, barely made it bearable. Lots of excitement at first, though, seeing the crystaline waters and the ice flows... and then monotony. I suspect this'll be similar. Without the ice. Hopefully."
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Sorala wasn't entirely sure if Henne was serious or not. She decided it was better if he was. "I, yeah, I... Look, if you draw a line straight west, across the ocean, would we be above it or below it? I mean, we can be both north and west of Absalom or south and west, right?"
Gods, the man was dim.
Feeling some excitement behind her, Murob moves away from the railing to make space for the hop-hopping goblin. "Hi, Mogwai. How's old Azeban? Do the herbs I gave him help any with his cooking?" Her smile has the barest suggestion of fangs, which is why she doesn't smile that often, but with Mogwai it's different. They're both different, both finding it difficult to fit in. After she boarded the ship, Murob had naturally gravitated towards others who were on the fringes of human society, those who were other in subtle or in obvious ways. Mogwai was one of the obvious ones, and she recalls her burning curiosity at learning about his story. Another obvious one was the other half-orc, but with him she hadn't dared more than exchange introductions. There was a taut intensity about him that made her wary, a razor-sharp sense of terrible purpose. Thinking of Karzok brings his friend to her awareness and she dares to intrude in her conversation.
"I think we are now south-west of Absalom. My brother showed me a map once, copied from a cartographer of the Society." Her hands start sketching shapes in the air as her eyes narrow in the effort to remember. "The Inner Sea would sit about here, with Absalom on its island like a stone in a gullet. If you go straight west from Absalom you run into the shattered continent of Azlant, but we went around, and since Azlant is now on our right, that means we went the southern route."
Henne's eyebrows raise at Murob's interjection. "There's your answer, I guess," he says, sighing. "Maps and s~~$." He stands up straight and extends a meaty hand to shake Murob's in a strong grip. "I'm Henne. Who are you?"
She is slightly taken aback at Henne's directness, but recovers quickly. "Er, Murob. Murob Dura Gash. Herbalist. From Lastwall."
She fidgets for a moment as she thinks of what else to say, then asks in Henne's general direction, but also encompassing the Ulfen woman. "Are you looking forward to landfall?"
Henne shrugs. "Looking more forward to the things we might find when we get there than the landfall itself. Landfall is just dropping anchor, right?"
"...it is the monsters that should be afraid of us. We are the more advanced ones. We have organized armies, and fortresses, and weapons which they cannot fathom."
"You might not be wrong, Baldric. I've never understood why we haven't conquered the Lowlands."
Yosiah's eyes went wide for a moment, and then he threw back his head, a peal of wheezing laughter escaping his lips. "If you think any amount of weaponry and organization makes one lick of difference in the lowlands, you're sorely mistaken, friends! The jungle is too thick to see more than ten paces out, and Lowlanders know every rut, every exposed branch, every place a horse or man can trip and be chopped to pieces, even if by stone axes. It's the lucky who survive that kind of battle, not the organized. No, it's best we remain content with what bounty we have, rather than risk lives taking more. Pigs get fed, men, while hogs get slaughtered. I'm quite content to be a piggy."
North of the Wall of Heaven is what is basically a plateau blessed with fertile farmlands and good weather, which is where the civilizations are. There are four nations, and you belong to the nation of Kansai, the southern-most country. I imagine Kansai as sort of like Toussaint from the Witcher (except for less obviously French). It's protected by knightly orders of holy warriors who are ordained by the country's highly unusual pantheon, it's got beautiful fields which grow luxuries, noblemen with weird priorities, etc.
The Wall of Heaven crosses the whole continent, separating the North from the South, and the fortress is right at the mouth of the one valley. You are just a few miles from the fortress, and there are several other fortresses to the east and west, which watch different areas.
The Southern Lowlands indeed do have a reputation for savagery. People do live down there, and they are typically considered dangerous and threatening, but the most prevalent threats would be the predatory monsters. Frequently they are huge and dangerous, and nobody wants any of them getting up the valley to do any rampaging in the homeland.
The fortress is farther to the east than it is west, with the ocean to the east being about 1200 miles away, while the ocean to the west is about 300 miles away. It is likely that if you were to see the ocean, you would be stationed at a different fortress shortly. This is what I'm planning to happen. You start working at the Trituradora, get rotated to a different post, and run into the PCs after that.
Baldric nearly chuckles, the barest glimpse of a smile almost making it to his face. "We shall see," he says.
Underneath all the commotion on deck a lone man finds himself staring out a porthole, eyes watching the mesmerizing motions of the waves as they come and go. It was in these moments of solitude that voices once so familiar reached out to him and old pains resurfaced. Wasn't he simply running away? Were his beliefs, that women are equal to men in all things in the eyes of Erastil, not just a result of his anger and sorrow? And shouldn't he, as old Father Csabir had suggested, have looked for a widow of around his age so that they might sow the seeds of tomorrow together and grow over their pains? With a loud sudden snap he closed the porthole. Perhaps, but here I am.
The man left his room to go looking for company, wanting nothing more than to talk about tomorrow. No wonder sailors tended to be a little loony. Man wasn't made to spend this much time on a ship at sea.
Sorala nodded. She had studied geography a bit in her youth, but most of it was geared towards the holdings of Irrisen and its near neighbors and enemies, the Linnorm Kings. The White Witches discouraged any knowledge of the world beyond that. The less their subjects knew of the outside world, the better; they would be less likely to flee.
"Thank you, Murob. It makes sense to me. What is this society that your brother is a part of? And yes, I'm quite looking forward to landfall. To be so untethered from the world I've known is... at once, ah, I don't know the word in Taldane. It is... besksöta. It means, like to be a wolfhound let loose on the plains, at once excited and afraid."
"Oh, the Pathfinder Society, but my brother is not a member, only an... enthusiast. He prizes knowledge for its own sake, while I am a little more... practical. And I know exactly what you mean - so much unknown it is frightening, yes, but it also contains infinite potential. And so many beginnings." She smiles at Sorala. "I like beginnings."
Murob's curiosity is pushing her to ask questions, to find out what drove this woman so far from her home, but she doesn't want to risk this delicate thread that is spinning between them, so she offers a bit of her own story instead, hoping the others will reciprocate.
"My world never stayed the same for long. My brother and I were born in Lastwall, but we travelled half the continent since then, settling here and there for a few years, then having to leave again. It is for his sake, and my parents', that I am here now." She shrugs. "If one place won't have us, maybe the one we're headed to will."
Just as Murob finishes her sharing time, thunder booms, and then booms a second time. The clear and beautiful blue skies begin to fill with frighteningly dark clouds in absolutely no time at all, and it begins to rain. Thunder booms a third time, and you can see lightning arcing and splitting in beautiful but intimidating patterns across the sky. The boat begins to rock gently with waves of increasing size striking across her bow.
Dareon, the ranger up in the crow's nest, puts a hand to his forehead and squints. The captain shouts at him about the weather being clear, and he shouts back that it's impossible that a storm is striking not only today, but so quickly!
Many of the civilians begin to retreat down into the covered main deck of the ship, complaining and protesting at the rain, holding something up over their heads if they have something to hold.
On the wind, you can hear something. In between the increasing gusts, you can hear chanting. Like a command that just keeps on going. It must be booming with volume because there is absolutely nothing anywhere nearby.
- - - -
Yosiah and company ride without too much more comment into the entryway of the Trituradora, where they find another twenty or so freshly-assigned other soldiers also leading their bulls into the stabling.
The commander is, as would probably be expected, a large and intimidating career-military man, and gives a speech about the dangers of the Lowlands, the constant vigilance that is required in order to survive while on patrol, and the loyalty that he expects and requires from everybody.
Then, he dismisses the group. A group of four different commanding officers comes into the courtyard and begin shouting different names. Each person is to be assigned to one of the four commanders of the four different nearby forts. Yosiah is assigned to Commander Lewis, a hard-bitten younger woman, along with Baldric. Helga is assigned to one of the far-eastern forts, while Cleo is assigned to the Trituradora itself. When he hears this, he pumps his fist and grins. He leans in towards Yosiah and murmurs, "Right at the front lines, eh? I'll see a monster before I can snap!"
Karzok grunts as the rains begin to pelt his armor. He quickly stashes his tattered book of Tien legends which he was flipping through to pass the time until landfall.
As he heads below deck he runs into Sorala and Henne, conversing with a female half-orc he'd spotted aboard, but hadn't yet had the chance to speak to, "Hello, my friend." He says to Sorala, and then glances at Murob, giving her a blank stare, unsure how to interact with another half-breed. "Did you all get a cha--" he stops short as his ears pick up the chanting between the claps of thunder, "A storm that speaks? Should we anticipate encountering such strange things in this foreign land?"
Feeling some excitement behind her, Murob moves away from the railing to make space for the hop-hopping goblin. "Hi, Mogwai. How's old Azeban? Do the herbs I gave him help any with his cooking?" Her smile has the barest suggestion of fangs, which is why she doesn't smile that often, but with Mogwai it's different. They're both different, both finding it difficult to fit in. After she boarded the ship, Murob had naturally gravitated towards others who were on the fringes of human society, those who were other in subtle or in obvious ways. Mogwai was one of the obvious ones, and she recalls her burning curiosity at learning about his story. Another obvious one was the other half-orc, but with him she hadn't dared more than exchange introductions. There was a taut intensity about him that made her wary, a razor-sharp sense of terrible purpose. Thinking of Karzok brings his friend to her awareness and she dares to intrude in her conversation.
"Azeban good." Mogwai replies, pleased that Murob made some room for him. He politely looks at her despite his desire to look out at the ocean and approaching land. "Flowers help taste. Mogwai almost did not believe it. Goblins not usually put grass or flowers in food." He smiles, "Murob wiser than goblins, even goblin shamans."
As the storm comes in from nowhere, Mogwai's ears perk up in excitement and then fold down in concern and fear. At the sound of chanting, Mogwai begins to follow some old goblin rituals of protection, before stopping himself. "No." He reminds himself. "No fear. Sarenrae here always. She protect Mogwai from storms and darkness."
While others flee downstairs, Mogwai braves the storm, and cranes his ears to listen for what the voices on the waves might be saying. Even if he didn't know what it meant, others like Murob might.
"Chants. Magic. Someone, or something, is behind this rain!"
Sorala scans the deck, looking for an officer, looking for direction, a shiver crawling up her back. "We should do what we can to secure the ship. I--"
The squire tilts her head again, listening to the chanting. "I fear someone is trying to sink us."
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"Dynámeis aiolikís kai thálassas, proséxte tin klísi mou! Férte kýmata pou katastréfoun ta ploía kai válte vrochí pou perivállei óla! Férte ton ánemo na chtypísei ta paniá kai afíste aftá na mou féroun ti gennaiodoría mou!"
Mogwai stands (relatively) tall on the deck of the ship, and as he listens for whatever might be making the noises that can be heard within the storm, the Marie Celeste is struck across her bow by a wave of herculean size. Everyone on the deck is immediately thrown off of their feet as the ship rocks dangerously, a wave of vertigo following the one of water. Even as the ship begins to rock back onto the correct alignment, you can see another wave, even larger than the last, rising up out of the sea.
The sail above you begins to rip with the force of the wind. You can see Dareon, thrown from the crow's nest by the impact of the wave, flailing in the water to port.
"That... doesn't sound like any storm I know. But perhaps things are different here...?" Murob looks at the others, seeking some manner of confirmation that maybe, yes, chanting storms are normal at sea. Noticing their startled reactions, she concludes that this is not, indeed, the case. Leaning over the railing, she strains to make sense of the phenomenon, the wind whipping at her clothes and the rain soaking her to the skin in a matter of moments.
The alarm in the Ulfen woman's voice makes her blood run cold. She had never been very good at swimming, and with land so far away she judges their chances of survival as very slim, should the ship sink. Just as she starts to turn around and ask what does one usually do in such an event, she is thrown onto the deck, sliding on the wet wood until she lands against a coil of rope with a painful thunk. Scrabbling to her feet, she rushes back to the others, both hands grasping the railing firmly and shouting to be heard above the din.
"This is no natural storm! Someone is controlling the weather! Strong caster, too! Someone is doing this on pur..." She is interrupted by a splash, barely audible over the sounds of wind, rain and the giant waves striking the hull. "He fell in the water! The man from the top, he's in the water!"
Rushing back to the coil of rope, she snatches one end and throws it to the flailing sailor, hoping the man can hold on to it and be pulled aboard.
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Karzok stops his descent with the others and the hairs on the back of his neck rise as Sorala claims that someone is trying to sink the ship. He crashes to the deck with a grunt as the great wave slams into the hull, but is quick to regain his footing.
Through the din of thunderous waves and ominous chanting, Karzok can just barely make out Murob's calls for help. He rushes to the rail while pulling a few items from his pack. He ties the end of his silk rope to an arrow and lets loose, firing in the area of the lookout, hoping not to skewer him outright.
Karzok and Murob pick themselves off of the deck of the ship and rush over to the rain-soaked railway. Working to tie a rope to one of his arrowheads, he points, draws, and tries to let an arrow fly. Right at that moment, the ship passes over the crest of a large wave and begins to free-fall. Karzok's aim loses stability immediately and he fires directly into the railway itself. The arrow bounces and flips off into the abyss.
A sailor, soaked and disgruntled, stumbles over to the center of the ship where Sorala, Mogwai, and Henne are. "What are you doing, civilians? You're supposed to get below!" He grips a slick rope, winding it around himself before he begins to climb the main mast. The sail is ripping, and it needs to be taken down soon lest it be destroyed.
While climbing back up to the main deck, Ehiz hears a sudden scream for help from a woman behind one of the cabin doors. Flinging it open, he sees a young woman cradling a young man in her arms. The young man has a serious gash on his head, and it's bleeding all down his face. "Help! He hit his head after the last wave!" screams the woman.
A powerful wind picks up behind the ship, pushing it at great speed across the sea's surface. At the same time, the next towering wave strikes across the aft of the ship, sending it into a dangerous tailspin. With the ship's movements so chaotic, it is very difficult to walk straight.
The woman's panic shake whatever dark thoughts still linger in Ehiz's head right out. The sight of blood and the notion of trauma bring Ehiz a sense of clarity, but the ocean's angry outbursts make it hard for the priest to give the man proper care. Waves, blood all over his face, he most likely suffered some sort of head trauma. Healing the flesh should be simple enough, but the mind? Erastil watch over us. He then stumbles forward with the intention of doing the best he can given the circumstances.
"I'm a trained healer, please hold him while I have a look at him. And whatever you do, don't pray to Besmara."
Also, I feel like Ehiz wouldn't squander his God's gifts so, next to using this opportunity for RP the way it should be, he won't just take the lazy route and burst a 1D6 channel energy into the room.
Yosiah shivers as he enters Trituradora, eyeing the oppressively large walls as he passes through the gate. This place makes me feel so damned insignificant. I pray I'm not stationed here. I couldn't bear to be crushed under the weight of this place's self-importance.
As he dismounts from his bull, Yosiah bends down and touches his toes, stretching and twisting his back, trying to work out all of the soreness and cramped muscles that come with a long ride. He pulls his hatchet and shield from the saddle, and gestures at the stable-boy. "Be kind to him. Pezuno was kind to me on a long, hard road. I will collect my rucksack later. Just leave it near his stall."
- - - - -
A few minutes later, Corporal Crint stands at attention, shoulder-to-shoulder with his traveling companions. Here comes the speech about vigilance and loyalty....3...2...1...there it is! He bites his lip to avoid chuckling as his Commander says the phrase nearly on-cue.
As he is given his assignment, Yosiah feels a palpable wave of relief wash over him. Lewis is a good woman...and Baldric is strange, but there's nobody else I'd rather have at my back in a fight.
He groans at Cleo, nudging him teasingly with his buckler "Come off it, Cleo. You'll see a monster and then you'll snap. In half. When it eats you." Yosiah stares intensely at his brazen young squadmate for a moment, pausing for comedic/dramatic effect, "The snap is your bones. I don't know if you caught that, but..."
After watching Cleo's face take a sickly pallor, Yosiah turns to walk away, retrieving his rucksack and finding an empty cot to occupy for the night, excited to be departing in the morning.
"No!" exclaims Murob as Karzok misses his shot. "Try again!" She focuses on getting the rhythm of the waves so that the next shot is not wasted, thinking what a terrifying, agonizing death awaits the lookout if their efforts fail now. Putting all her will into it, she grits her teeth and beseeches the world to bend to her desperate need, just this once. The gaze she turns on the other half-orc at her side is withering in its intensity as she mutely pleads with him to save the sailor. Her belief in him is absolute; he must, must succeed.
Karzok curses as his arrow hits the rail and starts as Murob pleads with him to try again with such intensity. "Yes! The arrow, where is it?!" His hands shaking--he's not accustomed to acting decisively under so much pressure--he searches the deck for the tied off arrow. Clearing the rope from any obstruction, he steadies himself on the lurching deck before taking a bead on the churning waters near the man and firing again.
This time his aim is true and the arrow slices into the water a few feet from the struggling sailor, "The rope, grab onto it!" He bellows.
"Aha, Yosiah, you will see. My might will be proven whether you believe in me or not. The only one whose faith that I need is that of the Dawnflower."
Without the time for too many more words, the compatriots are separated. Yosiah is assigned a bunk for the night along with three other soldiers, and when the morning comes himself, Commander Lewis,
and the four other soldiers assigned to the eastern fortress are assembled and ready to depart.
The group proceeds right back to the road and within a few days of hard riding the group reaches the Eastern Fortress. Less imposing and terror-inducing than the Trituradora, the Eastern Fortress is built primarily into a hill, like a halfling's hole. Stone towers rise from the hill in the usual places, but most of it is below ground.
Yosiah is assigned to a watch patrol very quickly, given a tour of the facility, introduced to his superiors, and falls into a routine relatively fast. His job mostly consists of getting groups with a small number of his compatriots and walking in a wide arc around the fortress, looking out for anything dangerous. Alternately, he stands at the top of the tower on watch, repairs defensive fortifications that need maintenance, or uses his healing ability to heal some accidental or purposeful injury that an ally received.
Presently, Yosiah is on patrol. Baldric is coincidentally with him,
and their current mission is to bury some contraption that Baldric came up with on the sides of one of the roads leading further into the valley. The contraption is like a disc, but is thick and has a strange variety of knobs and switches on top. Baldric digs shallow holes for the little devices and then places them carefully inside, merely covering them with dirt. He's lining the edges of the road with them. All day, he has been completely silent and focused on his work, and your job has been to watch out for him.
Karzok retrieves and - with Murob's help - manages to fire the rope approximately into the right place. Even through the driving rain he can see the lookout lunge towards the rope in the water and grab it. The rope tightens with the lookout's grip. Suddenly though, the Marie Celeste begins to lurch dangerously towards starboard, having found itself on the edge of a monster wave. The slick rope begins to uncoil and slip away over the edge of the deck while Dareon falls out of the field of vision.
Ehiz falls to his knees beside the injured man. Not having tools immediately available, he pulls out a waterskin and rinses the wound while getting the woman to rip up the man's shirt into strips to bind the wound with. Without using magic or having more time, there isn't that much he can do to really heal the man, but at least he won't bleed out.
From below decks, the sound of people screaming comes. "We're taking on water!" is one of only a few coherent thoughts that arise from lower decks. And yes, you can hear it - the rushing and burbling of water.
The half-orc woman gives a shout of triumph as the lookout grabs onto the rope. Her elation is short-lived, however, as the ship heaves and the sailor's lifeline starts slithering overboard. "Ah-hah. Ahahaha. AHAHAHA! No, you don't!" Her laughter is tinged with despair as she shouts at Karzok. "The rope! Grab the rope!" She stamps a foot on the rapidly uncoiling thread, putting her weight on it to try and stop its progress.
As soon as the boat starts pitching, Sorala looks for the nearest coil of rope, and begins tying herself to the mast -- but, the wave comes first, pushing the Irrisenian off her feet. She slides across the deck, face first into the guards. Getting to her knees, one hand still gripping her rope coil, Sorala reaches up reflexively for her face, feeling warm blood, and winces as she touches her nose. Broken-
The squire's thoughts are interrupted by the realization that they've got a man overboard, and Sorala frantically begins tying herself again, eyes widening as she sees Karzock and Murob fumbling with an arrow. "Tie yourself off! He's lost! Gods, you two, ge--"
Then, shockingly, the sailor isn't lost. Karzock tries again, and the arrow lands a few feet from Dareon. The rope tightens, and - "Gods damn! He's got it!"
Running as the deck pitches again, Sorala dives towards the rope, as it slips over the deck, the Irrisenian grabbing the rope and planting her feet against the rail...
The elation of his shot finding it's mark is short-lived as the deck pitches once more and the struggling sailor falls out of view. Karzok reacts similarly with Murob and Sorala, quickly grabbing the uncoiling rope, bracing himself against the rail and, with a great grunt, flexes all of his muscles against the weight of the water-logged man at sea.
"We've got him, now pull!"
Karzok, Sorala, and Murob all heave and yank on the slippery rope that the errant watchman desperately clings to the other end of. All the while, the ship that they all stand on rocks dangerously side to side, rushing down the side of monstrous waves while nearly stalling going up the other side of the next one. Wind and water whip painfully into the eyes, and the deck is slick below your feet. Sailors run back and forth in a panic, heaving this way and that on the wheel or running down into the depths of the ship to bail or pump water.
The man climbing the mast reaches the top and begins to undo the knots tying the sail to the mast. As you watch, several of the hooks and knots come undone and wrap around him, and as he curses and tries to free himself, the sail catches a powerful backwards gust and rips free from the mast, carrying the poor sailor with it. Screaming, he flies off into the darkness, carried by the sail. The rope he tied to himself unravels and then snaps when it reaches its end.
Karzok heaves powerfully on the rope, pulling the ship's watchman closer and closer to the ship, when a shape looms out of the darkness in front of the ship. Revealed for a moment by the heaving water, a huge sharp rock sticks from the seabed. The Marie Celeste stands poised at the top of a wave, teetering on its edge for a terrifying moment before plunging down it at great speed, directly towards the rocks.
Ehiz falls to his knees beside the injured man. Not having tools immediately available, he pulls out a waterskin and rinses the wound while getting the woman to rip up the man's shirt into strips to bind the wound with. Without using magic or having more time, there isn't that much he can do to really heal the man, but at least he won't bleed out.
From below decks, the sound of people screaming comes. "We're taking on water!" is one of only a few coherent thoughts that arise from lower decks. And yes, you can hear it - the rushing and burbling of water.
A face filled with concern eyes the wounded man. With the ship making water and the man being in no state to swim, Ehiz feels a real obligation to go above and beyond for man. He starts to chant in an otherworldly language and pulls forth mystical energies with his hands, a purple mist swirling around his fingers, and administers them to the man best as he can in these conditions.
Please don't let his mind be fractured by the impact of the collission!
Sorala's head swivels, her eyes following the sailor as far as she can, as the man flies screaming into the darkness. Halpert? Hogram?
What was his name? Guess it doesn't ma--
Turning back to the rope, her concentration is drawn away again, this time as the ship pitches and tilts down, directly into the path of a large, dark, shape, rising out of the sea. Doesn't matter.
Letting the rope slip from her hands, Sorala stands, wobbling, and stares at the rock, resignation settling about her like a fog.
Pointing, the White Squire utters one simple syllable to her companions. "Balls."
Yosiah leans against a tree, hatchet in one hand, buckler lashed to the wrist of the other. He twirls the axe in his hand, admiring the beautiful forest view, the sound of birds squawking and chirping, the faint buzz of the ubiquitous insects seeking food. A man could get used to this he thinks, as he turns his gaze back toward Baldric, his dour squadmate working tirelessly. "You nearly done yet, Bal?" He pushes off of the tree, stretching his arms behind his back and walking towards the other man. "We're bound to be here until after dark if you've much more to do, and I'd hate for that to be the case. This place is beautiful by day, but the mean bastards will be out before too much longer."
Baldric winds a little knob on the device that he's fiddling with for the moment before placing it in a hole that he'd dug a few minutes previously. "Only a few more of these," he grunts. "If you want to wander off and enjoy the flowers and butterflies, be my guest." He stands up, grabs his shovel, and goes through his bag for a scale. He tips dirt into a bowl that he places on the scale until he seems satisfied, and then pours the dirt carefully onto the device.
"If you think the savages and the beasts wait until nightfall to come out and feed, you're fooling yourself." He walks a few feet down the road and he begins to dig another hole, and as he starts digging a sound emanates from the forest, as if to punctuate his words: a booming hiss, the crash of a tree, and the rush of scales on wood... coming towards you.
- - - - -
Each of you - the passengers on the Marie Celeste - awaken. Birds chirp and caw and shriek above and around you, and your bodies ache with the pain of a dozen bruises, all over. You find yourselves on a beach in the morning, with clear and beautiful blue skies and seagulls circling above. The beach is covered in fine, soft sand, and littered with large hunks of wood, sailcloth, metal, and the occasional body of a person. A large section of the Marie Celeste can be seen - the upper fifteen feet of its mail hull, divorced from the lower parts. The mast is snapped and lies across the topdeck.
None of you is hurt in any serious way.
The beach is bordered by a thick, trackless jungle, a few hundred feet from the shore. Undergrowth gets thicker and thicker the farther it gets from the shore, and the first few rows of trees are bent from constant wind.
Tears well up in the corners of Ehiz's eyes. How could a first view over such a beautiful sight be so twisted and tainted by the needless suffering of mortals? A young sailor, barely midway through his twenties, embraced the uncaring sands of the beach. The man's right arm was torn off right underneath the elbow, but no blood stained the pristine sands around him.
Ehiz crawls up from the sand and winces, feeling every single rib moan in painful protest. "Gods above and below, what happened?" he asks himself outloud. Gently his hands reach for his ribs and bring forth a soft humming as divine power radiates from them.
+ removes the Fatigued condition.
Only then does he take in if there are any other survivors.
Karzok groans as he wretches sea water into the sands. He waits a moment for his vision to clear as he takes in his immediate surroundings. Their voyage was over, the ship was lost. And with that, his chances of catching his father's killers were also forfeit.
Panic knifes through his chest as he pats himself down, realizing his Tien book was lost at sea. His last memento of his father was gone. "GGRRrruuuuaaAAAHHH!" he bellows in utter futility, startling a few colorful birds in the nearby trees which quickly take flight to avoid the growling menace on the beach.
Karzok sat up, his head hanging low, hot tears streaming down his face.
He had nothing left to live for. All was lost.
Ehiz sits up and looks around for survivors. Other than one half-orc man, screaming into the sky, there is one obvious survivor. Picking herself out of the remains of the ship is a young woman. Well-built, she is wearing the ragged remains of what once must have been a beautiful blouse and pants. She doesn't look very hurt, other than a few bruises.
There are about forty other bodies here and there on the beach, or on the ship. It would take several minutes to check them all for signs of life, but if he wants to start, he can range around the beach looking.
"Brlhf." Spitting out a mouthful of wet, salty sand, Murob slowly gets to her hands and knees, shaking her head to clear it and dislodging some seaweed in the process. She immediately regrets the movement, as a wave of dizziness comes over her, and she almost collapses back onto the sand. The waves licking at her feet make her think better of it and she crawls a few meters up the beach, where she sits and takes in her new surroundings. A mix of feelings assault her and she takes a few moments to sort them out - relief at being alive, curiosity (how did she survive? where is she? what is this place?), fear for her shipmates, grief for those who lost their lives. It is the last two who get her on her feet and moving, as she finally notices the bodies scattered at the surf line and the remains of the ship. Patting her pockets and various belt pouches to take stock of her resources, she crouches by the closest figure, checking for signs of life.
As she moves along the beach, she keeps glancing at the tree line, at the sky, at the curious birds, tasting and sniffing the air in an effort to determine where they could have ended up. Providing assistance to those who are still alive is, of course, paramount, but she tries to remember where the larger pieces of wreckage are - for later investigation.
Yosiah tenses, every muscle wound up, ready to spring into action. His eyes dart from side to side, and he lifts one finger to his lips, looking down at Baldric in the universal gesture for "silence."
He twirls his hatchet in his left hand, muttering a silent prayer to Kofusachi. Please, let us be lucky enough to survive today. Please, let this creature find a meal and be done approaching us. Please, let Baldric hear what I hear, that he may prepare himself.
He lets out a short "psst" noise directed at his squadmate. "Baldric! Be ready! A beast nears."