Doran hesitates at John’s suggestion, thinking, I not only have to sail with them, I have to pretend to be like them, get them to trust me, even like me? He looks John in the eye, and is about to say he won’t do it, that he’s lived and sailed with such scum before, and he couldn’t bear some of the things he’d surely have to do to fit in with this villainous crew. But he changes his mind.
”You’re right, John. They’ll hate you and Iakob, for who you are and who you’ve been, and they’ll spot you as soldiers in a trice. I’ve sailed as a pirate before, as you may know, and should fit in no problem – if I can stand to live and act as they do. But it’ll give us a chance we won’t have otherwise. It’s a good plan.”
Turning to the others in the hold, Doran asks, ”Any of the rest of you want to join me in hating this bunch? Ollivor, they’ll treat you well enough for being able to cook, and Vrunyar will likely be valued as a healer without having to trick anyone. But I’d be pleased to have either of you in my little fiction, acting dead-set against the soldier boys and their friends. Wynifrid? Or your elf friend? What do you think? I can run the game on my own, but it might be useful to have one other person I can be seen talking to, in case our scheme is bound for a leeward shore and I need a spare hand on the tiller. Think about it. For now, I’m going to go sit over there, away from you all, so when they come for us they’ll see I’m not on talkin’ terms with you lot.”
Doran waits for any of the others to respond, then makes his way to the furthest possible spot from his companions in the dark little hold and hunkers down.
Wyn nods. "I won't enjoy it, but I think the plan makes sense. I'm just a barmaid. I'm sure good at knocking a few heads together to end a barfight, but there's nothing military about me at all. I can talk a good game when I put my mind to it, but you'll have to give me some tips, Doran. The only thing to worry about is what Endymion's told this Harrigan--if he knows I'm one of the slave rebels, he may have his eye on me. But then, what the Captain thinks of me and the crew might be two different things.
"On that end, I'd worry about Thorn too. He started the riot, and thus seen as its leader. If Harrigan knows that, it may cause my friend some problems."
Riki weakly speaks from the crate he is sitting on, with not an ounce of his usual mirth. "I'll help you out too. People like me, so it shouldn't be a problem. I'll keep an eye out, help you guys roll with the punches and avoid the worst of it. We can get out of this if we play our hands right, but we'll prob'bly have to do some stuff that we don't want to before this is all said and done. I'm prepared to do what needs to be done, but are you all? Keep in mind that these are pirates, not Abadarian missionaries preparing for Taxfest."
Ollivor mutters"I'm not going to treat any living creature like I hate them at this point. Sorry. Maybe if I stay on as a cook they'll think it won't matter, but I just don't think I've got it in me to kiss arse on scum and then hate good men, or pretend to."
Thorn sits in the dark corner of the hold with his head and back resting against the wall, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles along with his arms crossed at his chest. Thorn appears to be sleeping at peace but his mind is swirling with a torrent of new memories, new failures and more rage filling his soul. A second time he faced the winged devil and failed to bring her down. "If I only had my bow" Thorn says to himself "or my sword, then I would have made her into a pin cushion before I took her head." Thorn slowly fades from his thoughts as he begins to listen to the group of new passengers.
After a while of listening in to their conversations, Thorn hears his named spoken by Wyn. Thinking to himself she proved to be a sturdy combatant even though her training pointed to street fighting and bar room brawls. She obviously has never been battle tested until now. "I like a dirty fighter, you never know when they will pull your hair" he says to himself with a grin breaking his blank face.
Thorn opens his eyes and gives a once over the group as a whole before examining each one from head to toe. His elf blood comes in handy in low light and dark places allowing him to see where most can not. He notes in his mind key points about the new passengers.
The little fellow has nimble fingers and blends into the shadows unconsciously and at will. "Assassin" Thorn tells himself "but I have never heard an assassin talk as much as this one, Doran I believed he called himself.
The red haired fellow John has seen his fair share of battles judging by his peg leg and the scars only one can receive from battle. His plan is that of a educated man also trained in the ways of battle. Thorn tells himself "He is a soldier, I would bet my bow on it, if I had one." His unconscious friend appears to be a war buddy and another soldier the way John called out about his well being in such a worried tone.
Ollivor appears to be a wandering soul in search of something but their is something different about him. Thorn feels a strange aura radiating from Ollivor, but its not just a strange feeling but he has an ancient presence to him. "He is hiding something" Thorn tells himself.
To top off this bunch of misfits sailor is a dwarf healer, "He is good at his craft" Thorn says to himself as he touches the bandage tightly wrapped around his shoulder and chest. Thorn quickly flashes back to the sharp pain of the Dwarf breaking off the feathered end of an arrow protruding from his upper right chest. The steady pain of the dwarf slowly pushing and pulling the shaft though his body careful not to break the shaft. Drifting in and out of consciousness while the dwarf stitched and bandaged the open wounds. "No infection the gods blessed me by sending this dwarf across my path, I will not forget this" Thorn tells himself.
Thorn speaks up "I will accompany Doran in this charge. I do not believe Harrigan will view my riot as a problem for him but he will see it as an asset to his crew. Every Captain needs fearless warriors under their command and especially one with a history of raiding towns and villages." Thorn turns his head in the direction of Wyn "Wyn, I remember your actions back in the slave hold, you have a good heart and commanding presence but you lack the conviction to pull off the role needed to convince Harrigan. I only give caution as you are free to choose your own path. I would hate to see you jaded, lose your good hearted nature and forever be changed for the worse. You inspire and motivate, something that Harrigan will see as far more dangerous to his ship and crew." Thorn turns towards the others "We will only get one shot at this and if we are going to be working together then we need to plan this out together and make our decision together before we act."
She gives the elf a lopsided smile. "Thorn, I may not have seen the things you have, but my life has had its full share of hardships, and I've usually lost more than I've gained. Perhaps my 'good heart' is itself a mere brave face? I can keep my tells from showing at the card table, even when the stakes are high--unlike you, friend, who shows your hand at all times and are proud to in fact. Trust me to be good at what I say I am, and I'll give you the same benefit of the doubt."
Wyn had spent a life of dealing with customers and rogues, on caravan and in tavern, smiling at scoundrels and showing no pain in fights that had taken all the wind out of her. She could pretend to like a jackanape, she could pretend to hate a good man if the purpose of it was good. And apparently she was better at fooling men than she thought, if Thorn saw her as such an innocent. The hardships at sea were probably the worst she'd seen, yes, but the brutal way in which her family died had left her heart marked at a young age, and living dockside had made her privy to all sorts of depradations, even if she managed to avoid participating in most of them outside of the occasional burst of violence. The cruelties of the world saddened her still, which was good thing, but they never surprised her, and she was certain she could wear them as a mask if she had to.
And indeed, Ollivor, if you don't feel you can do it, then by all means, don't. I don't think any of us here will judge you for being an honest and good man." She nods toward Riki. "After all, we well be called to do awful things, you are right. On the Hellsmouth, we had to turn a blind eye to anything that happened around us, or others would be punished as our punishment. The Chelish used compassion as a weapon. It will as like be seen as a weakness where we're going. And they may force our hand at some point--but I think it's better to try and keep it going as long as we can. If they expect us to kill John or Iakob, then we can't take it that far, yes?"
Vrunyar tries to take comfort from the dark hold, but the odors are far from the familiar perfume of stone, valuable metals, and cavern fungus. He is lost in his thoughts, trying to remember the pirate stories Yennard told him. Did he mention Captain Barnabas Harrigan? Maybe he’s associated with Yennards’ family or the Bakers. Or if not associated, at least friendly or known. How long will it be before that crew sent to the Lighthouse find Yennard’s corpse What do I say then? What if Harrigan and Yennard’s father are enemies? It’s as if all of his tension was funneled into his hands. They ball up, flex, and contort as if they were two scared animals. His thumbs press his knuckles and finger tips.
John’s question about Iakob’s health breaks Vrunyar from his contemplations. ”Iakob? He will recover. Let me check his pulse.” The dwarf squeezes past the people in the hold. In the tight quarters he steps on a foot, but can’t identify the owner with the press of bodies. ”Ah sorry! That was an accident. Oh, did introductions occur?” He looks at the new faces briefly as he kneels next to Iakob. ”Vrunyar Magmabeard, wishing we met under better circumstances. Ha! Don’t we all, don’t we all.”
Holding Iakob’s wrist, he smiles as the strong and regular heartbeat is felt. ”His pulse is excellent. Just resting.” He gently puts the man’s hand on his chest and returns to where he was originally sitting, going slower this time as he shuffles his feet to lessen the chances of stepping on another person.
”I agree with Doran about hope being essential. As for the subterfuge? I think it’s a good idea, but I don’t think I could play such a part very well. Does anyone know about this Captain? Stories? Tall-tales?”
Ollivor glances over at Thorn noticing his scrutiny Well, I can't say I'm familiar with elvish customs. Maybe they're just that way.
When the elf speaks, Ollivor shrugs and piles in his two copper bits, "Seems to me we need to find a pattern before we can really make a plan. Get to know the ways and means and then find the hole in them. I'm not very good with rules, but it seems to me one good thing about learning them is it teaches you how better to get around em or break them entire."
And indeed, Ollivor, if you don't feel you can do it, then by all means, don't. I don't think any of us here will judge you for being an honest and good man.
Ollivor smiles, "Oh, you give me too much credit. I can lie. Have done so, will do so. I just don't think I can stomach lying like THAT. Still, I can try to spread a rumor or two if one needs it. A lot of this counts on me being in the galley, but cooks meet everyone eventually."
"Fair enough, on both counts. Who knows what will happen when... or if we get there. But it's good to have some kind of plan--better to change it as needed than not have one at all, I think."
Doran grins and says, "Remember, mates, we're supposed to pretend to fight amongst ourselves, not actually come to doin' it. I'm not gonna like it, but I've no doubt I can pass meself off as an able hand who's been a-rovin', because it's not a hair's breadth from the truth. But I'll tell ye, when pirates hate each other, they're no' shy about it. On me last shipwreck, I had a man willin' ta let go of the timber keepin' him afloat, just so's he could try ta drown me, when all I wanted ta do was git away from 'im. So we'll be tested hard, afore we're done with this little game Rawkins has dreamed up. But I think it's our best chance, even so."
Doran makes his way across the hold, waving to Riki to join him and saying "I'm not sure which of you plan to be on which side - though I think Ollivor and the doc have the right of it, they should stay on the straight 'n narrow, such as it is. But any's that are gonna be hatin' em, best come over wit' me and sit apart, so our distaste for 'em is clear, like I said. And so we can cook up a little tale about why we can't stand the sight of 'em."
The ship pitches as they sail, slowly leaning the captive crew in the darkness of the store room to the left, then right, then left. They sit in the darkness for several hours, huddling together and speaking in hushed tones as they plot how to navigate their new fate. Eventually, their eyes accustom themselves to the darkness, giving them some more ability to communicate among themselves. Vrunyar keeps checking on Iakob, who is healthy but doesn't awaken as much as they wish he would.
The sound of heavy thumping steps lets the captives know that someone is coming. Their unseen captor unlatches a heavy beam that drops with a loud crash. As the door swings open, rays of the sun beam through some small gaps in the ceiling above and from the stairs further away. Two of their captors stand expectantly at the threshold. One is the man that they saw when they were still on the Empty Lighthouse, the pale man who appeared to be the ship's mate wearing a long coat over no shirt. The other is the man with the whip, which he currently has in hand. The first man speaks with a crisp accent marking him as a Chelaxian by birth, "I am Rickard Plugg, first mate of Captain Barnabas Harrigan. You are the newest crew members of the fine ship Wormwood. Joining the crew is a voluntary act, of course, but those who decline will be of little use to us." It is clear that there is no way to survive except by "volunteering." He continues, "You'll earn your keep on the ship by doing whatever we tell you to. If you have any special skills, we'll put them to use. If you hide your skills or decide not to pull your fair share of work, let me introduce you to my brother."
The second man looks them over silently, glowering at them with a sullen glare. He has enough slack in the whip that the tip barely touches the ground, and he snakes it slowly and unconsciously on the ground. He doesn't speak, but Rickard does. "My brother doesn't answer to the name that our snake of a father gave us. He has chosen the name Scourge, though all of you will call him Master. Find out why he chose this name at your own peril. Come now, to the deck." The brothers turn and head up the stairs, with the captives joining them in the bright sunlight.
Squinting on the deck, the prisoners look at the blue sky above them and the blue sea stretching in all directions around them. In truth, it is more than many of them could have expected had they remained on the Hellsmouth. As they look around, the Empty Lighthouse is nowhere to be seen in any distance around them. The crew of the Wormwood surrounds their new members, some of them looking on with curiosity and some with malice. A pile of items sits in the middle of the deck, in chests and baskets as well as loose. A number of weapons sit in pile, and the captives quickly recognize the items as their own possessions. Plugg speaks to them again, this time carrying his voice to the full crew. "This belongs to the lot of you, does it not? Defy me, and you will find your belongings given to more loyal members of the crew. If you want any hope of receiving your beloved mementos, letters to home, heirloom weapons, you will find your attitude to be fully cooperative. Now, who among you all wishes to speak? Are the terms of the ship acceptable, or do you need motivation?"
Doran speaks up, making no effort to hide his origins in Cheliax, ”Acceptable? It’s music to my ears! I’ve been sailin’ with this crew of self-righteous Andoran soldier-types for weeks, and I’ve had my fill of ‘em, I can tell ye. As you can probably guess, I used ta sail under a Chelish flag, if you take my meaning. I struck out on my own when the opportunity presented itself, and ended up with a crew of do-gooders, with a couple of exceptions, thankfully,” he adds, nodding at Riki and gesturing vaguely in the direction of Thorn and others near him. ”The whole pack was led by a captain tryin’ ta make up for some oh-so terrible deeds in his dark, mysterious past, by sailin’ cargo hither and yon, far as I could tell.”
Doran leans down and scoops up a dagger from the pile of weapons and gear, saying ”So I’d like nothin’ more than to sail on the Wormwood, see if I can't make my fortune, maybe cut a few deserving throats in the meantime”. As he says this, he makes the dagger disappear from his hand, and then reappear in the other. ”I’ve been at sea, man and boy, since I can remember, and I can rig up a double-reeved snatch block or mount a jury mast faster than most can tie up their breeches, and sailing on this ship’ll sure beat toein’ the line, salutin’ and bobbin’ me head like the lot I’ve been sailin’ with.”
Wyn nods in affirmation with Doran. "Better work than I've been doing, that's for sure," she says truthfully.
"Can't say I've 'special skills' but a strong arm I hope is good enough." She flexes one of her arms, careful to be non-threatening about it, but to show off the cords of muscle, taut especially after all that rowing.
She falls quiet, not wanting to risk going out of bounds. Surreptitiously, she sets her eyes on the crew surrounding them, taking in the various sizes, shapes, and demeanors.
While still in the dark hold, Vrunyar’s mind wanders, watching the dust motes float into and out of the thin sun rays from the cracks in the deck above. There may be patterns there or it may be random. How would I tell? he thinks, associating the motes briefly with sparks from a furnace and with the bright flecks floating in sea water. He starts to daydream about fluids mixing with other fluids. Soon he is playing with alchemical formulae in his head, performing the math on the segments of his fingers. As he continues balancing equations and substituting variables, he feels close to an insight. Things feel connected, nearly glowing, radiant. On rare occasions he’s felt this way before. Once after an exhaustive tunnel run. To a minor degree, after saving that farmer’s life in Stouton.
He inhales sharply. There! He needs to get to his formulae book and write this down, test it to be certain, but he’s positive that he now knows how to use his infusions to magically heal other people. Taking a deep breath, he starts to laugh, giddy with joy, nearly crying because it is so beautiful. ”I’m sorry! Don’t mind me. You’ll see. HA! You will see. I need my book.” He wants to jump up and dance. Instead he continues to repeat the math in his head, checking for errors; while keeping his laughter from getting too loud.
Once on deck, he practically covers his eyes with his hands to block out the sun’s glare. Listening to the first mate, and watching Scourge’s whip snake along the deck, reminds him to calm down. He nods in agreement, ”Yes, I’ll be cooperative, as agreeable as a vein of mithral. I’m good at stitching and operating too. So I can get my book now? Yes? I just need to write something down.”
The dwarf sorts through the pile of their gear, finds his backpack, and laughs when he sees his formulae book. He grabs a vial of ink and a pen. He’s halfway to the dark hold before asking, ”Ah, sir! First Mate Plugg, do you mind if I return to that hold? Won’t take me more than an hour or two to work through these formulae.”
Ollivor speaks out simply, "I just signed on as the Lighthouse's cook, sir. I don't suppose you need one of those?"
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John yells, looking as if he is about to leap at the diminutive halfling and choke the life out of him. After everything Captain Jonas did for you, and you would turn your back on your shipmates! Scowling, John hobbles over to the short sailor, his six foot three frame looming over the halfling. I should have known better than to trust a Chelaxian halfling. Why you probably sold your own people into slavery you sniveling little wretch. Crossing his arms and giving Doran a murderous look before hobbling back to the other loyal crew members.
Internally, John was a wreck of doubt, guilt and worry. He had just consigned his friend and shipmate to play a role that might end in blood. Looking up at Plugg, John scowled and in his anger his Andoran accent comes out like a wind over an oceans crest. Taking a deep breath John breathed out slowly. What can I tell them so they won't simply kill me for my allegiance? They will hate me, but I won't do any good if I am keelhauled or given the cat before I am able to help the others escape. The name be John Rawkins The red haired man began slowly, letting the pause sooth away some of his feigned rage. I was in the navy. Served for a bit in the marines before I lost my leg and they discharged me for liking the bottle a little too much. I can reef and tack, mend a line or scrub a deck. But I won't fight for you bastards, and every moment I am on this ship I will see to it that you end up in a watery grave. Each and every one of you slavers and pirates.
Thorn cool and calm leans his back against the door way leading down to the hold as Plugg attempts to intimidate the new passengers of the Wormwood. Thorn's eyes quickly stare in disbelief as Plugg points to a pile of weapons on the deck. Can it be! Thorn thinks to himself. Seeing his fathers weapons laying amongst the pile, takes Thorn back to his father Kabev's death bed.
In a raised celebratory voice changing his tone to a more serious one Kabev takes a short pause and looks towards the door to his chamber changing his serious tone to a more reminiscing one Kabev points at an old beat up chest in the corner of his chamber coughing hard several times...Kabev finally is able to clear his throat Kabev quickly grabs Thorn's hand and say in a mournful tone Kabev tightens his grip around Thorn's hand and states in a loud and proud voice quickly followed by more coughing and a painful groan. Kabev gathers himself and says
Thorn snaps back to the present as John convincingly plays his part by yelling at Doran. Thorn makes his way through the crowd with ease as he approaches the pile of weapons avoiding the brothers glares. Thorn pauses for a second taking in the sight of his prized possession long thought lost to him and trying to think of a way to intimidate his captures to show them he is a worthy addition to their crew. Thorn slowly reaches for the bow and plucks the taught string to hear its sweet low . With a small smirk of the lips Thorn quickly grabs an arrow from the quiver while turning and letting loose at the blink of an eye. The arrow hits its mark and knocks John's wooden leg out from under him causing him to stumble and hop in place for the crews entertainment. "I am Thorn Syndergaard and the life of a pirate is the life for me!" letting out a roar of laughter to get the crew of the Wormwood to laugh with him. While the crew is distracted by loud laughing and more of John's Hopping, Thorn gives John a wink of trust where only John can see it. "I never cared much for gingers" Thorn yells as he collects the rest of his weapons before walking towards Dorin and Wyn. Thorn begins to check Wyn out from head to toe in an exaggerated and crude manor blurting out Now Blonds, ah yes Blonds are the glimmer of gold in my eye, especially with all those muscles" and gives Wyn a good slap on the Arss as he walks around her to stand by Doran. Thorn looks at the brothers and yells over the laughter "A bit handy with the Bow if I do say so myself, and some times I even hit what I am aiming at."
Wyn understood Thorn was trying to get the sailor's bravado going, but if she let him get away with that, all of the pirates would try to do that to her--and worse. She knew all too well from her years working dockside that there was far worse sailors and pirates typically wanted to do to a woman than make her engage in piracy, and amongst those who meant it, the "playful slap" was often the overture to much rougher behavior. She knew Thorn would never intend to make her a target for such "advances" by the crew, but she nonetheless had to try to undo the damage he might cause.
Thinking quickly about her reaction, she first chuckled, heartily, in good humor. "Oh, look, the skinny little leafeater's got spirit! I'll look forward to swabbing the deck with ya, but..." she saunters over to him, still smiling, still joking, jabs a finger in his eye (or makes a play of it hoping Thorn will play along). "Do that again," she says, still smiling, but now with a chillingly sinister air, "And I'll castrate you with your own bowstring. Understood?"
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Scowling and hopping in place, John stared down Thorn with daggers in his eyes. While much of his words to Doran were an act, he had known and worked next to the halfling for nearly a month’s voyage and he could forgive the deception. He knew that Doran had a good heart and believed in similar ideals. But he had just met Thorn a few hours ago and by showcasing the former marine’s weakness for everyone to see, John could not help but feel anger.
Regaining his balance John reached down and with a strong pull tugged the arrow from his wooden peg and gripped the shaft tight in one meaty hand like a makeshift dagger before hobbling his way up to Wyn. Nodding at the woman’s show of strength, John ran a thumb along the point of the arrow examining it closely before looking up at Thorn with hooded eyes. Funny that Wyn should mention castrating you. Limping forward, John pointed to his large, curved Katapeshi greatsword. I took that off the first man I killed. He was a eunuch too. And yea, my leg doesn’t work so good, but my arms are just fine, and there is only so far you can run on a ship like this. Besides… Elf… I killed three of those Hellsmouth Chelish bastards that tried to take my freedom and killed my shipmates. You think your any better?
Scowling John pointed to Thorn before addressing the other press ganged newcomers. I need to deescalate this before it gets out of hand. John thought, worrying that he may have overplayed the situation. I’m no pirate, but I am a sailor and a marine, and something every true sailor knows is that you end your quarrels on shore . That’s part of Besmara’s Code, and I don’t intent to bring down the wrath of the Black Lady down on me, so for now I am done with you. You want to show me tough you are? Fine, come find me when we make port. I’ll deal with you then.
Rickard Plugg seems to light up with the new crew members' enthusiasm. "Good, good. Glad to have some spirit in you all. You're going to need it, for we're heading back down to the Shackles where some real fun'll be had. Your former ship's heading down to Rickety's to get what needs doing, so we're somewhat short-staffed at the moment." He starts addressing them one by one.
He speaks to Doran first. "Halfling, eh? Good. Little hands, can get in some tight spaces. You'll be useful up on the ropes. You'll need that pigsticker you got there to cut rope, but know this: you are part of the crew, and disputes are settled by the captain or by the senior crew members. That includes myself, Peppery Chafik, Riaris Krine, Habbly Quarne, the Kipper, and Patch Patchsalt. You want my advice, though? Don't bother the captain with it. You'll get keelhauled just as bad as whoever you've got a dispute with." He points to each of them as he lists them off. Peppery Chafik is a human woman with curly black hair and swarthy skin punctuated by multi-colored tattoos, wearing an outfit not out of place in a harem of some satrap in Rahadoum. (In fact, John notes, she bears a vague resemblance to his own wife.) Riaris Krine stands by the ballista launchers loaded with grappling hooks on the starboard side; her plain, gaunt face is plastered with a grimace of a foul mood. Krine's appearance is as plain and functional as Chafik's is sensual and overtly obvious. Habbly Quarne is a tall, thin man with round glasses who looks at them like specimens rather than people. The one called Kipper is a short man with hideous scarring from a fire across the right side of his face. The final one of the senior crew members, Patch Patchsalt, is a gnomish woman with a terribly dangerous looking short blade (hardly more than a dagger, frankly, in the hands of a human) and a shaved head.
Peppery Chafik speaks in an exotic tongue, addressing Wynifred. "Strength is always an appreciable skill for a pirate, but strength of character is something that cannot be taught. The men here will disrespect you for being a woman, but know that they will have to answer to me for anything. I was a slave and know the pain of being treated like property. I burned my first master alive when I came into my blood. I burned the entire household of my second master the first night he tried to touch me." She turns to Thorn and berates him. "Your bravado is noted, elf, but your very life will be at risk should you try something like that again. You are new here and receive some latitude for your ignorance of the rules - but do not press me, or you will discover that the flames I produce cling to your skin even as you dive into the ocean in pain and terror. Ask that one, if you don't believe me." Kipper looks down with a scowl when Peppery points to him.
Habbly Quarne approaches Vrunyar and takes the formula book from him over a brief protest. He examines it quickly, perusing the various formulae and notes that the dwarf has placed inside. He nods as he reads it, then turns to Plugg. "This one has knowledge of anatomy and alchemy. I would have him as my assistant. The surgeries would be more efficient with him assisting me, and I'm certain that he would learn much as well." Plugg nods at his request, giving his consent and seemingly allowing him to keep his formula book as well.
Plugg takes the weapons away from Thorn with a stern look. "You'll shoot at who Riaris tells you. She's the ship's gunner, in charge of the weaponry during battle. Cut-throat Grok is in charge of weapons in all other times, and these will be locked in the armory until I am certain that you've earned them back." He turns his attention to Ollivor next. "We can always use more cooks. You'll be sent down to help out Fishguts and Beshra Bleak. Hopefully you've got more talent than they do, or at least less of a taste for the bottle than Fishguts does."
Finally, Rickard looks over at John Rawkins with a malicious smirk. "So you are John. I've been looking forward to meeting you, very much so. I feel like I know you already." He pulls out two pieces of tattered paper from inside his longcoat. In a mimicking high voice, he reads them aloud. "'My dearest Alima, you are the key to the lock on my heart. Your presence has strengthened me, and I don't know what I would have done after I lost my leg without you. Your' - which he misspells - 'a strong woman and I am proud to call you my wife." He lets out a cruel laugh as he reads the letters, then nonchalantly throws them over his shoulder. The wind takes them far from John's grasp, though he tries to hobble over and get them.
Trying as hard as he is to get the letters before the fly into the ocean, he doesn't see Plugg nod to his brother, nor does he see Scourge's whip fly out and wrap itself around his peg leg. Scourge yanks the whip hard, tearing John's peg clear out of its sheath on his leg. The belts keeping the sheath in place pull hard at his thigh, but the apparatus remains in place even as the wooden prosthetic tears away hard. He tries to keep his balance, but the sudden transition to a single leg makes it impossible for him to stay upright. He collapses in a heap, only to see Plugg loom over him a half moment later. "You were in the navy, eh? The Andoran Navy? What do you think we do to our enemies here, Rawkins? I think it's safe to say that the Andoran Navy is our enemy, so what does that make you? Tell me, what does that make you?"
All John can see are the pair of letters fluttering over the side of the ship and out of sight.
Wynifrid gives a nod of thanks to Peppery, but feels it's best not to belabor the point. Still, she makes a mental note that the "fiery" woman could become an ally--maybe.
Sighing inwardly at Thorn, she could only imagine how frustrated he was--after years of holding back as a slave, he had a brief taste of freedom. He was clearly chomping at the bit to act out, to fight, to get out his frustration, and his senses were no doubt a bit addled as regards to what to do next. She was worried--just as she had been on the Hellsmouth--that his drive for freedom would override any desire to protect even his allies, and that like the other ship, he just might try to bring the whole ship down and take the lot of them in the process to a watery grave. Maybe the disciplinary action might clear his mind a bit--she could only hope.
When further abuse strikes John, her heart stings--less at the further attacks on his leg and more on the loss of his letters. But there was a sting, too, of jealousy that he had such a keepsake at all. All she ever had of her family had been lost, and there was certainly no love for her to have been found in the dockside slums of Absalom. She hoped he could get his letters back, but grabbed onto the darker feelings of envy to use for the display of scorn they had all agreed to earlier. She chuckles at the sentiment of the letter read, then otherwise ignores the display, turning to sift through the pile of equipment to assemble her gear--most of it that had been hers was borrowed anyway, but best to make it hers now. The sailors she'd borrowed them from had been the ones who sold her to the Cheliaxans. Perhaps she could return the blades to them one day; she imagined it would be appropriate to deliver them straight into the chest.
He turns his attention to Ollivor next. "We can always use more cooks. You'll be sent down to help out Fishguts and Beshra Bleak. Hopefully you've got more talent than they do, or at least less of a taste for the bottle than Fishguts does."
Ollivor makes note of the names, and makes special note of Fishgut's love of the bottle. He could still remember the town drunk Harvil Gitt. Some of the old timers swore Gitt was once an ace with a bow, but you'd never have known it to see his filthy shaking hands clutching at a bottle of whatever liquor he could get. He recalled his brother telling him that it was a damn shame that men should escape chains of steel, only to seek out those made of vice. The young sorcerer sure hoped this Fishguts wasn't that far along.
If he is, this Bleak and I will be doing all the work ourselves.
"Aye sir," he says, biting down on any temptation to betray anything but compliance.
At the treatment of John, he REALLY finds that tested. This man is cruel, and takes pride in it. Bastard.
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Eyes burning with shame, the last thing John saw before he had been cruelly slammed to the deck by the whip belonging to the man known as Scourge was his precious letters fluttering in the wind. Eyes burning with hatred and rage, John hung his head low.
You can't fight, not now John, not surrounded by these bastard. You will die, sure as sure. Your death wont' matter and you will Alima and Farah fatherless and poor.
Gritting his teeth, It took every ounce of willpower to not throw himself at Plugg. The man would know his wrath. That much was for certain, but there was nothing he could do, not now. He could die or he could submit. There was no other choice.
Pushing himself up so he could take the weight off of his maimed leg, John glanced at Plugg before dropping his head so that the crew could not see his anger and frustration.
Breathing heavily, John slumped his shoulders. I don't see how a one legged man could be much of a threat.. bosun.
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Plugg kicks John's prosthetic leg back at him. "You deserve that and worse for being in the Navy. I'll be watchin' you, so don't give me half a reason to see you keelhauled." His dominance over John settled in his mind, he turns to the rest of the new crew members. "Quarne, you and the dwarf get that one," he says while indicating Iakob's semi-conscious form, "to the sickbay and either get him up and ready or get him off the ship. We can't have dead weight slowing us down. For the rest of you, listen here. This ship isn't a prancy summer camp. You break the rules, you get lashed or worse. When the anchor goes down at night, you go to the bunks belowdecks. If you're caught above the lower deck at night, that's three lashes and a day in the sweatbox. If you're caught stealing from a fellow pirate, that's five lashes from the one you stole from. You get caught stealing from the armory or the officers, you're keelhauled. You get caught in the officers' quarters at any time, you're keelhauled. You show up late for your task or fail to complete it quick, three lashes and a day in the sweatbox. You do any of these a second time, punishment's doubled. Third, it's tripled and you get a cat 'stead of a lash. Any o' the senior crew can bash ya with a rope at any time if they see fit for discipline, so don't give 'em a reason. You got questions, ask 'em of someone who cares about your future well-bein', which ain't me. Now, sun's goin' down and we're droppin' anchor, so the rest o' you get down to the bottom deck and do it quick. You're part o' the crew, so you get a rum ration like everybody else. Be ready to work at first light. Now go."
The former crew of the Empty Lighthouse (minus Vrunyar, who assists Quarne in carrying Iakob to the sick bay) trundles down the stairs to the third level belowdeck. When they arrive at the hold, which takes the whole of the level, they see the rest of the crew clearing away the dinner tables and setting up their hammocks for the neck. Pillars - a dozen and a half, it looks like - made of wood support the decks above. Two of the pirates from above - Kipper, the badly-burned man with eyes full of spite and rage, and Patch Patchsalt, the dangerous-looking gnome woman with a shaved head - come down with them and push them further in. "Get a hammock from over there and pick a spot. Get your rum rations from Fishguts there in the corner." She indicates a short, portly man in a bloody apron who looks as if he started on his rations a while ago. He is assisted by a woman who they saw earlier, the tiefling with cat ears and light brown skin.
Jax and Arturo quietly go about the business of grabbing hammocks and fastening them to the hooks on the pillars. Each of the pillars in the center has a hook on each of the four sides, as do all the pillars near the staircase and by the starboard side. The spots by the sides have hooks built into the inside of the hull. Over on the port side, about forty footlockers stacked four high line the wall, though less than half have locks on them. In the middle of the deck, a trap door stands closed - likely to the bilges below, where water from the ship collects and must be pumped out. As the horrific smell from the bilge will likely leak up during the night, this seems the worst spot to pick. The other crew members have thoughtfully left those spots open, filling the sides first and slowly moving the claimed spots inwards. Jayce grabs a hammock and heads away from them, as if he wants to claim his own identity free of the rest of the crew of the Lighthouse. Hojo and Riki both stay with them, waiting for them to pick out spots to sleep. Patchsalt and Kipper leave them alone, taking hammocks and hanging them in the two spots closest to the stairs; both are hung quite low, so that no one can sneak under them and they can likely keep an eye on the stairs.
The air is one of seemingly desperate festivity. As they soak in the sights, a pretty red-haired woman approaches them. With a smile and a wink, she says, "Well, you must be the new folks. I'm Sandara Quinn, and you'll be needing a host. Grab some hammocks and claim a spot before they run out and you've got to sleep on the floor. There's enough hooks for thirty-two, and there's a total of thirty-five down here counting you eleven new folks. You can claim a locker, though I imagine you don't have much by way of belongings. If you talk to the quartermaster, she'll get you some locks for a fair price and take it from your stuff that they're holding for you. Don't worry about Grok, she'll take good care of it until you're seen as a trustworthy member of the crew. She'll even give you a note of credit if you want to gamble with it before you get it back." After introductions have been made, she starts pointing out people so that they can put names to faces. She points out Rosie Cusswell, a halfling woman playing a decent tune with the fiddle to a crowd of nearly a dozen of the others. She points out Conchobar Shortstone, a garishly dressed gnome gambling with cards over in the corner with three others. She points out "Owlbear," a dull-eyed simpleton who makes Arturo look small-framed; he sits in his hammock near the stairs making babbling sounds to himself.
With Vrunyar's help, the bespectacled Quarne helps Iakob, semi-conscious and delirious, stagger to the sick bay on the middle deck. The tall, thin man with a narrow face wears somewhat formal and fancy clothing (for the circumstances). He speaks in clipped, clinical terms as they get him settled on the wooden table. "As said earlier, I am Doctor Habbly Quarne, resident surgeon of this ship. I also lend my talents as the ship's carpenter. I admire your alchemical knowledge, if your formula book was any indication. Alchemy has never been my strength, as I favor physiology and anatomy through formal training. I trained at the University of Absalom, where I specialized in non-magical surgery. Without pride or arrogance, I guarantee that there are many ailments that cannot be cured by magic, which is the hallmark of a physician of a lax mind. Much of my research was predicated on the idea that long-term reliance on magical healing is dangerous for human and near-human physiology." As he speaks, he walks around the room and sets up his equipment. He lights a controlled flame under a metal basin, where a number of pots filled with water stand.
"Your friend, for instance, no longer suffers any grievous wounds. Judging by the redness of the scar tissue," he says pointing it out for Vrunyar, "his wounds were treated with magical healing, were they not? I take it that the stichwork is yours? Your work is admirable for one unspecialized in such work. They should have let him heal in the normal process. The body recognizes that which magic cannot. His assailant's blade likely had a trace amount of rust on it, just enough to infect his wound. Normally, such a thing would be a minor concern with some minor irritation. However, with the acceleration of the healing process and the resultant metabolic increase, this became a dire problem and resulted in his current state. Make no mistake, he will die a slow death in a number of days if we do not undo that which magical healing has wrought. Now, are you prepared to attempt to save his life?"
Quarne steps over to the basin, taking what looks much like a teapot and dipping it into the boiling water of one of the larger pots. He sets it aside and lays out a number of scalpels and blades on a side table. "We will use this sterilized water - once it has cooled, obviously - to ensure that our hands are clean. After that, we will ensure that our instruments are clean. Only after both of these steps occur, we will begin the process. Simply do as I ask. Have you any questions?"
Wynifrid nods to Sandara and thanks her, glad to see someone on the crew who isn't taken to threatening them. "All good to know, Quinn, thanks. How long have you've been here?"
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After chatting with Sandara, Wyn gets her rum ration and then approaches Conchobar. Oddly enough living in a dockside tavern, she is more than familiar with the ways of card games (though whether she's good or bad at them is another matter). She asks to join in, and cajoles others who looks like they might be vaguely interested to play as well.
Ollivor listens to Plugg's litany of punishments. It sets his jaw to grinding to think about it. Oh, if I could grow wings and fly off this place, I would in a heartbeat. But then, what of the others? John's gonna be going through a rough patch in particular. Don't matter, I can't fly, so I might as well do what I can to make a bad time a wee bit less worse.
Two of the pirates from above - Kipper, the badly-burned man with eyes full of spite and rage, and Patch Patchsalt, the dangerous-looking gnome woman with a shaved head - come down with them and push them further in. "Get a hammock from over there and pick a spot. Get your rum rations from Fishguts there in the corner." She indicates a short, portly man in a bloody apron who looks as if he started on his rations a while ago. He is assisted by a woman who they saw earlier, the tiefling with cat ears and light brown skin.
Ollivor shoots a glare at Kipper as he is shoved, but only for a moment. When introduced to Fishguts he inclines his head, "Looks like we'll be working together, Fishguts. I'm Ollivor Myles, formerly did the cooking on the Lighthouse. Looking forward to your lessons in the galley ." Man's already half way to drunk if he's not there aleady. Still, rum loosens lips. Maybe I can learn a bit from him still, about more than the cooking even. The woman with cat ears confuses him. Cat ears? Never heard the like. Here I thought my blood might be the strangest on board. He takes a rum ration, though he doesn't drink it just yet.
He's already claiming a hammock, as good a location as he can get away from the smell, when Sandara Quinn appears.
The air is one of seemingly desperate festivity. As they soak in the sights, a pretty red-haired woman approaches them. With a smile and a wink, she says, "Well, you must be the new folks. I'm Sandara Quinn, and you'll be needing a host. Grab some hammocks and claim a spot before they run out and you've got to sleep on the floor. There's enough hooks for thirty-two, and there's a total of thirty-five down here counting you eleven new folks. You can claim a locker, though I imagine you don't have much by way of belongings. If you talk to the quartermaster, she'll get you some locks for a fair price and take it from your stuff that they're holding for you. Don't worry about Grok, she'll take good care of it until you're seen as a trustworthy member of the crew. She'll even give you a note of credit if you want to gamble with it before you get it back."
"Thank you kindly, Sandara," Ollivor says, a friendly face, particularly a pretty friendly face sets him more at ease. True, she could be playing them, but doubtful. As far as any know, they've little to offer to be WORTH playing. Least wise, he thinks so. He pays special attention to her descriptions, then asks, "As I'll be working in the Galley, what can you tell me of Fishguts and this Bleak lady?"
Once he gets her take on it, he'll nod, and go to speak to Fishguts again. Since the man likes drink so much, he takes his own near the fellow as a sign of camaraderie, "Fishguts? Is that how you like to be called then? I was told 'cookie' was more typical for those in the galley, but whatever you like, course."
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His humiliation over for the moment, John knuckled his forehead and grabbed his prosthetic leg, tightening it over his stump with the leather belted harness.
Eyeing the harness carefully, John could see that the screw top had not been tampered with. Keeping his head low, John smiled faintly to himself. The bastard bosun Plugg had taken their gear, but he had missed Johns concealed dagger. While it wasn't a lot, every bit helps and the knowledge that the pirates were sloppy reassured John ever so slightly. He knew he would have to be careful however. Being caught with the dagger would earn him some crimson stripes, that much he was sure of.
Being led below decks and into the birthing area. John quickly took Sandra's advice. There were too many people aboard and not enough hammocks. John had no desire to sleep on a tar stained deck. Limping his way over to the open spots, John glances at the hatch leading down into the Bilge. From his time in the navy, John knew that some ships were equiped with bildges that would pump the rancid water up and over the sides from the top deck. Somehow however, John suspected the Wormwood would had no such luxuries.
Claiming a canvas hammock John looked around at the opening posts and then frowning claimed the one closest to the bilge. It was likely the worst spot on the whole ship to sleep at (aside from on the deck) but between his size and the unfavorable location, he hoped that few would be try to take it from him.
His place then assured, John glanced over to the far end of the ship where the ships cook "fishguts" was handing out the nightly ration of rum. Sighing in the knowledge that the strong spirit would ease some of his pain and at least for a few hours and quiet the guilt and anxiety in his head, the wounded man made his way towards the cook, getting in line and taking his jack's worth of rum with a nod of thanks.
The first sip was like fire and the second was like a warm embrace. Feeling his face start to become flushed, John limped his way back over to Sandara Quinn and the blond haired woman Wynifrid.
Taking a long pull from the jack, John sighed to himself. The pain was starting to recede in his knee and at least that was a small blessing. Raising the jack to the woman, John rubbed his jaw with another hand. Thanks for the kind words of advice, Sandra. John began while listening carefully to her words. I'm a bit surprised though. Clearly we are on the Bosun's s$*! list, if i'm putting it mildly.
Thorn watched as the others quickly grabbed canvas cloth and began stringing them up with the rest of the hanging beds. This was not the first time Thorn had seen this practice; the first time was on the Hellsmouth but he was not afforded the opportunity of sleeping in them while being a slave. The practice was humorous to him seeing men and women enter their cocoon's for the night like caterpillars; maybe one will turn into a butterfly, now that would be a sight to see. By the looks of some of this bunch a few could stand for a change.
Thorn Grabbed a canvas cloth, threw it over his shoulder as he walked towards the drunk cook who was distributing the rum. Thorn took his ration of rum observing the cook was a little light handed on the pour probably fearing the extra mouths would cut into his daily rations. Thorn slowly turned and began to walk through the hold of hanging hammocks watching and observing several of his new crew members. As Thorn reached a dark corner he caught the greedy eyes of a tough looking female who was rocking in her hammock sipping her last little bit of rum trying to make it last through the night. Thorn smirked to himself out of eye sight of the woman as he bent down examining the corner. Thorn figured by the way her eyes favored his ration of rum she had a love for rum that could match the cooks.
After examining the dark corner he felt he had found his new bed. After being raised and spending the majority of his life on a long boat Thorn had become accustomed to sleeping against a hard wall or deck while covering himself with canvas. It was the only way that he knew and the only way he preferred. The hard wood deck and cold sea mist had made him strong and toughened his skin. As Thorn made himself comfortable he set his ration of rum next to him acting as he had no use for it and closed his eyes. Waiting for a long pause he slowly opened his eyes to see the woman with a keen stare at his ration of rum. "My rum for your name and a few questions answered."
”I’m pleased to meet you Doctor. First, since I’m not familiar with nautical terms, what is a cat? The first mate said it’s used instead of a lash, so I assume it’s worse. A board with teeth? Or a rake for scratching a person’s back, like a claw? My other question, how many people are on board? I counted twenty-three, but I doubt I saw everyone. What are the most common ailments?” The dwarf pauses for the doctor to answer then continues the conversation.
”I spent some time in Absalom for independent study after graduating from my family’s alchemical school. Mostly at the Arcanamirium, but I did attend an occasional public lecture at the University. My training emphasized rationality and empirical evidence as the basis for treatment. Magic is a tool. I don’t think healing magic is dangerous to humanoid physiology, but I will say it retards our understanding of anatomy. So, perhaps it is dangerous in that sense. I’ve dissected corpses, comparing organs across the humanoid lineages. There is much we know, but even more that we don’t! I want to understand how the body works.
”I am prepared to save his life. I will assist you to the best of my abilities, and I look forward to learning from you.” Vrunyar says bending closely to look at the inflamed scar tissue. He knows he didn’t heal him magically. It must have been the Chelaxians. ”If sometime you feel like telling me how you came to serve on this ship, I’d be very willing to listen.”
Doran walks among his new crewmates, careful not to antagonize any of them and doing his best to remain unseen. After what happened aboard the Fortune's Bride, he knows the value of making friends instead of enemies. He claims a spot of the rum and snags a spot near John's hammock. 'Keep your friends close,' he thinks to himself. He keeps his blade hidden, happy that his earlier ploy had worked well enough for Plugg to let him keep it. He hopes that they will continue to underestimate him.
While nursing the rum (noting that they give the halflings and gnomes an amount fit for a human male with the expectation that it will be drunk), he roams over to Rosie Cusswell playing her fiddle in the corner. Finished with the jaunty tunes of earlier, she sits in her low-slung hammock along the wall and plays a more mournful tune that he recognizes as a halfling slave hymn. His heart races at the recognition. 'Was she once a slave of Cheliax as well?' He speaks to his fellow halfling in a reverential tone, uncharacteristically letting some personal information loose to what he hopes is a friendly ear. "Oh, were ye a slip as well? I grew up in Westpool."
She looks at him and ceases her fiddling. She sweeps aside her thick brown hair and sets her fierce, uncompromising gaze upon him. Even before she speaks, he can see that he has made an unfortunate impression. "What, you think that just because we're the same size, I'll fall swoonin' over ya? I was, am, and will always be a free woman. I ain't no slip, just 'cause I like the song! A song which you interrupted! Begone with ya!"
Thusly chastened, Doran retreats to his hammock. Conchobar Shortstone, the garishly dressed gnome with an eyepatch and a feathered hat of no culture Doran has ever seen (even in Absalom), approaches him with a sympathetic look. "Aye, I know that feelin'. Magnificent, ain't she? Just so you know, I've got my eye on her." He slides the eye patch up, showing that his other eye works just fine, then returns it. "She did the same thing to me my first day here. A difficult nut to crack, surely, but I will overcome it and win her heart! You can call me Conchobar Turlach Shortstone, and I am glad to make your acquaintance."
Wyn settles down at the card game. "Glad there's some entertainment to be had here. I'll see what the next day come what it comes, but at least I'm not with the damn Chelish. Come, come, deal me in. I am Wyn, called the Peacekeeper by some, let's hope I've no reason to prove why while I'm aboard this ship." She picks up a hand dealt to her. "Just a nice evening game before catching some kip, yeah?"
As wagers and guesses pass, Wyn decides, "I'll wager five silvers and my rum ration, then. Come on boys and girls, don't be shy."
Dr. Quarne cuts off Vrunyar with a clipped tone. "I don't wish to talk about how I came to be here. Ask questions like that and I am more than certain that you will become intimately acquainted with the cat and its nine tails." Apparently he has little interest in sharing his life's story with Vrunyar. "As for the crew, there are around forty people, though the number always changes. The ailments are what you would expect for over three dozen people packed in a tight ship for weeks at a time: colds and fevers run rampant, though hardly anything more serious. There are several pigs on the second level for additional food, which poses its own issue. We had a crewman infected with consumption; I recommended his immediate dismissal from the ship."
After they have prepared for the surgery, he directs Vrunyar's actions. "Snip the stitches, and do so quickly. Once you have completed, I need you to hold back his skin so that I can cut away the infected portions of the tissue." Vrunyar does so quickly and efficiently, finishing almost before Quarne can turn around from getting his own instruments ready. The dwarf can see that the doctor is impressed by his skill, though it's unclear if it is enough to clear away the poor impression his question left. "Excellent work. Now, we begin. Maintain your hold there."
For the better part of two hours, Quarne cuts away at Iakob's flesh and tissue, dumping inflamed, bloody pieces of Vrunyar's friend in a pan. To Vrunyar's eyes, he isn't doing as good a job as he would hope - though Quarne's obvious skill and training makes it impossible for him to do a poor job. When they are done, he directs Vrunyar to clean the wound with sterile water and sew it back up as he prepares to leave. "We have done all that we can. It is up to him and his body to fight for his life. When you are done, return to the crewman's quarters downstairs. Good night."
Sandara Quinn seems to take her question poorly, a dark look coming over her countenance. Whatever she said asking how long she'd been there - or perhaps the way Wyn had said it - seemed to put her in a foul mood. "I've been here long enough," she snaps at Wyn unexpectedly. "For now, I just take it one day at time." John interjects with his thanks after getting her rum, and her face softens somewhat. "Yes, you are. New people always receive a rough welcome, but recall that everyone here was new once. One word of advice, for all of you: don't ask people how they got here. It's rarely a topic they'd like to cover." She says this with a pointed glance at Wynifred.
The cook seems to light up when John speaks to him. He smiles broadly, letting Ollivor see that keeping up with his dental hygiene is not among his ship-board hobbies or responsibilities. "I like that, 'Cookie.' Been a long time since anyone's called me anything but 'Fishguts.'" He leans forward conspiratorially, letting Ollivor know that he has had quite a bit of the rum already. "Truth be told, I can't stand the name. They call me that because I'm always covered in fish guts. Plugg thinks it's funny, but I don't. I'm looking forward to havin' your help in the galley. I been working last few days just with Beshra, but all she wants to do is keep me from the one thing I got goin' for me on this ship - my drinks. She's all right, but always tryin' to steal my liquor. You don't seem the type to deny a man his right to a little nip where he needs it. You, you'll treat me right, I know you'll..." His eyes close and he falls asleep right in front of Ollivor - happy as can be.
Tilly barks at him, somewhat unpredictably drunk. "What, you think I can't handle myself with what I've got, elf? You think that I'm for sale? Go f+%& yourself. You ain't gettin' s*&+ from me." With one final look of envious longing at his rum ration, she turns away from him into her hammock.
By the time she joins the game, it is just the gnome Conchobar and two human men, who introduce themselves as Crimson Cogward and Jack Scrimshaw. Glad to have another player - with Conchobar and Jack having won most of the pot between themselves over the last few hours - they deal her in quickly. They tease her a bit for such a small bet, but quickly they see she is not quite as much of a mark as Crimson Cogward. The man makes several poor strategic choices and bets, losing twenty gold to the other two in four or five hands. Wyn, being a bit more cautious, manages to break roughly even. Cogward turns bright red with anger and frustration (perhaps explaining his curious name), and storms off towards his hammock soon after.
Ollivor raises a brow as Fishguts falls asleep. Frankly, he is starting to agree with Beshra, the cat eared woman he hasn't even spoken to yet. A man like this might NEED his rum taken away now and then. With a look to her , if he sees her, he says, "Tell me he's already got today's meals made? Otherwise, it looks like it's on you and me and I don't even know what we have to work with."
As morning arrives, most of the crew sleeps off the rum from the night before. Apparently, keeping them drunk keeps them docile. Kipper and Patchsalt are awake first, keeping a watchful eye on the crew as they awaken. Anyone who doesn't awaken when they yell for awakening receives a smack from a rope knot to get them out of their hammocks. From the quiet outside, it is likely before the dawn. Kroop awoke his two assistants early and had the three of them go up to the galley to prepare breakfast for the crew. He seems in good spirits towards Ollivor, though he doesn't seem to know why in his bleary half-awake state. They cobble together eggs and biscuits for the crew, taking it down as they clear away their hammocks and put together the benches and tables that make up their dining room. The hungover crew eats in relative silence, readying themselves for another day of backbreaking labor.
Plugg storms in a few minutes later, already in a foul mood. "Get out of bed, you lazy mongrels! It's time to earn your keep! Get moving or I'll see you all keelhauled, every single one of you!" As the crew scrambles to get to the upper decks, he calls out to the new arrivals. "Those of you who are new, come here!"
He points to John, Wynifrid, and Thorn. "You three are swabs. Your job is to man the bilges, catch the rats, scrub and mop the decks, haul the ropes, pass messages, or help with repairs as necessary." He points to John first with a spiteful grin. "Today, you're manning the bilges. Clean 'em out, work the pumps, get the water dumped off ship. It's down there, so off you go." To Wyn, he says, "You're on mopping and scrubbing the deck." Finally, to Thorn, he orders, "You're on rat-catching duty. Get a net from the quartermaster, or use your elf powers to call them to you or whatever. You're not getting your bow yet til you can prove you can do it on your own wits." He points to Doran last. "You seem to know what you're doing, so you're up on the rigging. You're on line work today, so be quick about it on those stubby little legs. I see you napping like your kind likes to and you're getting lashes."
Wynifrid barks a laugh at Sandara's suddenly icy reaction. "Rather thin-skinned for a life on the seas, aren't ya?" She doesn't wait for a response, turning on her heel and steps away, leaving her to John's more genteel conversation. If a soul were too soft to be able to handle the direct approach without going sour-faced, then there wasn't much point in conversing--that meant either it was weak-heartedness, or all lies and subtlety. Thinking on it, she expected most shows of friendliness to be a facade around here, and that's what she presumed Sandara's earlier greeting to be--checking out the new folks behind a false smile (indeed, wasn't that the only kind of smile a Calistrian had?).
Anyway, Wyn got the information she needed, however brief the interchange: the work here might not be the gruelingly soulless drudgery of the galley in the Hellsmouth, but others on the crew were probably like them, sold, bought, or otherwise pressed into service. This also meant that while some might take to the opportunity, there were those who probably didn't want to be there. Whether that was an advantage or not was hard to tell--a crew like this, most'd be every man for himself rather than inclined to work together. At least the captives from the Lighthouse seemed friendly and ready to stick together, and that was good enough for now. Otherwise, all she could do is keep her eyes open for opportunities.
Wyn was pleased with her mediocre performance--the point after all was to relax and to get a feel for things. She wasn't the worst loser which meant she didn't look a fool, and she wasn't the best winner, which meant she didn't earn resentment. She talked as it came to her, and kept her ears open for rum-influenced talk from the others -- and in particular paid attention to learning the mens' tells.
She could at least tell Conchobar was good at what he did, as it was hard to get a read on him though.
Wynifrid took her supplies and got straight to scrubbing the decks. After weeks of rowing, this nearly felt like a holiday (if one could shove aside the circumstances that got her here). She'd certainly mopped enough floors at the Muddled Fish, and this was little different--just a lot more floor to cover.
She did keep an eye out for the sorceress who had spoken up for her the day before, Peppery. She had at least learned yesterday that here, people played close to their chest (literally and figuratively). So she didn't try to strike up much conversation, but spoke if spoken to and paid attention to Peppery's manner, and anything said to her or the others. She keeps her manner even, so as not to appear like she's spying or anything.
Peppery flits in and out of Wyn's view as the hours wear on. Every time she is on the deck, the sailors - male or otherwise - seem to work a bit harder. Whether or not they do it intentionally, she has the effect of the dominus did on the Hellsmouth: she makes people work harder, though not through discipline and cruelty. Sensual and seemingly uncaring about modesty, she seems mysterious and exotic. She seems to get along well with the crew and officers alike, at least when it comes to holding their rapt attention. Try as she might, Wyn has trouble getting a read on her motivations from her vantage point - for now.
Kroop awoke his two assistants early and had the three of them go up to the galley to prepare breakfast for the crew. He seems in good spirits towards Ollivor, though he doesn't seem to know why in his bleary half-awake state. They cobble together eggs and biscuits for the crew, taking it down as they clear away their hammocks and put together the benches and tables that make up their dining room.
Ollivor awoke with a start. He'd been having the odd dreams again, the ones where he soared over the oceans rather than sailed on them. He was glad he hadn't shown any magic in his sleep. It wasn't likely to happen, but after the warning all had received about 'hiding' things, it didn't take a genius to realize what the penalties would be if he got caught using magic.
When told to up and arise by Kroop, Ollivor remembered what was said yesternight even if the bleary eyed ship cook didn't, he forced a smile onto his face and said "Aye, Cookie." figuring he'd call the man by what he preferred. And hastily he got to his feet and went to work.
Judging by the bellowing of Plugg behind him, Ollivor could tell he was lucky to be on Galley duty, at least relatively speaking. His work wouldn't be easy per se, but it would be easier than catching rats or swabbing under the hot sun all day.
In truth it made him feel a bit guilty.
In the short term, he thought it best to strike up a conversation with his co-worker Beshra Bleak when Kroop was out of earshot,"I hear you've tried to protect the cook from his love of ale? I like the man, seems like a good one, but it's kind of you trying to help save him from excess and I'd like to help a bit now and then if I can."
He doesn't make mention of her ears. First off, he's not sure if it might offend or not to mention... and second, he has dragon dreams. So who would I be to judge?
Doran chuckles evilly as the assignments are given and walks past John, saying, ”Enjoy yer day in the bilge, Rawkins. I’ll think of ya when I’m larkin’ in fresh air on th’ rigging.”
He climbs the gangway onto the deck and makes his way up into the rigging, making sure to climb around the edge of the foretop. Last thing I want to do is climb through the lubber’s hole in that platform, have the whole crew think I’m a damn dryfoot. He sets to work repairing the ratlines that lead up to the foretop, and almost finds himself forgetting the predicament he’s in as he becomes absorbed in the task at hand. The day is a fine one and, though he mourns the loss of Captain Jonas and the Lighthouse, he can’t help but feel a bit lucky. Just a day ago, he was certain he was about to be returned to Chelish slavery, likely to spend his life in irons for having escaped, if they didn’t kill him outright as a warning to others. Can’t say it’s a sign the sea gods are smilin’ on me, but at least no ships sank and only a few of me friends died, and I’m not a slave – though I doubt I’ll get a generous pay package from this lot. Anyway, I’ll take what comfort I can, I guess.
After a couple of hours, he’s thirsty and drops down to the deck to visit the water barrel he noticed earlier. Approaching the barrel, he notices Ratline, one of the other halflings on the crew, flaking out a rope nearby. He says quietly to him, ”What’s the word on the halfling lass with the fiddle? I spoke about three words ta her last night, and she near took my ‘ead off. Seems that funny gnome fella’s fallen for her good – he’d best watch his step, I say.”
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The day started off poorly for John. While the evening rum had helped, and he had always slept well in a hammock, the loss of his letters to Alima combined with the brass key that he kept as a sign of his beliefs in Abadar had troubled him. All around him he was surrounded by the dregs and cast-a-ways of the sea. Two years ago, he would have been the first to board a ship like this and would have been glad of it too. There was no telling how many murders, rapes and other terrible deeds the scum aboard had committed. There was a reason why every nation, even Cheliax hunted scum like this.. or at least he had thought, before learning that Admiral Endymion of the Hellsmouth was in collusion with Captain Harrigan of the Wormwood.
If I ever make it off of this ship, I will need to send a letter Lord Havershaw. There’s no telling what Cheliax is upto, and the sooner Andoran knew about an alliance between the pirates and the thrice dammed Thunes the better.
After rising up onto the decks, John listened mutely to his orders to go below and clean the bildges. Somehow the large marine was not surprised at the turn of events. The bildges would be foul and rank. Rancid seawater and run off would have collected, and if the smell from last night was any indication it was probably the worst job on the whole ship. Still, John knew better then to complain. Somehow he suspected that Scourge took delight in that whip of his and would like nothing better then use it against a true Andoran.
On his way down to the bilge, John happened to see the fierce halfling woman from the previous evening who Doran had managed to get on the bad side of. Seeing an opportunity to further their deception while possibly making an ally, John gave a friendly nod before opening up the hatch that led below.
My, what an incredible smell I’ve discovered. John starts off dryly a rueful smile forming on his face, trying to break the ice with a bit of dark humor. If you don’t mind me saying so, I saw that you met Doran yesterday. It was smart to give him the cold shoulder. We talked a bit when I first met him. He’s a competent sailor, but this is his third ship he was a pirate on. Just saying.. The name is John by the way. It’s nice to meet you.. John trails off while holding his hand out as if offering a handshake.
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Wyn could almost feel Peppery's presence as much as see her when she passed, no wonder most paid attention to her. And seeing how the others responded to her... she was someone to hopefully stay on her good side. Of course, Wyn had no idea how to do that for the moment, but maybe she'd get a good idea in the coming days.
She was certainly not unpleasant to look at, although Wyn was actually less intrigued because of the immodest dress; she liked a more practical sort herself. On the other hand, perhaps lack-of-clothing had something to do with her occupation. And besides, she wasn't going to try that route with the woman for sure, Wyn'd only as like get burned, probably in this particular case, literally.
The trio of cooks seem to be working together fairly well. Kroop gets through the day without drinking any of the rum, much to the surprise of his two assistants. He even whistles, though his tune is dreadfully off-key. He introduces Ollivor to his pet chickens, which run loose through the galley in a sanitary sort of way. They spend the day cooking a halfway edible fare of fresh-caught fish and softened, leavened bread. By the time dinner rolls around, the crew will be happily surprised.
Beshra responds to his query about Kroop in her exotic tongue that sounds like she grew up on a ship like this one. "He's a stubborn one. He pitched a fit when I took the drink away and nearly had me thrown out as his assistant, but I convinced Plugg," she spits as she says his name, "that I was of better use here. I can't take away his rum rations at night, and he manages to sneak some during the day - usually - but I keep him on his toes. He knows I don't approve of it. He seems to like you, though. I can see why. You've got a way about you." She offers him a wry grin as she says it.
"Ratline" Rattsberger, who Doran had met briefly the night before, stretches as he considers the question. "Well, you see, she's awfully touchy when it comes to our kind. Doesn't like to be thought of like a halfling, would probably be human if someone's fairy godmother waved a magic wand. Psh, good riddance to her." He turns back to his work, apparently not remarkably interested in further conversation. In their brief exchange, Doran tried to get a feel for him to find a better opening of conversation, but the seven-fingered halfling was a bit unfriendly. Doran reflected that considering some people's reaction to getting here, he ought not to ask what happened to his other three fingers...
Rosie laughs at John's little joke, taken off-guard by him. The sour look on her face is quickly replaced with a grin as John pokes a bit of fun at Doran's expense. "It's good to meet you too, John. It's nice to have someone come up and talk to me like a person instead of bein' all, 'Oh, hello, little one!' First thing any of the short races does when they get on board is come up to me, like I'm there to guide them because we were born the same. You're the first person in a while to treat me normal, and I like that. Say, you need a hand in there? The pump's got a hidden spot in the back that is damn near impossible to get clean if you ain't small like me. Probably why Plugg put you on the job, to whip you at the end of the day when he found that you missed it."
She grabs a cleaning rag off a shelf that looks like it needs cleaning itself. "Just got to jump right in, and don't look down at what you're standing in. I once saw Samms Toppin go in barefoot like she always is. Bleh!" With a bit of a flourish, in she goes with a splash in the brackish water.
The day's work is as difficult as promised. By the time the time to set down anchor arrives, their muscles ache horribly. Most of the men's shirts had come off in the day. Though it is still winter, they are so near the equator that it doesn't matter. The new crewmen can only imagine what it must be like in the full beat of the summer sun off the coast of Osirion or Rahadoum.
Plugg rounds up the entirety of the crew on the main deck. Sweaty and exhausted, the crew comes about in the late afternoon sun. The Captain stands at the forecastle, ominous and menacing but not the focus of the meeting. Plugg shouts with some joy and a showman's flair, "Ladies, gentleman, today we have the Bloody Hour!" A whooping cheer comes up from a number of the pirates - though it is far from enthusiastic from a few that they can see, such as Sandara. "We have new crewmates, so allow me to explain the Bloody Hour. You recall my warning to you about what happens when you steal from the quartermaster, do you not? You. Will. Be. Keel. Hauled. Well, now is the time you get to see what we mean. Master Scourge, if you will!"
Master Scourge comes up from the stairs with a man in tow. They quickly see that it is Crimson Cogward, the one who lost in the gambling the previous night. He is stripped to the waist and bleeding from his face and back. The telltale signs of Scourge's whip and his preternatural ability to peel back flesh cover his body. Doctor Quarne steps out from behind him, using a kerchief to wipe his hands off. Plugg steps up and grabs Cogward by the neck, throwing him to the ground in front of him. "Well, Crimson... Why don't you tell the crew what you told my brother?"
With a cough and a weak voice, Cogward looks up and explains to the crew, "I lost me savings las' night... I needed some scratch to win it back, so I went and broke into the quartermaster's... I'm sorry... I'd been drinking and I made a mistake. Please!" His piteous apology seems aimed at Cut-throat Grok, the reedy half-orc quartermaster. She looks at him with a steely face, obviously not enjoying his pain but accepting of the consequences.
Plugg grabs him again and drags him to the stern of the Wormwood, with the crew following. He grabs a straight log with two thick, coiled ropes coming out of either end. He beckons to two of his fellow pirates - Shivikah, the tall and muscular Mwangi who was rumored to have been a slaver himself, and Maheem, a powerfully-built Rahadoumi with a permanent scowl and a prominent facial scar - who come up and begin lashing Cogward to it. "Crimson, you worship Pharasma, don't you? Goddess of death, if I'm not mistaken? Well, it's up to you if you want to be meetin' her today. When you hit the water, try to roll with the hull. It's a long way to go, and if you hit the hull just right, you can gettin' shredded by the barnacles. You live, and your penance is paid. You die, and that's the cost of stealin' from the ship."
He looks up at the crowd and scans it for the new arrivals. His spiteful mind comes up with an even more terrible idea. "Let's let our new crewman - and crew-woman - hold the ropes. Wynifrid the Peacekeeper, John Rawkins, come on here and hold the rope!" He holds out both sides to them, waiting for them to either agree - and thus forcing them to be part of the prisoner's terrible death - or refuse, giving him an opening to severely punish them and have someone else hold the ropes for the keelhauling.
Wyn set her jaw. She knew something like this would come soon enough--and just tried to be grateful she wasn't being asked to just shove him in. Crimson shouldn't have been fool enough to steal--if she'd known last night he was that short, she'd've lent him the money, but then pride and all that tends to get in the way of such things. But she'd do her best for him, that's all she had to give. She wasn't going to look at this as an opportunity to participate in his death--it was an opportunity to save him.
She walked up, took the rope. "Hope you can hold the weight after your scrubbin' today, soldier," she said to John. The tone was teasing but when eyes were turned she gave him a more solid look and a nod: together, we can do this. (())
When the time came, she took a deep breath and pulled.
The trio of cooks seem to be working together fairly well. Kroop gets through the day without drinking any of the rum, much to the surprise of his two assistants. He even whistles, though his tune is dreadfully off-key. He introduces Ollivor to his pet chickens, which run loose through the galley in a sanitary sort of way. They spend the day cooking a halfway edible fare of fresh-caught fish and softened, leavened bread. By the time dinner rolls around, the crew will be happily surprised.
Beshra responds to his query about Kroop in her exotic tongue that sounds like she grew up on a ship like this one. "He's a stubborn one. He pitched a fit when I took the drink away and nearly had me thrown out as his assistant, but I convinced Plugg," she spits as she says his name, "that I was of better use here. I can't take away his rum rations at night, and he manages to sneak some during the day - usually - but I keep him on his toes. He knows I don't approve of it. He seems to like you, though. I can see why. You've got a way about you." She offers him a wry grin as she says it.
Ollivor has to grin in return, "That's me, no freedom, no prospects, and no gear of my own but I DO have a way about me." Then with a softer voice again, "Best to cut him down more than make him quit entire anyway. If he's hooked bad, cutting it cold could go really badly for him. I seen that happen once." His grin is gone to a frown at the memory of it before he shakes his head, "Ah, pardon, it wasn't a good memory."
............
The Bloody Hour is something he didn't expect. Even Kroops assistants were yanked up to see whatever it was.
Then he wished he could unsee it. he watches in horror, whispering to himself "This is evil.". And it galls him, tears at him. He's seen more evil in the last week than he had in all his preceding years.