You slowly awaken, your face pressed against an unyielding wood floor. As you attempt to rise your head starts to swim; the stale taste of cheap spirits and a pounding headache reminds you of the events of the previous night: the Formidably Maid, food, drink, laughter, lightheadedness, the sensation of being carried into the cool night air. The details are extremely faint in your mind.
Your eyes begin to adjust to the light and you notice four humanoid forms around you. Each appears to be in a state similar to your own, slowly beginning to stir and visibly delayed in their motions.
Awareness is a bastard, Lucky thinks, as he slowly starts to piece things together. First he just knows it hurts, and then the swaying motion and the creaking sound filtered through the misery. He squeezed his eyes closed and tried to wake himself up from what must be a hideous nightmare. It couldn't possibly be real.
He opened his eyes and peered through the darkness. Bodies, waking up, slowly, miserably. The world still rolled back and forth. The timbers still creaked. He pressed his fists against his eyes, trying to make this be a dream.
"Please no," he groaned. "Not again."
(have neither skill, so skipping the checks.)
The large mass of a man stirs slowly, Why are there bells ringing he wonders. He feels the grains of wood against his cheek, and starts squinting in preparation of opening his eyes. Eye still shut he tries to remember the previous night, where he tried to pick out sailors he could approach to come work for him, but had ended up just drinking the night away. He remembers a woman approaching him at one point, whore by the look of her, or maybe a barmaid, well it was probably a woman of some sort. It was all a haze of blurred motion and light, and drink. He moans quietly remembering how much he drank, cursing whatever gods invented the blessed stuff.
He manages to get one eyes open a tiny sliver, and immediately regrets his decision to do so. Better to just let the rocking of the ocean take him back to sleep. As that last thought hits his brain, he freezes in place, Could I be back aboard the Murky Gull? Giving a growl he fights his nausea enough to lift his head and risk a glance around, noting several stirring bodies lying nearby. Thinking that this would be a good time to introduce himself, he speaks up to everyone and no-one, his voice deep but weak, "Ugh... Shaddup!" his voice comes out a croak, and he pauses a second, I didn't mean to say that... oh well, it was honest at least.
Oil o' taggit. A cheap way to lay a man flat, at least temporarily. We're at sea. Mawimbi rasps, his throat raw.
His first concern is to look around for his companion, Mkutubi. Is there a porthole? Did the beast follow his friend to the ship and sneak aboard?
"Oil of taggit?" he groans, hearing the raspy voice and recognizing the nutmeg aftertaste. "Besmara's bloody boots, don't they know who I am?"
He dug deep, but was too wretched to muster up any solid outrage. Of course they didn't know who he was, or they wouldn't have put him on board their ship. They had doomed their own voyage. He dragged himself up into a sitting position and waited for his stomach to settle before he attempted to say anything else.
Strom considers the odd conversation going on around him, trying to gather the words into coherent thoughts, "Who are you? Where are we? Prison?!" He says the last a little bit too hopefully, because the alternative is not one he's completely prepared to consider.
"Can't you feel the motion of the waves, man? We're on a bloody ship."
Lucky groaned and hung his head between his knees. He could see the shapes of the others, the big man who had asked where they were, the dark man who had known about taggit. He shook his head, despair washing over him, and his tone was funereal as he explained who he was, and what it meant.
"Who am I? I'm Lucky Wilkins. I been on six ships in me life and every one of them's at the bottom of the sea."
Mawimbi, you find it hard to see very far. The illumination in the room you find yourselves is poor, with only a few beams of sunlight filtering through some holes in the ceiling overhead. Occasionally even these light sources are obscured, usually accompanied by the sound of booted eet on wood. Combined with the muddled state of your sense, it is impossible to make out details within the lighted areas, let alone beyond them.
The smell of animals is unmistakable in this area, but you easily recognize it as that of livestock. This is accompanied by occasional shuffling and grunting from various locations around you.
Strom pushes himself back to prop himself against the wall, head hanging low, "I was hoping it was just my head spinning all over creation." He raises his head slowly to consider this 'Lucky Wilkins' fellow, he didn't appear all that bad, not like some of the crazies you see on the open water now and again. "Got sumthin' against boats Lucky? or just against floating boats?"
In the dim light, a tall, slim woman drags herself out from behind a barrel. She leans her back against a crate, draws her knees up, and puts her head in her hands with her elbows on her knees. The position is rather unladylike, but she doesn't seem to care as her diaphanous ankle-length skirt exposes a rather indecent length of her legs.
Lords have mercy upon my pounding head, she mumbles.
She cracks a bleary eye open, but barely has enough time to wince before squeezing it shut again. She grimaces as she massages her temples.
What happened? I don’t remember drinking that much.
Using her hands to shade her eyes, the woman begins a survey of the room. What she finds doesn’t improve her countenance: supplies and tools all over. Several bodies are strewn amongst the equipment, some of them snoring, a couple appear to be talking--if that dull roar could be called speech. The woman mouths a quiet prayer to Korada for their safety before gently putting her head back down on her folded arms, this time with her eyes firmly shut.
She goes through what she saw in her mind. Several barrels, carefully folded pieces of canvas, carpentry equipment, crates containing candles--the neatness and care with which the materials and supplies were stored spoke volumes about the captain of the sh--
Oh Arshea deliver me, I’m on a ship. The thought crashes through the woman’s consciousness like an out-of-control bull thrashing around on a dock. The thought makes her feel physically ill and she struggles to stop herself from throwing up.
A few deep breaths later, she lifts her head back up
Someone tell me I’m dreaming, she says.
As she speaks, she discovers a foul taste in her mouth, but puts it down to overindulging in cheap alcohol. Momentarily overcome, she gags, but controls herself with a few more deep breaths.
The effort finally drives her senses into full awareness, and she begins to understand the conversation going on around her.
Oil o' taggit. A cheap way to lay a man flat, at least temporarily. We're at sea.
The woman makes a face. Oil of taggit? Oh, wonderful.
"Who am I? I'm Lucky Wilkins. I been on six ships in me life and every one of them's at the bottom of the sea."
The woman squints at the man across from her. Well then, I guess you should be thrown overboard as soon as possible, she says with a small smile, although it costs her deeply and rapidly becomes a wince.
Oh Lords above, I have got to find some water.
She begins crawling carefully around the room, seeking to inspect her surroundings and see if she can find anything of value.
Her hair is short, blue, and seemingly reflects some of the dim light that makes its way into the hold. If you get close enough in the dark, you will see that her arms and legs appear to be covered in tattooed whorls, and that they seem to shift subtly whenever she breathes.
Also, does she have access to the spells she prepared yesterday? Perhaps just the cantrips?
As the tall figure of a willowy woman comes out from behind some barrels, Strom casts an annoyed glance in that direction, but quickly does a double-take. Those legs go on forever... No! The large man shakes his head to clear it, which only sets the hammers pounding at his brain swinging all the harder. Ironically this does help distract him from the legs and translucent skirt. "I believe this is best classified as a nightmare, miss, ma'am, lady."
Seeing her investigate the area Strom remembers he should be checking for his own possessions and begins to do so. Checking for his weapons and coins.
"Just a matter of luck," he said to the big man. "Either I've got the worst luck ever for being on six ships that sank, or the best luck ever for living to tell about it. One way or the other, I never wanted to be on a seventh."
That was when the little blue-hair chimed in, talking about throwing him overboard. He turned to look at her with a cold smile, forgetting his despair for a moment.
"You might have been a fine lady or a cheap tart yesterday, lass, I don't know. Today you're down here with the rest of us, and it'll be bad enough without letting your mouth make you enemies. You'll want to start watching what comes out of it."
His hand went to his hip, looking for the hilt of his blade, but it wasn't there. He checked his other pockets, and found that whoever had drugged them and dumped them down here had also helped themselves to most of his worldly possessions. He pushed himself to his feet, staying low to clear the beams above him.
"What ships were getting ready to sail?" he muttered, trying to remember. The trouble was his kin had kept him more or less in the bottom of a bottle the past three days, and he hadn't given much thought to ought else. His hands and eyes examined the ship, trying to see the shape of it from the room they were in.
Druids typically use a spring of holy or some other sacred plant as a divine focus. Would seaweed or a shell of some sort work for Mawimbi? If so, was that taken from him?
Also, he picked 'eschew materials' as a feat. Does such divine focus count as less than 1gp, and thus not be required?
Ultimately, I'm asking if Mawimbi could cast light right now, and explore the room. He's mostly concerned with finding the ape.
It soon becomes apparent that what Strom and Lucky have discovered is true of everyone in what you can now identify as the ship's primary hold, more of the area's features becoming discernible as your eyes adjust to the darkness; the majority of your equipment, including your weapons, are missing. A quick inventory of your belongings reveals only a handful of items that were missed:
"Still abed with the sun over the yardarm? On your feet, ye filthy swabs! Get up on deck and report for duty before Cap’n Harrigan flays your flesh into sausage skins and has Fishguts fry ye up for breakfast!" The man coils his whip in his hand and uses it to motion harshly in the direction he came.
Strom stands up slowly, partially because he's so woozy, and partially to try and be intimidating. Much of his bulk fills his section of the hold, but the pirates who've come down aren't exactly featherweights either. "So you're the coward that slips sleepy oil into a man's drink. A whip I see, another cowardly weapon. And six guard dogs, how fitting. Tell me, do you still crap out pieces of your spine? Or has it already fled your body completely?"
"I believe this is best classified as a nightmare, miss, ma'am, lady."
The woman almost turns her head in the big man's direction, then thinks twice. She swallows instead. Miss will be fine. Or you can just call me Šeherzada. She pronounces the first syllable a long way back in her throat, with the 'r' in the middle sounding distinct from the other letters.
Finding she doesn't have the strength to continue her search for water, Šeherzada flops down onto the deck in a heap and covers her eyes with a hand.
"You might have been a fine lady or a cheap tart yesterday, lass, I don't know. Today you're down here with the rest of us, and it'll be bad enough without letting your mouth make you enemies. You'll want to start watching what comes out of it."
Šeherzada pushes her fingers apart so that one eye looks across at Lucky. She seems to be grinning. Peace, friend. It was only a joke.
There is a pause.
As for the other, frankly I'm probably a little of both.
She watches Lucky stand up; the idea of doing so herself makes her grimace.
"What ships were getting ready to sail?" he muttered, trying to remember.
As far as I recall, Undine's Folly, Percival and Rainmaker were all taking on water this morning. Yesterday morning, she corrects herself.
But this isn't Rainmaker; it was headed up the coast--a ten-day journey at most--and wouldn't need all these supplies. Probably they also wouldn't need to resort to such underhanded tactics; Tobias is a good captain and has a full crew.
Speaking of underhanded tactics, whoever did this to me best have kept my things safe. She unlatches her inner senses and seeks out her familiar; he seems to be on board somewhere, but that's all she can manage before the effort weakens her again. One less thing to worry about, at least.
"Still abed with the sun over the yardarm? On your feet, ye filthy swabs! Get up on deck and report for duty before Cap’n Harrigan flays your flesh into sausage skins and has Fishguts fry ye up for breakfast!" The man coils his whip in his hand and uses it to motion harshly in the direction he came.[/b]
"So you're the coward that slips sleepy oil into a man's drink. A whip I see, another cowardly weapon. And six guard dogs, how fitting. Tell me, do you still crap out pieces of your spine? Or has it already fled your body completely?"
Šeherzada hauls herself up to a crouch, moaning as she does so, and waits to see what the newcomer--quartermaster? first mate?--will do with the surly bear-man.
Whatever the outcome, she watches him carefully, seeking signs of weakness so that she can exploit them later when she takes her revenge--she remembers his face from the previous night at the Formidably Maid, and she is determined Calistria's sting will come to him soon enough.
The man looks visibly startled when confronted by Strom's massive frame. He looks at his subordinates somewhat frantically for a few moments before steeling his gaze and turning back to face the barbarian. The whip-wielder takes a few steps forward to bring himself chest-to-chest with Strom, though the man's stature is somewhat lacking next to that of the sea reaver. A bead of sweat betrays the man's composure. "I would recommend ye not turn down the Cap’n's hospitalities. Any lubber direspectin' Barnabas Harrigan is apt to find his'self facing the lash, if not the cat. Welcome to the Sweet Trade, lad."
The man's sneer returns as he mockingly bows before the barbarian, illiciting gruff laughter from his subordinates. He never removes his eyes from Strom's face, and once again motion with his whip in the direction the group arrived from.
Strom feels a hot rage start to creep up from his belly as the whipper gets in his face, but manages to push it back down as he remembers the ship, his lack of weapons, his pounding head, and the group of ugly toughs in front of him. "This lubber accepts, and I'll look forward to seeing you again Worm." Strom looks at the others in the hold, offering his hand to any wanting a boost up. Once he's sure the others have been helped if they want it he moves to leave the hold, attempting to shoulder his way through any toughs too slow to get out of the way.
As long as I can taste the salt sea air, Marimba be content. the tall man ignores the Press gang and pushes his way out toward the sun.
"Aye, a nightmare for sure," Lucky says, agreeing with the big man.
Lucky seems to sag a little as soon as Šeherzada makes clear she was joking. As if the prospect of a fight was all that gave him the energy to stand. He chuckled bitterly, thinking he was the member of the family least likely to get in a brawl
"If you feel as wretched as I do and can still joke, you've a rare spirit," he says, propping himself up against the wall. "For my part, Šeherzada I beg your pardon, being drugged and kidnapped doesn't bring out the best in me, it seems."
When the man with the gold teeth and the whip comes down, Lucky looks up, starting to make his way up the hatch when the big man starts talking.
With a second look, Lucky recognizes the man's coat and the glint of gold in his mouth. He had been buying drinks at the Formidably Maid last night. Lucky stood ready to jump in if the big one started a brawl. He didn't think much of their chances, but he wouldn't pass an opportunity to give the man who had drugged him a few bruises. But there was no fight, and Lucky went up to the deck...
... with no idea who Captain Harrigan was.
Šeherzada takes the big man's hand gratefully, and is nearly jerked off her feet when he yanks her upright.
Remind me not to get on your bad side, she says as she begins belatedly patting herself down to see precisely what possessions she still has on her. All she finds is her spell component pouch, which she begins going through carefully to make sure everything is still there: the copper wire woven into the stitching, the small brass key hanging off the side, the clump of wool, the cut up pieces of cured leather...everything seems to be there--as well as something that doesn't belong: her soap.
Hah! Scared of this, were you? She brandishes the soap in the general direction of the gold-toothed man and his cronies--then sighs, as if her momentary defiance has worn her out.
Lead on, then, she says, gesturing toward the steps up to the deck. Take us to the good captain Harrigan.
Out of the shadows in the corner a small child-like figure emerges. As he looks around the darkened room at the men and women standing there, a hoarse voice sounds from the young man's mouth, as Cecic tries to force his pitch higher than its natural low drone. He looks like a thirteen young man, but there's something just not right, is that facial hair, his complexion, just not fresh enough a little to bronzed and weather beaten. Yet his straw blonde hair untidy, long and sticking out over his face and to his shoulders, could be that of any young boy. His eyes blink as his mind weighs up he situation. His breath reeks of spirits, his dirty clothes perfumed with the sweet smell of rum.
He speaks, "Indeed it will be a pleasure to serve for Captain Harrigan, scourge of the Chelish fleets. His exploits known and spoken in the bardic tales in the Inns and Taverns of Port Peril. And you sir, may the Captain provide you with advancement in the ranks of the free pirates of the seas, I'm sure your captain can provide your future rewards and reputation with Besmara's blessings." he speaks slowly, as though the effort to place the words in the right order stretches evry part of his mind. Though the young man's words seem far more insightful than one who looks so young as he winks to his fellow captives.
He turns to the others, "Best leave our quarrels as they be, at the shore, we work together to ensure success in this joint adventure. Leave the bitter taste of the oil at the dock, eh Lucky and the rest of you." the young man takes a red and white handkerchief from the inside pocket, it surrounds a small piece of parchment. The handkerchief unravels showing the emblem of all pirates, the skull and crossbones, Cecic smiles "Bring us good fortune and reward on this, the beauty that is the 'Wormwood', my pirate queen." It appears that the young boy has been awake as long as the rest of you, if not a little before, maybe he watched you all rise from your enforced slumbers, only revealing himself when the opportunity to escape the incarceration presents itself.
"I, Cecic, will do all I can to serve the captain of this ship, for the betterment of all. Will you all make such a pledge?" he ask as he finishes speaking hinting at the duplicity in his words.
"So long as Worm-whip here isn't captain, I'm a definite maybe."
Out of the shadows in the corner a small child-like figure emerges...
He speaks, "Indeed it will be a pleasure to serve for Captain Harrigan, scourge of the Chelish fleets. His exploits known and spoken in the bardic tales in the Inns and Taverns of Port Peril. And you sir..."
Šeherzada is at first startled by the halfling's sudden appearance. A halfling, she groans inwardly. Why did there have to be a halfling? And why is it that every single one of them seems capable of talking a fencepost to death? She does her best to tune out the incessant drone of the pint-sized prattler--but fails.
[T]he young man takes a red and white handkerchief from the inside pocket, it surrounds a small piece of parchment. The handkerchief unravels showing the emblem of all pirates, the skull and crossbones, Cecic smiles "Bring us good fortune and reward on this, the beauty that is the 'Wormwood', my pirate queen."
Now that is suspicious, Šeherzada thinks to herself. Why does he have that neat little prop, and all we've got is an assortment of odds and ends? And how did he know the name of the ship? Awfully convenient... She resolves to watch the halfling carefully--and her words, around him.
"I, Cecic, will do all I can to serve the captain of this ship, for the betterment of all. Will you all make such a pledge?"
Šeherzada senses there's something at odds with the way the halfling is grandstanding. She rubs her face before replying.
You'll get no such pledge from me, she says, but I am certainly getting fed up being stuck down here. Can we please get moving? If I'm going to be put to work, let it be sooner rather than later.
The sea will judge this captain Harrigan. He should know that to pluck men from the shore and away from their destinies, you must be a tough and concise captain to master the demands of Gozreh. I shall seek omens in the sky to foretell the ship's fate.
You'll get no such pledge from me, she says, but I am certainly getting fed up being stuck down here. Can we please get moving? If I'm going to be put to work, let it be sooner rather than later.
Strom looks back at the willowy woman, "You so sure it's work in store for you? or him for that matter?" as he indicates the odd halfling boy-man. "Seems a bit odd to be rushing to an unknown fate."
You'll get no such pledge from me, she says, but I am certainly getting fed up being stuck down here. Can we please get moving? If I'm going to be put to work, let it be sooner rather than later.Strom looks back at the willowy woman, "You so sure it's work in store for you? or him for that matter?" as he indicates the odd halfling boy-man. "Seems a bit odd to be rushing to an unknown fate."
Šeherzada shrugs as they make their way toward the stairs. She pitches her voice low in an effort to keep her words out of earshot of their captors. I don't know what's to come, that's true. But I won't learn anything about how I can improve my lot if I don't find out. Whatever happens, I'll trust in my wits and guile to get out of it--or if that's impossible, to at least make it bearable.
She looks the hulking man up and down. Speaking of which, I could use your help around here; in my experience some men on ships like this don't know how to take 'no' for an answer. I don't know you and you don't know me, but I think we'll do better if we stick together. Deal?
Strom nods imperceptibly, answering in like fashion, voice low, "The more friends we have on this ship, the longer we live. As far as I'm concerned that means you, me, and everyone else who woke up in that room. Deal." If any of the others are close enough to hear and make eye contact, Strom is sure to include them as well with a meaningful look.
As they emerge from the depths and come into the light he covers his eyes with a free hand, I didn't think the headache could get much worse, how nice to be wrong. he thinks to himself.
As you speak amongst yourselves you are led up a flight of stairs, into what appears to be some sort of officers' quarters. From here you are directed to exit a door onto the ship's main deck. You step into the open air and your senses are overwhelmed, your eyes struggling to adjust to bright sunlight from overhead.
You feel rough hands leading you further onto the deck, and as your vision returns you find you have all been lined up in a single row. Four others are standing alongside you, these individuals set apart from the rest of the crew by their relative cleanliness and their readily apparent unease. A dozen or so other pirates, clearly existing members of the crew, stand about on the deck or in the ship’s rigging. Your gaze looks beyond the ship's rails, confirming your fears when you recognize Port Peril and the mainland of the Shackles many miles in the distance.
Looking up at the higher deck on the stern you see two figures. One of them is a broad, muscular Garundi man with a shaven head, a long beard bound with gold rings, and an eye patch--clearly the captain. The other is a younger, balding man with a long black ponytail, wearing a long coat and carrying a well-used cat-o’-nine-tails. The captain steps forward, roughly pushing the second man aside as he does.
"Glad you could join us at last! Welcome to the Wormwood! My thanks for 'volunteering' to join my crew. I'm Barnabas Harrigan. That's Captain Barnabas Harrigan to you, not that you'll ever need to address me. I have only one rule--don't speak to me. I like talk, but I don't like your talk. Follow that rule and we'll all get along fine."
"Oh, and one more thing. Even with you new recruits, we're still short-handed, and I aim to keep what crew I have. There'll be a keelhaulin' for anyone caught killin' anyone." The Captain turns to address the balding man at his side. "Mr. Plugg! If you’d be so kind as to make pirates out of these landlubbers, it'll save me having to put them in the sweatbox for a year and a day before I make pies out of 'em" Harrigan then marches away, leaving the balding Mr. Plugg looking down on you, almost hungrily. He smiles as he looks over each of you in turn.
Coming out just behind the big man, Šeherzada winces in similar fashion. Must be early afternoon, she thinks as she risks a glance at the position of the sun.
Out in the sunlight, anyone who cares to look can see her hair is iridescent--like peacock feathers. She looks around awkwardly. I hope I can get my bandanna back, she thinks, feeling all too self-conscious.
###
After Harrigan's tirade, Šeherzada stands mute, waiting for something to happen.
Be inconspicuous; that's my--our--best chance.
Strom waits several moments for his eyes to adjust, and it seems to take forever. He is expecting the need to be violent, from their induction onto the ship to this greeting, it all seems to hover just on the edge of violence. So Strom tried to think of his options, wondering if he could make it back to land if he swam, doubtful, or if he tries to fight his way to a longboat, doomed, if there even is one, or possibly talk his way into someones good graces, have you heard yourself try and be loveable?. Strom sighs heavily, looking from side to side at his companions in the bright sun, Yep, completely doomed.
"We're in this together. If it is Besmara's will, we'll weather the storm."
At first, Lucky could do nothing but shade his eyes and grit his teeth against the punishing light of the sun. After a few seconds, he had adjusted enough to scan the horizon. Port Peril was just visible in the distance, and there was no other land in sight. It was a long way to swim.
"Don't let us sink yet, Black Lady," he whispered a prayer to Besmara.
Though convinced that he was cursed, and positive that the ship would go down sooner rather than later, his instinct for survival was strong. He was, in many ways, a natural as a pirate. He was small and quick, nimble and cunning, and having grown up in Port Peril, he knew the ways of pirates. He kept a stoic face and glanced around him, sizing up the crew as the captain delivered his speech.
Mr. Plugg slowly makes his way to the main deck, walking slowly down the line and carefully studying each of you. The sunlight reflects off the polished pearl buttons of his navy blue longcoat. "We're needin' another man in the rigging. Someone with potential. Someone who can proove himself a real jack tar." Plugg motion to the five of you on deck with his cat, then points to the crow's nest 60 feet above the deck. "To the nest with the lot of you. Once up and back again, fast as yer able. Now go!" Many of the crew members watching erupt into cheers and hurled insults, and several immediately begin placing bets amongst themselves.
Strom watches the balding man, resisting the urge to reach out and strangle him, and then when he hears the instructions he looks up, considering the rigging far above. Shrugging, he looks at the others, "Beats the bilges." and moves to the rigging, pulling his great weight up with careful deliberation.
Climb1: 10' up
Climb2: 10' up - stalled
Climb3: 20' up
Climb4: 30' up
Climb5: 40' up
Climb6: 50' up
Climb7: 60' up
Climb8: n/a
Climb9: n/a
Climb10: n/a
Strom makes is up relatively quickly, his great strength allowing him to cling and pull himself with ease, and looks at the others climbing with him, willing them on. He's not sure what he should be hoping for at this point, but with the wind in his face and the relative silence of the crows nest, he sure could get used to this. He remains up there, helping people over the lip when they arrive, calling out cautions if it looks like anyone will misstep. Once Mr. Plugg asks for him to come down, he will, cautiously, and helping the others.
Mktubi!!!!! bellows the druid, once he has scanned the deck and can feel the breeze. If his friend fails to respond, he first seems to shrink in sadness. A few moments later the spell passes, and he stands taller and more stiffly, with a hard gleam in his eye.
His sadness channels into rage, and the druid springs to the rigging and climbs without care for his safety.
Check to catch himself when he falls:
Even paler than he was a moment ago, if that is at all possible, Lucky starts to climb, carefully carefully.
Though he freezes up for a moment near the top, Lucky pushes on.
Cecic climbs the stairs, shielding his eyes with a hand on his brow. The wind catches his straw hair blowing it wildly about his face. Using his little hands he tries to smooth his hair back down, but it keeps getting in his eyes, until eventually he retrieves the handkerchief you saw earlier, which he uses to tie his hair bck into a tangle of a ponytail. Unless you look closerly, the red and white pattern is irreglar and doesn't show the skull and crossbones you saw earlier. He tucks the small piece of parchment back inside his green and white pantaloons, frayed at the end where his bronzen feet pad along the deck. Eventully he smiles as he tastes the salt on his lips, the fresh ozone in the wind. His attention is caught by Captain Hannigan's speech, his forehead wrinkles up in a frown at the man's words. His toes wiggle in waves of annoyance as he finishes.
As the man looks up and down the 'new crew', Cecic puts his best childlike face on, smiling sweetly at the man. "Begging your pardon sir, does the captain mean for even the little one to climb so high?" his blue innocent eyes look up, "I'm sure you don't want to loose such a fine little one as me up so high, I mean what good can I do up there. I wouldn't even see over the rigging on that nest."
As the man looks at Cecic, he thinks better of the idea to stay on deck and runs over to climb up and down hoping that he will be the first up and back.
... makes it to 20ft
... makes it to 45ft
... fall 5ft
... stablize catch hold .. to 55ft
... makes it to 60ft
... should have made it before this ..
...
Cecic was wise to start climbing; Plugg narrows his eyes at the halfling before lashing out with the cat, striking the deck where the halfling's furred feet were standing mere moments ago. "You smell of cheap grog, ye runt! Up the mast with you!"
Šeherzada looks up at the dizzying heights of the rigging, and then back at the cat in Mr. Plugg's hands. A fall would be preferable, she thinks, and sets to climbing.
Šeherzada finds herself quickly tangled up in the rigging, twice losing her footing and falling a few feet to the deck--fortunately neither of the falls is bad enough to hurt more than her pride, although after the second fall, where she lands awkwardly on her backside, she takes a moment to sketch a courtly bow to the crew.
Now that is going to leave a bruise, she mutters to herself as she begins climbing again--but she only gets around nine feet off the deck before she looks up and sees the dark-skinned man from the hold standing atop the crow's nest. My, he's driven, she thinks to herself as she begins to make her way back down.
Plugg stares in utter disbelief as Šeherzada gets herself tangled in the rigging. He orders everyone to return to the deck, and positions himself in front of Mawimbi. "Congratulations, jungle man. You get to be a rigger. You work for me." The pirate then stalks up to Šeherzada and glares at her. His gaze never wavers, but he raises his voice so that all of you can hear his words. "Any o' the rest of you think you can cook?"
Strom tries to think of a snooty, sarcastic way to answer but is unable to come up with anything on such short notice. He settles for a brief, "No."
The pirate turns his head at the sound of Strom's voice. "No cooks ye say? Pity."
Plugg walks up to Strom next, positioning himself squarely in front of the barbarian. He takes a moment of looking the man over. "Not a cook, but you must know yer way around food; a frame as big as yours, you must 'ave spent plenty of time at the trough. Report to the galley. You're a cook's mate now."
Plugg raises his voice so all can hear him. "The rest of you get the pleasure of swabbin' the deck. You will follow the orders of Master Scourge. Any who fail to perform the tasks they are assigned get to tell their tale to the lash. It gets real talkative during the Bloody Hour."
His speech finished Plugg turns to leave, pausing to harshly take hold of the hairs at the base of Mawimbi's neck and lead the man away from the rest of you. The man with the gold teeth steps forward, once again sneering. "I be Scourge, you filthy lubbers. I be tellin' ya what to do this day. An' every day, from now on."
You are escorted toward the hold's forward section and through an open door. You find yourself in the galley. The cramped and chaotic kitchen holds two wooden worktables, several wooden cupboards, and two small stoves against the port wall, as well as virtually every cooking utensil imaginable and a frightening array of meat cleavers. A score of chickens and three goats wander freely throughout the chamber. The kitchen is a madness of dirt, food, and knives.
The stoves are lit, and large cauldrons bubble away atop them. A huge array of spices mingle with barrels of rainwater, two tons of marked rum, open cupboards full of ship’s biscuit and salted beef, labelled barrels of sauerkraut, and a small supply of fresh vegetables.
A large man slouches on a barrel along the starboard wall, a large black chicken resting on his shoulder. The man's clothes are in disarray and covered in grime. He looks up as you arrive, wobbling slightly on his perch as he smiles at you crookedly. "Who do we have here? Do I know you? My name's Kroop. Ambrose Kroop, but everyone jest calls me 'Fishguts.' What ken I do for you? Care for a drink?"
With a groan, Lucky sets off for the bowels of the ship, pulling his headscarf over his mouth and nose to help with the stench. With no end of refuse in sight, he paces himself, investigating as he dredges.
@ Lucky The lowest deck of the ship, the bilges are a foul, damp place with thick cobwebs above and 1–2 feet of dark, brackish water that stinks abominably below. A ladder leads up to a trap door that opens in the lower hold, and a single bilge pump rests near the stern. The bilges also double as the ship’s brig, and six sets of manacles are fixed to the bulkheads in the forward portion of the deck.
A lone figure is in the hold, a man stripped to the waist and chained to the wall. He glaces up weakly as you make your way into the space, but a sudden fit of coughing causes the man's head to slump to his chest once more.
While catching his breath after a particularly repulsive tangle of filth, Lucky whispers to the prisoner. "Why are you here? Is there anything I can do to help you? Would you know where they'd have taken the gear they stole from us?"