You wake up somewhere pitch black, with rough wood behind your back. The world around you seems to rock and sway rhythmically, and you're pretty sure it's not just from the splitting headache you have. Around you, you can hear the sounds of others stirring, though just how many there are is unclear.
G'*larik stirred slowly; not because he was groggy, but rather because he knew that slow movements were less likely to provoke hostility.
He sat up, peering around cautiously at his surroundings, blinking once or twice to moisten his eyes.
Abel lay perfectly still, feeling, listening. Attempting to make sense of her surroundings. The swaying around her indicated that she was on a ship and the fact that she was lying on wood said she was likely somewhere in the hold. Her head pounded as she strained her ears. She certainly wasn't alone. She opened her eyes. Not even the faintest glimmer of light reached her. She rose to a sitting position, wrapping her arms about her knees and drawing them to her chest.
Suddenly you hear many heavy footsteps, and soon the light of a lantern pierces your eyes. A rough-looking man carrying a whip comes down what you now can see is a flight of stairs, with six other men behind him.
"Still abed with the sun up?" The man shouts, cracking his whip. "On your feet, ye filthy swabs! Get up on deck before Cap'n Harrigan flays your flesh for sausage skins!"
G'*larik glances around and notices a disheveled tengu and a half-elf in the room with him. In the light of the lantern you can see you're in the dark hold of a ship, though it looks like this hold is mostly used for crew, based on the hammocks slung between posts in the back of the room and the footlockers against one wall.
G'*larik knew better than to argue in this situation, so he stood up and started moving along. He just hoped Greeep was safe.
"Okay, okay, going."
It took everything Abel had not to bolt up the stairs and into the light of day. She knew she wouldn't get far with seven burly sailors hot on her heels and she didn't want to risk punishment if caught. She'd felt the bite of a whip before, and that wasn't something she'd care to experience more than she absolutely had to. Instead, she rose to her feet and followed the others into the crisp morning sunlight.
The whip-wielding man's smile is most unpleasant as Abel, G'*larik, and the tengu get up and start moving.
"There we go, me swabs, see? Not so hard, as long as you don't give me any trouble." He cracks his whip one last time as the group troops past him. Half of the other men go in front of you, while the other half follow behind with the whip-wielder.
You're led up onto another deck, this one much more enclosed with several doors, and then up another flight of steps into the sunlight. The tang of salt is heavy in the air here, and the sun's light feels harsh after the dark hold. Around you a number of sailors leer at the newest members of their crew.
You have little time to take in the sights of the ship before a heavily-built half-orc calls out from the forecastle, "What's this you've brought me, Mr. Scourge?"
The whip-wielding man grins from his place behind you. "Our newest crew members, Cap'n, all ready to be made into proper pirates!"
She blinked, trying to get her eyes accustomed to the brightness. Pirates. Great. She glared at the captain, who was making his way toward them, but kept her mouth shut, feet steady.
G'*larik gave this captain a good looking at, expression difficult to read to non-amphibians. If a pirate ship was shanghaiing crew in Port Peril, that probably meant it was one of the lower-end pirate ships. The good ones didn't need to kidnap crew.
*roak*
You have a moment to look the ship over. She has three masts, with sails currently billowing in a stiff breeze. You're well out to see now, land only a vague impression of a broken horizon to the aft. You notice now that there are four others standing with you who look fairly new, judging by their uncertain looks.
The big Garundese man bellows out, “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. Mr. Plugg!"
He turns to a man at his side, who holds a vicious-looking cat-o'-nine-tails. "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.”
With that, Captain Harrigan turns away, and the other man, Mr. Plugg apparently, steps up.
"All right, ye swabs. Time t' see what you're made of. All of you, up the rigging t' the crow's nest! Last one up gets a taste o' the cat!"
He snaps his cruel implement to punctuate his point.
G'*larik hopped up into the rigging, and shot up the ropes and the mast with surprising alacrity. If these people didn't want talk, he'd show them action.
Abel hurried over and took a hold of the ropes leading to the crow's nest, desperate not to be last. She wasn't particularly strong, which made climbing somewhat difficult.
Mr. Plugg watches G'*larik shoot up the mast far ahead of the others. Abel leads early, but almost falls right at the end. She manages to reach the top third, the tengu just passing her on the other side of the mast.
"Looks like the frog's our new rigger!" He shouts up to the press-ganged group. "And as for you..." He turns to a human man who had twice fallen off of the ropes before getting more then ten feet up.
Mr. Plugg's cat-o-nine-tails snapped, catching the man on the arm. The unfortunate man cries out in pain as it leaves cuts and welts on him. "If you keep slacking off like that, you'll be feeding the fishes! Now, the rest of you, get back down here!"
He waits for the group of press-ganged sailors to climb back down, then considers them all narrowly. "Who've ye knows how t' cook?"
"No cook. Bugs crunchy raw. Tasty."
Abel hesitated, unsure of weather she should speak up. When nobody else offered anything, she sighed and took a step forward. "I can, sir," she said in an oddly formal tone. "I mean... I picked up a few things as payment for performances over the years."
"Right, then you're cook's mate," Mr. Plugg says. "Now, pointy-ears, go down to the galley. Frog, you stay on deck. Ratline'll show you the ropes."
He grins most unpleasantly. "Same goes for you, gnome. The rest of you swabs are with Master Scourge. Now!" He snaps his cat, "Get to it!"
"Aye, sir." She bowed slightly at the waist before turning on her heel in search of the galley.
G'*larik probably already knew the ropes, but he looked around for this Ratline anyway. He guessed he might be a ratfolk, considering the... imaginative nicknaming scheme these pirates had going on.
*Reeep*?
G'*larik discovers that 'Ratline' is actually a halfling, who's missing three fingers on his left hand. He eyes the grippli warily, but immediately goes about showing G'*larik around the rigging, pointing out tangled and damaged points and showing him how to fix them. Mr. Plugg watches from the deck, grinning and snapping his cat-o'-nine-tails from time to time.
Abel fairly quickly finds the galley, mostly by following the smell of cooking fish. What she finds is a chaotic mess of a kitchen--a cramped room at the aft of the middle deck, with cupboards, two tables, two small stoves, and a distressing array of meat cleavers. Over a dozen chickens and three goats meander about the cramped space.
The room's human occupant is a heavy man, wearing a bloodstained cook's apron as he chops up a fish. He's humming off-key to himself, and he has a bottle of something that's likely alcoholic off to one side, open and already half-empty. He doesn't seem to notice Abel enter.
She looked around in disgust. Men should never be allowed to run a kitchen. She made a mental diagram of the room, trying to think of a way to put some order to this chaos.
Not being exactly the best at chatting, G'*larik takes advantage of the vantage point offered by the rigging to try to get a good look over the ship, perhaps a better understanding of how things were organized and run, and what the layout of the deck was like. He also kept alert for any tidbits he might be able to overhear, as well.
G'*larik doesn't notice anything in particular other than that Mr. Plugg seems as interested in keeping everyone busy as in the actual work that needs to be done.
The cook continues to fail to notice Abel standing behind him.
Abel sighed and picked up the bottle of alcohol. She took a long swig before slamming it back down on the counter. "Do you make a habit of ignoring people, or are you simply too stupid to take notice?"
The cook jumps, fumbling his knife, which goes flying past a chicken. The startled bird panics and starts running around, which sets the others off, and soon the kitchen is full of such a cacophony of squawking and bleating that Abel could hardly understand the cook's words.
"Sorry! Who're ye, miss?"
She walked over to where the knife landed and picked it up, testing the edge with her thumb. "I'm your new assistant," she smirked, brandishing the knife. "But before we get started, somethings are going to have to change."
G'*larik decides it is best to keep looking busy then, and not give away how easy much of this work was for him, while still keeping his eyes and ears open. Was it only the new people that were being given busywork? Or was this ship in such a state that even the veterans needed to be kept distracted? He also felt out, sensing to make sure Greeep was still alive. Maybe they'd even taken him onto the boat? He hadn't been too far away before the capture.
The cook seemed to be struggling to keep up with what was going on. "Oh! Uh..." he looks around, then whispers conspiratorially, "You might be careful doing that, miss. Master Scourge, if he catches wind, well... he likes an excuse t' live up t' his name, ya see."
G'*larik can tell Greep is alive, but distant. Looking around, it seems most people but the officers are being kept busy. He sees that the gnome that was also made a rigger this morning is struggling with some simple knots.
"So I noticed. I'm sure if we plan things right, we'll be able to convince some of the others to join us. I doubt even Mr. Scourge could take on the entire crew alone, don't you think?" She tapped her jaw with the flat of the knife. "Step one I think should be improving the quality of these meals. Good food always seems to make negotiations easier.
Some... entertainment might also help. What say you? Will you continue to work under a brute like him, or will you help me?"
Well, that wouldn't do. G'*larik was fine with gnomes; they brightened things up a bit. And having a few friends would certainly help on this ship; if things were to the point where officers needed to use such harsh discipline to keep things in order mere days out of port, then a mutiny was probably brewing. Or if there wasn't one already, it was certainly about time for one.
Doing his best to stay be unnoticed by the watching officers, G'*larik hops and climbs through the rigging toward the beleaguered gnome, with the intent to help him out with learning the knots. He had some good amphibian-based mnemonics that should help, and was about the same size.
The cook shushes Abel and looks around frantically. When he sees and hears no one else (the noisy animals help), he relaxes a bit, but still gives the half-elf a look of terror. "That kind 'f talk'll get you a triple keel-hauling!"
Lower, he says, "Only folks around here who like things th' way they are's the officers, pretty much, but they're th' ones with keys t' the armory. And th' captain, well..."
He shudders. "I seen 'im fight three men a' once and kill 'em all with nary a scratch. Best learn your way around th' Wormwood first, Miss."
**************
G'*larik has little trouble helping the gnome out with a few knots. He's grateful for the assistance, but they are interrupted after a few minutes by Mr. Plugg shouting, "Frog! There's no way you're finished with that rigging!"
He snaps his cat-o'-nine-tails. "Back t' your post now!"
She sighed. "Very well. We'll do it your way for now, Mister...?"
With a quiet, vaguely exasperated *Roaak*, G'*larik went back to his assigned area and redid some work, mostly just to look busy. His estimation of the sailing skills of their overseer dropped another notch, but best to behave for now. He did keep his eyes open for other opportunities that might arise, whether to help or talk with the other new crewmembers, or to quietly inconvenience the officers.
"Kroop," the cook answers, "Ambrose Kroop, though most folks just call me 'Fishguts'. Now, how much d' you know about cooking?"
***************
The gnome mentions his name is Conchobhar before G'*larik climbs away. Mr. Plugg keeps a close eye on him the whole day, and the grippli gets a feeling that the first mate has already decided to hate him.
"Enough to get by, I suppose." She offered him the knife, handle first. "Well, best get started then."
Well that was hardly surprising. G'*larik would have been surprised if this Plugg person didn't hate half the ship, frankly. Still, it could be trouble. He'd have to keep a sharp eye out.
Fishguts took the knife and got back to work, directing Abel to help with chopping and fetching. Surprisingly, he seems to be a pretty good cook, though the way he keeps sipping from his bottle of rum bodes ill. Still, he stays sober enough to direct the cooking until one of the captain's cabin girls comes by to pick up the officers' meals. Once she's gone, he grabs a sack, goes over to a large barrel, and starts pulling some dry biscuits out and putting them in the sack.
"Abel, you get th' leftover roast fish," he says as he works. "Crew 'll be happy t' have somethin' more 'an just biscuit."
**************
G'*larik was able to help a bit here and there with a couple of the other newer riggers. From what he could gather, most of the crew had been press-ganged at some point, and so skills were rather uneven between them. He, Abel, the gnome, the tengu, and the other three that had been with them this morning were the newest, but some of the others had only been on the Wormwood a few weeks.
As the sun set, Mr. Plugg cracked his 'cat one more time. "To the deck, riggers! Time for ship's biscuit, and then our favorite part of the day."
He smiles most unpleasantly. "The Bloody Hour."
G'*larik already didn't like the sound of that. But at least there would be food. He came down without any fuss, for now at least.
"I'll bet," she said absently, leaning against the far wall to catch her breath.
Fishguts lugs his bag of biscuit up onto the deck, where Mr. Plugg had ordered the ordinary crew members into a ragged line. The crew--at least the old hands--are, indeed, glad to get a little something more than just dry biscuit with their meal.
G'*larik ends up next in line to the tengu who you'd seen in the morning. Once Crosp and Abel pass them and they have a bit of time to find a spot to sit and eat, the tengu waves the grippli over to where he's sitting on the deck, accompanied by a human woman.
Well, the tengu could be a good person to know. Especially if it turned out he'd be continuing to share 'quarters' with him.
G'*larik made his way over to sit next to the tengu, idly watching for tasty insects to supplement the bland biscuit and scarce fish. He also kept an eye out for Plugg, not wanting to give him an excuse, and for other officers as well, to know when it might be safe to talk.
*reep* "Hello?"
Once all of the food is distributed, Fishguts turns to Abel. "All right, miss, job's done for the day. See you in the morning!" With that, he tromps towards the stairs, leaving Abel on the deck with the rest of the crew.
G'*larik saw Mr. Plugg watching him narrowly for a moment, but then the Captain started talking with him, and he turned away.
"Hello, hello," the tengu says, his voice surprisingly deep. "I couldn't help but notice that you were... invited to join the crew at the same time I was."
His eyes dart about for a moment, then settle back on the grippli. "I don't think I caught your name. I am Taiquin, and it seems I've been appointed the ship's Jinx Eater... which doesn't keep me from being a swab, too, apparently."
"Mmm... Of course," she mumbled, looking around for a place to sit, preferably alone, so she could have some time to think.
"Yes, yes, Taiquin. I am G'*larik." G'*larik responded, inwardly curious if the renowned linguistic skill of the tengu would turn out to be up to the task of properly pronouncing the grippli name. Making sure no officers were close enough to hear, he then continued. "Not very polite. Was hoping for better ship. Also miss Greeep, and things."
*Rooak*
As Taiquin listens to G'*larik, he notices Abel looking around and waves her over, then turns back to the grippli.
"Well, G'*larik," he does a much better job of pronounciation than humans do, though not perfect, "I wish I could have met you on a better ship, myself."
"As do I," the woman next to him says. "The name's Sandara Quinn, and I'm sworn to the Pirate Queen... which doesn't mean I'm happy about being pirated myself."
She pauses a moment. "You got a name I can actually say?" she asks, grinning at her own inability.