As the sun begins to set, the storm does not appear to be getting any worse. Just when this becomes apparent, a final large wave crashes over the deck, and leaves behind a swarm of crabs! A writhing mass of clacking shells and snapping pincers teem across ten feet of the deck, their spider-like legs twitching over the wood planking.
"Disgusting!" Simon sneers. Drawing his longsword, he steps up and swings savagely. Unusually enough, his sword seems to have no effect. The diminutive crustaceans begin to skitter up his kicking feet.
The crewmen draw their weapons and move to crush the critters, but Golo holds out his hands to stall his shipmates. "Stey back! I tangl'd wit' tah likes a dees b'fore. Ye can't hurt 'em wit' blades or boots."
He shouts over his shoulder. "Cylar! Up ye ol' half-cook, we need yur burnin' jars topside!"
A frantic clamor is heard below deck. The armed crew and firstmate keep a perimeter, but do not engage the swarm of crabs.
"Hmmmm." Bolgrith considers the swarm evenly as he begins to look around the deck for brooms, shovels, mops, or the like.
The dwarf sees no such tools on top deck. He remembers such tools of labor are kept below deck, near the cargo hold.
Aladdin hauls himself back up to his feet and backs away from the crabs. "Anyone have any bright ideas here? Squall? Know what to do here?"
Squall climbs back up to stand on his hind legs. He goes to help Aladdin up. "I know not what do here. Shall I engage them in combat?" the eidolon asked.
Bolgrith shouts down into the hold. "Belay that Cylar! Bring up some brooms or rakes instead! You and you," the dwarf points to the two nearest sailors. "Help me with these boxes!" He moves to the nearest crates, prying their lids off.
Moving to the edge of the crab-occupied space he drops his box with the open lip facing the swarm, gesturing the two sailors to place their boxes next to his, creating a wall of open crates facing the crabs. He grins over at the first mate, "Lets see if we can't have crab soup for our supper! Alright, everyone keep your distance, but try to herd the wee beasties into our pot!"
"That's what I were thinking, priest. I guess that big, full brain o' yers is bound to think up something useful now n'again! Ha. Well done!"
Rolg helps Bolgrith, using his polearm to keep his distance from the crabs.
The dwarf and hobgoblin are able to unlid, empty, and move two crates into position. The contents of the crates, mostly bows and melee weapons, make two five-foot piles that are out of the way.
Balion scans the area around his companions to make sure there are no hidden nasties while keeping his distance from the crabs.
The cricketing mound of crabs centered on the topdeck appear to be the only threat.
Balion decides to do nothing and wait for the crabs to go into the crate.
Squall sits behind Aladdin as Aladdin summmons lights to try to lure the crabs into the box.
Simon shrieks as many crabs cover his legs and waist, clipping at his skin with their little pincers. The swarm rushes toward the boxes, but some surge over the top, and clamp onto Balion!
"No! No!" Simon bellows, flashing his sword about uselessly. He bolts from the mass of crabs, and throws himself onto the far prow deck, rolling and kicking at the crabs that latched on.
"Kill them! Kill them with fire!"
The sailors shimmy their way around the swarm and pick up the lids to the crates. They wait out of reach of the critters, but are ready to close the crates at a moment's notice.
A tight bundle of shovels and brooms held together with small halfling arms climbs to the deck. Two sealed glass jars filled with green liquid clank at Cylar's belt. Golo pulls up a shovel head to reveal the grinning face of the halfling. The firstmate throws a shovelful of crabs into a sideways crate, but the empty spot in the deck is soon refilled with the clacking buggers.
"Like shov'lin' water! Hop to! Be ready to close them in when I say."
Reaching into his pack Bolgrith pulls out a days worth of rations. Crushing it up he swings his arm, crumbs sprinkling out over the swarm, and tosses it into the crates. Clenching one hand tightly, he places his free palm against his fist and closes his eyes. A warm blue flame shoots out from his body and encompasses all on the deck of the ship. The healing wave soothes the wounds of the injured.
Aladdin and Squall each grab a shovel and start shoveling the tiny buggers into crates, taking care not to miss and accidentally toss them onto a crewmate.
Rolg steps up to the halfling and seizes one of the glass bottles.
"Dyin' 's not allowed until I have m'promised coin, Simon!"
The hobgoblin hurls the bottle close to Simon and revels as the crabs begin to shriek and disintegrate.
Balion grabs a push broom from Cylar and attempts to push some of the crabs into the crates.
The crabs rush into the crate Bolgrith dropped his food, until it almost rocks upright under the weight of all the creatures. The others mound up as they are pushed by the brooms and mops, or thrown by the shovels, but others scuttle into their place. It looks like gathering the swarm into the crates is possible, perhaps if you move fast enough, or if the crabs were properly motivated.
A few crabs fray out from the swarm and snap at the ankles of all on top deck, though Golo and the crewmen ignore it.
Simon springs to his feet, batting and stomping away the few crabs not killed by the splash of acid. He nods a thanks to Rolg, despite the sizzled holes in his silk shirt and minor burns. Reentering the confusion, he grabs a mop from Cylar.
"Lid t'at 'ne, now!" Golo commands. Two sailors spring into action, wading into the remaining swarm to upturn the full crate. They nail the lid down, and the crabs inside hiss and chatter. The firstmate tosses a large scoop into the crate that is still open.
"Tah dwarf ‘as it! Some'ne toss a food in t’ere."
The third sailor holds a crate lid, ready to close the last crate on command.
Bolgrith claps his hands together once then points them at the remaining crabs. Water bursts from his fingertips and cascades around the small creatures. His hands move as the water takes shape and blasts into one of the un-full boxes.
The amount of water summoned by the cleric is not enough to move many crabs.
Balion pushes the crabs towards one of the empty crates using the broom.
Rolg moves the crabs around the deck, coaxing them into the crates. As they begin to fill, he shouts:
"Lid these buggers!"
Rolg pushes the critters into a writhing wave, straight into the open crate. Balion, Simon, and Golo are able to catch most of the remainder of the swarm with their tools and direct them into the box.
"Now!"
The sailors set upon the open crate, turning the open end up and securing the lid with nails. With the majority of the danger secured, the crew proceeds to stomp out the stray crabs on deck.
Cylar plucks a tiny crab off the deck and pops it into his mouth, and crunches madly. He cracks a crustacean cluttered grin, and races downstairs to collect cooking supplies. Returning with him topside is Captain Rettley, who scowls but sees the reason behind all the commotion.
The halfing cooks on top deck, and in a few hours, the crew and the adventurers enjoy a late but very delicious crab soup. In the end, are too many crabs leftover, and too few empty containers to store it for later. The last half of one crate is dumped overboard, and small critters disappear into the night sea.
"I'm going to sleep."
Rolg goes below and sets to work with whetstone and oil cloth. Once all his weapons and armor are clean and in good order. The hobgoblin goes to sleep.
Bolgrith tends to those wounded in the scuffle. His hands glow blue as he speaks quiet words of comfort to the injured.
Once finished he tucks into the soup with gusto. He begins to speak wistfully of other soups he'd had. "I remember once of a crab soup we had back at the Temple. It was exquisite! Though perhaps not as good as this one." He gives a nod to the half-ling. "It was filled with potatoes and leeks, as well as a bit of spice I'm not too familiar with. Finishing his second bowl he leans back and sighs.
Eventually he returns to his cabin. Closing the door behind him the Priest pulls out a candle and sets it near his bed on the floor. Lighting the candle he rests on the floor cross-legged. He sits there meditating for the better part of several hours before finally blowing out his candle. Rising to his feet he removes his armor and bunks down for the evening.
Squall sniffs around and follows the men about to dump a crate overboard, and asks for just a handful that he might munch on them at his convenience. "Please, sir, I want some more?"
Balion, looks at the priest and mutters a thank you under his breath. The Ranger greedily eats the crab soup before carefully sharpening his weapons with his whetstone. Once finished he looks down into the hold not quite ready to sleep indoors once again. Realizing he is still haunted by the thought of drowning in his cabin he sets up his bedroll in his usual place on the deck before looking to the stars for comfort.
The sailors laugh, first at the spectacle of a talking nonperson, and the fact that it wants more. "Lessin 'ere, thing: Ol' half-cook's givin' yur share. Et's all ye git today, but don' ye worry yurself, we've got enough foods fer t'marrow. Ald'in! See t' yur talkin' pet!"
The night passes without event.
Squall walks back over to Aladdin. "I don't understand what the issue was. They were THROWING THE CRABS AWAY. I'll never understand you humans." he said shaking his headly sad, the thoughts of tasty delicious crabs being thrown back into the ocean in his thoughts.
The crew wakes to the ship in the middle of a thick fog. Golo scowls and curses when asked about it. The top deck is lined with lit lanterns, and the hobgoblin watchman loudly bangs the bell at long, regular intervals.
"Dan’dest weat’er crept in at midnight. Makes no sense, t’is fog. Tah voyage be fecked inuf. Landin’ on Hamonreld cars’d tah ship, cap’n, t’ats wh’I say. Keep an eye out, sir."
The hobgoblin shoulders crewmen on his way below deck. Another sailor takes up the tolling bell, and a few others are pulled from the ropes to simply watch from the bow. The captain continually glances to his compass as he stands at the wheel. The persistent fog muffles the gentle rush of the waves, pressing an eerie silence onto the Wanderlust.
Stepping on deck Bolgrith scans the fog filled horizon.
Thinking back he tries to remember if there's anything he knows about magical or artificial cloud banks and fogs. He tries to determine if this is a normal bank of simple ill luck.
This appears to be ordinary fog, thick as pea soup. After Golo's mention of a curse, Simon looks down or out into the fog to avoid the frowns from some of the crewmen. Captain Rettley shakes his head at the notion, but remains silent.
Balion grasps his runic mace in his hand and keeps a steady watch for any potential undead coming through the fog.
"There's no curse here. Don't torment the boy, this is a regular fog. The kind you find all across the world, it isn't his fault." Bolgrith admonishes the crew. Though he smiles as he does so.
It is difficult for Balion to see or hear very far for the fog, which makes the air just smell ...wet.
"Torment tah boy? Nay, we shount'a taken Wyldote coin en tah beginin'. Never 'ave we met as much hardshep in one voyage. Golo's right, t'ere be a carse sum'ere's, be it on t’at boy, or one o’ you.” Vern peers at the dwarf suspiciously. “Dat ain’t tah god tah dwarves worship en tah Sunderlands. Sure, ya heal ‘ur wounds, but what t’at hand mean?"
"I’ll wager on t’at Al’din, always cheering en tah storms, an’ t’at beast t’ing t’at showed outta nowheres. I don' like it," adds another sailor.
A few more sailors seem to be listening, some of them nodding, to what their coworkers say.
"Easy, sirs. Gold weighs the same no matter who it comes from. Mine is as good as the next man’s, it can still get you your hard drink and soft company." Simon smiles widely at his half-joke, but when none of the crew’s expressions soften, it fades quickly.
Bolgrith stares evenly at the crew. The crew that he and his group had risked life and limb to save on multiple occasions. He's not sure if they are serious or not.
"Just because I enjoy some rains here and there doesn't mean I would forcefully summon a fog bank to try to end my own life. Don't blame nature or things beyond your control on others. In case you don't remember, we have worked side by side with you crew during the storms and have even saved a few of you." Aladdin said as he looked at those he had saved in the eye.
Squall sniffs the air and stares down at the sailors.
As the ship slows and squabbling break out on deck, Rolg emerges from below in full kit.
"What's goin' on out here? You lot are like ta wake the devils with this racket."
"Yeah, Vern, shutup. T'is lot saved me life. T'eys decent folk," one sailor chips in.
"So t'ey seem, but I don' trust 'em. Tah gobo an' fisher ain't bad, I admits tah t'at. But we wouldn't tah lost tah ot'ers if we stayed in Sunderland waters, no denyin' t'at."
The captain is silent, weighing the words of his crew and the passengers. At length, he raises his voice.
"There are many things I do not understand, Vern, and the same goes to you. We've had a run of bad luck on this voyage, and had I known it would be this much trouble, I would not have taken Wyldote gold -no disrespect to your name, Simon. But there is no changing that now. We were paid to find the fabled Hamonreld, and paid to return to the Sunderlands. I don't need any more of your trouble-stirring, Vern. Let us just finish this errant mission in peace."
"But t'eys-" Vern starts.
"DAMMIT VERN! To the crows nest, I need someone up there."
Vern sulks and clambers up the ropes. Silence resumes over the deck.
Rolg clicks his tongue as one might to make a horse trot.
"Get on now Vern. Atta boy."
An hour passes, and the fog remains. Slowly, a small, repetitive noise is heard off the starboard side. As it begins to get louder, there seems to be a repetitive splashing, like oars. The sloshing gets louder, nearer, and with it, the strains of deep voices, chanting in time with the row of oars. Captain assigns longbows to the watchers, and hammers the bell loudly to avoid collision. In moments, a hulking silhouette of a ship similar in size to the Wanderlust is seen about one hundred feet from the starboard side, keeping pace. The mist is too thick to define details, but the sounds of many crewmen echo off the waters. Their bell clangs back, but the ship continues to run parallel. In fact, it seems to be inching closer. Squinting at their colors, Captain Rettley barks a command to ready the starboard ballistae.
“I don’t like this. A fellow merchant would've signaled for trade or moved on by now. She's got oarmen and sails, she could catch us if we break for it. All hands on deck!”
He sends a sailor down below to wake Golo and the other sleeping ship hands.