The Shackles of Freeport on the Razor Coast - DM VoV's Piratey Jaunt (Inactive)

Game Master Mark Sweetman


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Minor Crab-beast

Was you ever off the Horn
Where it's always fine and warm?
You'd wish to the gods you'd never been born
Riding on a donkey

Way Hey and away we go
Donkey riding, donkey riding
Way hey, away we go
Riding on a donkey.

Opening up the Gameplay thread to allow for dots and easier tracking of the campaign.
If you're feeling lyrical, feel free to dot with a shanty or bawdy ballad.


M Gnome Conjurer

A hundred years is a very long time,
Ho, yes, ho!
A hundred years is a very long time,
A hundred years ago.

They used to think that pigs could fly
Ho, yes, ho!
I don't believe it, no, not I.
A hundred years ago.

They thought the moon was made of cheese.
Ho, yes, ho!
You can believe it if you please.
A hundred years ago.

A hundred years is a very long time,
Ho, yes, ho!
A hundred years is a very long time,
A hundred years ago.

-sang the long-lived gnome


***INACTIVE*** Bloodrager/3

Santy Anna gained the day
Away Santy Anno
Santy Anna gained the day
All on the plains of Mexico

Mexico, oh Mexico
Away Santy Anno
Mexico is a place I know
All on the plains of Mexico

Them yaller girls I do adore
Away Santy Anno
With their shinin' eyes and their coal-black hair
All on the plains of Mexico

Why do them yaller girls love me so
Away Santy Anno
Because I won't tell them all I know
All on the plains of Mexico

Them Liverpool girls don't use no combs
Away Santy Anno
They combs their hair with a kipper backbone
All on the plains of Mexico

When I was a young man in me prime
Away Santy Anno
I knocked them scouse girls two at a time
All on the plains of Mexico

Times is hard and the wages low
Away Santy Anno
It's time for us to roll and go
All on the plains of Mexico


Male Elf Rogue 3 | Init +8 | Perc +6, low-light vision | AC 18/14/14 | DR/1 Bludgeoning | HP 14/15 | F +1 R +6 W +1; +2 vs charm and compulsion | CMB +2, CMD 16 | acid splash at will | mwk rapier +7 (1d6+4/18-20)
Skills:
Acrobatics +10, Bluff +7, Climb +4, Disable Device +10, Escape Artist +10, Intimidate +7, Perception +6, Perform (sing) +5, Perform (string) +5, Sense Motive +6, Sleight of Hand +9, Stealth +10, Swim +4

"Well a drop of Cayden's blood wouldn't do us any harm!
Well a drop of Cayden's blood wouldn't do us any harm!
Well a drop of Cayden's blood wouldn't do us any harm!
... 'an we'll all hang on behind..."

The elf sings, halfheartedly, snatching his wineskin back off of a nearby reveler with a scowl and taking a long draught.

Perform: 10 + 5 = 15


Male Human Swashbuckler (Corsair) 3
stats:
HP: (29/29) AC 19 (FF 15, Touch 14) FS +3, RS +7, WS +0 (+3 vs charms, +5 vs compulsions), Initiative: +4 Perception: +4

Look at you lot, singing songs and laying about with work to be done! On your feet!

Mbauers here--tried to make it work with 15 point buy, but I kind of need to wear armor and have a couple weapons, so bring on the crippling emotional/physical weakness!


Minor Crab-beast

Sailors on a becalmed sea, we sense the stirring of a breeze.

Lilywhite... the name doesn't exactly inspire the imagination, and to your knowledge it doesn't show up in any of the old sea stories or shanties that your ears have been privy to. But... it's here you've shipped out, scraped by and ended up being dumped. Each of your own and to your own but bereft of a ship to call your home and at the least searching for a Captain with coins of gold to spare. So... Lilywhite it is.

The town itself curves along the shoreline of Motaku Isle, it's sprawl of solid wooden buildings spread across the mainland as well as some reclaimed spits of land that sit in the midst of the harbor. With the nascent threat of the Bloodgrog Festival hanging over the town, most of the ships at port have been sent to anchor a short distance to sea - with ship's boats the main means of gaining access to the town itself. A scan of the livery shows that while the most of the vessels bear Shackles colours - there are a few around from the distant Razor as well as the comparative metropolis of Freeport... but none of the colours ring out to you.

You've been a day or two at port thus far... and surprisingly though there is a tang of expectation on the air, it's been more boring than exciting. Decorations hung are spartan, most of the ships crews have stayed aboard in the harbour (no doubt avoiding the ever rising prices in the town) and locals outside of the tavern come temple Cailean's Keg haven't been much for talking.

Chance however was in your favor, as you happened to be awake and not drowned in cups when a stocky half-orc lass comes sneering through the streets. She squints eyes at you before gruffly barking "Oi, iffin yer wantin work - come to the Crusty Fiddler come nightfall. Cap'n be seein folks then." Without waiting for a name or entertaining any questions she grunts and moves on through the town.

Having come to the town to see some mischief managed, this is the closest you've been given to an opportunity to take...

If I could get a wee establishing shot, statement of any actions you take prior to jumping aboard the railroad car - and then it's first posted first served to get the description of the fine drinking establishment you'll find yourself in...

To reach a port we must set sail –
Sail, not tie at anchor
Sail, not drift.


M Gnome Conjurer

A gnome in a lavender greatcoat squints after the squat orc. He mutters to the big gray parrot perched atop a mound of black and turquoise dreadlocks. "I don't know about work Smudge, but a lift off this rock would be appreciated." He looks about the quiet streets with distaste.

"Damnably dour place. I'm not sure I care to see this "Blodgrog Festival". It's beginning to sound a whole lot like a Casmaran Rite I once heard about. Mark your door with a splash of bloodgrog or the orcs'll come eat your children!"

"Eat your chil'n! Eat your chil'n!" Smudge crows loudly.

"She certainly looked overfed," the grumpy gnome cackles and wanders off to find the Fiddler Crab or whatever it was.


Minor Crab-beast

Regardless of whether Quillin or Smudge were expecting the sea or shanties to reply or not, none is forthcoming. The gnome sets off with his better half in tow - his path leading to the mainland and a couple of streets back from the water... into what serves for a bit less urbane a district.

The sun is just dipping to touch the distant brine when Quillin's eyes picks out a sign nailed slantwise to a post down the road that bears the name Crusty Fiddler. Apart from the occasional bird cry and the plaintive mewls of a cat that's either birthing or coughing up a magnus opus worthy hairball... his ears pick out the halting thready sound of a fiddle being tuned.

The inn itself is not much to look at - weatherbeaten boards, faded paint and no door to speak of. Instead a draped woolen curtain split lengthways down the center is the only thing barring the outside from within. Apart from the sounds of the fiddle, Quillin can pick up a hearth smell, a tang of roasting game and the thud shuffling gait of a fellow inside with a club foot moving about.


Male Human Swashbuckler (Corsair) 3
stats:
HP: (29/29) AC 19 (FF 15, Touch 14) FS +3, RS +7, WS +0 (+3 vs charms, +5 vs compulsions), Initiative: +4 Perception: +4

I changed my background a bit to make it more plausible and also to give my character more motivation to go to the festival and try to take on with a crew there. Let me know if any of this is not acceptable. For starters, though James is still from Andoran, he didn’t meet Pegsworthy until he was already in the Shackles, and not until very recently. He was on an Andoran Merchant vessel that was captured by Captain Gortus Svard, one of Bedu Hanji’s lackeys (though a Free Captain in his own right). Svard took some of the crew as slaves to be sold, put some to the sword, and press-ganged others (like James) into service.

revised background:

Even after James struck the chains off of them the slaves still remained motionless, not daring to move. He reassured them quietly but sternly, urging them to follow him. As they wove through belly of the ship, sidestepping pirates passed out from drink, James silently thanked Svard’s overconfidence. He was cruel, strong, and fierce in battle, but the man was undisciplined. Only three men were left to stand watch in the dead of night, and none of them with a whistle or horn. The soft-treading group subdued the three in turn, leaving one to answer for his failure. The others were brought along, unconscious, at James’ insistence—Jergen, the towering one-eyed Ulfen and Silver Skiff, the slender Varisian named as much for his silver tongue as the precious metals that replaced his teeth. They were unlike the others, not slaver scum, but forced into service against their will.

They held their collective breath and lowered the ship’s boat, climbing aboard and silently rowing as fast as they could. They were close to Bloodcove, and the only place nearby they could hide from a vengeful captain was at old Rickety Hake’s—a small outpost that squibbed stolen vessels. The man had no great military strength or fortifications, but it was said that he had some agreement with the Master of Gales.

So the slaves, hungry and tired, rowed through the night and arrived at Rickety’s. James negotiated with the canny old man, exchanging the ship’s boat and their own labor for a time in exchange for food and water, and safe passage to port when next he had to resupply. When the time came and went, James remained, reasoning that Svard and Hanji would be looking for him more so than lost “cargo”, so he’d only put the others in danger by leaving with them. He was a hard worker and knew his way around a ship, so Hake let him stay without too much fuss.

But when Captain Merrill Pegsworthy arrived clad in his Eagle Knight garb, James saw his opportunity. He told his story to the captain, who sympathized with his plight and offered him a place on his crew. But the young sailor refused, reasoning that it was up to men like them to make others in the Shackles see that their own freedom shouldn’t come at the expense of others. So Pegsworthy, bound for Quent, agreed to drop James off at Lilywhite along the way, that he might make a name for himself…

And now here he sits, wondering if he made the right choice, slowly sipping a watered-down beer if only to have a cup in his hand and fit in with the locals. But James smiles when the woman makes her proclamation. He downs the rest of his drink, gathers his things, and sets off for this Crusty Fiddler at sundown.


***INACTIVE*** Bloodrager/3

Tipene looks up from the half-empty cup in front of him, the bar stool creaking under his bulk. He grimaces at the woman as she leaves. This is a good omen...I would see Lilywhite in my wake before too many more people arrive for the festival. He finishes his drink and pours a splash from the lees on the floor before taking up his tewhatewha and following the gnome out of Cailean's Keg.


Male Elf Rogue 3 | Init +8 | Perc +6, low-light vision | AC 18/14/14 | DR/1 Bludgeoning | HP 14/15 | F +1 R +6 W +1; +2 vs charm and compulsion | CMB +2, CMD 16 | acid splash at will | mwk rapier +7 (1d6+4/18-20)
Skills:
Acrobatics +10, Bluff +7, Climb +4, Disable Device +10, Escape Artist +10, Intimidate +7, Perception +6, Perform (sing) +5, Perform (string) +5, Sense Motive +6, Sleight of Hand +9, Stealth +10, Swim +4

A rather bored looking elf in wine-stained leather leans against the temple wall in the afternoon sun, nibbling on a stale ship's biscuit with a sour expression on his face. His salt licked hair sticking to his scalp as his coal black eyes blink back the gentle afternoon sun as if it were high-noon, coal black eyes that hardly seem to have any whites at all. What was it the girl had said? Windows to the soul? Ai eleana, even the whores on this rock are dull.

"...biscuits and bacon, bacon and biscuits, fish fried half black... for the life of me I can't remember the last time I've eaten something that grows on a tree." he drops his breakfast onto the temple floor with an expression of distaste, grinding it under his heel.

"I would kill for an Iadaran peach." he adds, an edge to his voice suggesting that he might very well mean it. He winces as the half-orc shouts across the square and takes stock. The last time he had boarded a ship the elf had made enough of a nuisance of himself in Freeport that the barman had payed the press-gangers himself to be rid of him. Asking these rubes for work seemed to the elf to cloy of desperation.

He fumbles at his waist for his wineskin, tangled with the sword and buckler hanging from his waist, and takes a swig of the sickly port wine within. He grimaces, and within a few moments heaves his guts into the gutter below, biscuits, gravy, bloodgrog and port mingling with the acidic smell of vomit.

Eugh... on second thought, any way off of this wretched spit of land is good enough for me. the elf muses, wiping the perspiration from his brow as he steps over the puddle at his feet and swaggers down the cobbled street toward the dimly lit tavern.


M Gnome Conjurer

Quillin enters. "This a private club or is just anyone allowed?" he asks innocently.


HP 27/27, AC 12/9/12, CMD 14, F+5 R+0 W+2, Init -1

Nostrils flaring as if drawing in salt from the humid, topical air, the tall, dark-skinned Bekyar man stared hard into the sun-baked street as the half-orc approached. Cold black eyes didn't shift as she passed, calling out her offer. The shadow of a limp banner fell over his face, masking the intricate tattoos covering his exposed skin. Not a muscle moved. But in his mind, distant notes sang. A handful at first. Raw. Discordant. Taking what felt like hesitant steps, they formed a pattern. One Bek knew all too well. One he could never resist.

Hours later the finished song drew the man to the weather-beaten inn. He passed through the door that had no door following the smell, the sound and most of all, the song.


Minor Crab-beast

Quillin pushes through the curtain to find the interior less than inspiring. A spartan room greets him - a half dozen tables strewn through a rectangular room with between four and six chairs a table. There's no bar to speak of, instead just an open doorway leading back to the source of the smell of game which is likely the kitchen. In one corner of the room is a slightly raised platform - which bears the fiddler upon a stool tuning up - who responds to the query without meeting the gnome's eyes "Kreer, got a guest." The fiddler himself is a middle aged man in faded clothing that might have once been grand but has since been little washed and much patched. The fiddle in his hands though is made of dark smooth wood and it's tone is pure. On the floor beside his stool is an opened and full bottle of red wine, and a plate with a healthy hunk of bread and hard cheese upon it.

From the kitchen, the thump shuffling gait brings a weathered half-orc with a club foot out - wiping his hands with a natty cloth. "Welcome, welcome - we don't turn none away we don't... special not if they've got a thirst or hunger?" raising an eyebrow over his tusk split lips by way of question. The half-orc also gestures towards a table inviting Quillin to sit wherever he wishes.

The rest of you can arrive into the inn as and when you like.


M Gnome Conjurer

Quillin fights the urge to ask for a club sandwich and instead asks for the same as the musician.


Minor Crab-beast

Kreer responds with an eager nod, making his way back towards the kitchen. He emerges a short while after with a wooden tray bearing the hearty and spartan fare of bread, cheese and a bottle of red wine. Setting down the tray he uncorks the bottle and pours Quillin a measure of liquid sanguine into a ceramic cup.

The fiddler finishes up his tuning by sounding each string by bow and then by pluck before calling out to Quillin without looking up to match eyes "Any requests Master gnome? - or will ye be trusting my judgement?"

If each poster can make a short entry post (as in how you enter the tavern) assuming you're greeted in a similar manner to Quillin. You will arrive at the tavern in the order of posting.


***INACTIVE*** Bloodrager/3

Tipene pushes through the curtained door, tracing one line of the tattoo on his face as he enters. "Fair seas be yours." He finds an open chair and sits down, setting his pack next to him and out of the way. When the half-orc approaches, he indicates the musician. "What he is having, please."


Minor Crab-beast

The half-orc with a clubbed leg narrows his eyes momentarially at the sight of Tipene... but that doesn't stop him nodding as if by rote "Aye aye, bread and cheese and wine... give Kreer a moment" thump-shuffling out to the adjoining kitchen before returning with another wooden tray for the tulita.


Male Elf Rogue 3 | Init +8 | Perc +6, low-light vision | AC 18/14/14 | DR/1 Bludgeoning | HP 14/15 | F +1 R +6 W +1; +2 vs charm and compulsion | CMB +2, CMD 16 | acid splash at will | mwk rapier +7 (1d6+4/18-20)
Skills:
Acrobatics +10, Bluff +7, Climb +4, Disable Device +10, Escape Artist +10, Intimidate +7, Perception +6, Perform (sing) +5, Perform (string) +5, Sense Motive +6, Sleight of Hand +9, Stealth +10, Swim +4

Iscarel's queasy stomach turns at the smell of the rich gamey meat. Wiping the perspiration from his brow, he closes the curtain behind him and peers into the gloom, eyes resting on the fiddler. Damn. he thinks, gritting his teeth. Of all the dishonest means to pay for food and board, playing the minstrel was by far the most effortless. "Let's have a Taldan operetta!" the elf jests. "Then an elven ballad, a celestial choir and a bawdy rag from Acheron. Just try to play in time, old man."

Slipping into a booth, he tosses his coinpurse onto the table and the contents spill out, glints of silver and gold coins from various origins glimmering in the hearth-light. He slides two silver coins to the end of the table and beckons to the half-orc. "A pitcher of wine, inkeep... and another for the next man to walk through that door!"

"Now, who's for a wager?"

EDIT: Oh god, he's rude to the help. I can play the nastiest, most reprehensible of murders, and that's where I cross the line into feeling uncomfortable... I wonder what that says about me?


***INACTIVE*** Bloodrager/3

The tall Tulita shakes his head. "I don't gamble."


Male Elf Rogue 3 | Init +8 | Perc +6, low-light vision | AC 18/14/14 | DR/1 Bludgeoning | HP 14/15 | F +1 R +6 W +1; +2 vs charm and compulsion | CMB +2, CMD 16 | acid splash at will | mwk rapier +7 (1d6+4/18-20)
Skills:
Acrobatics +10, Bluff +7, Climb +4, Disable Device +10, Escape Artist +10, Intimidate +7, Perception +6, Perform (sing) +5, Perform (string) +5, Sense Motive +6, Sleight of Hand +9, Stealth +10, Swim +4

"Perhaps a test of skill?"

Sleight of Hand (as perform): 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (17) + 8 = 25

Placing his palm on the table, the elf brings his knife down between each of his fingers in rapid succession, before burying the blade in the woodwork, a wordless challenge to the Tulita man.


Minor Crab-beast

Iscarel enters just as Tipene receives his tray and Kreer nods away "Aye aye, wine it is." thump shuffling off to get the elf a pitcher and cup of his own.

The fiddler doesn't look up to Iscarel or respond to his brayed suggestions upon the playlist apart from quietly adding "Question is with the gnomish master..."

Kreer re-emerges just as Iscarel starts stabbing his tabletop, and the property damage is enough to make him raise his voice "Oi! Leave off me table!" huffing as he thump-shuffles over quickly to lay down the elf's wine and cup... in contrast to the other patrons not taking the step of pouring for the table assaulting raconteur.

Sense Motive DC 15:
There's a hint of a growl to Kreer's voice, and the fiddler has tensed slightly as well...


Male Elf Rogue 3 | Init +8 | Perc +6, low-light vision | AC 18/14/14 | DR/1 Bludgeoning | HP 14/15 | F +1 R +6 W +1; +2 vs charm and compulsion | CMB +2, CMD 16 | acid splash at will | mwk rapier +7 (1d6+4/18-20)
Skills:
Acrobatics +10, Bluff +7, Climb +4, Disable Device +10, Escape Artist +10, Intimidate +7, Perception +6, Perform (sing) +5, Perform (string) +5, Sense Motive +6, Sleight of Hand +9, Stealth +10, Swim +4

Sense Motive: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (15) + 5 = 20
Diplomacy: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (15) + 6 = 21

Iscarel casts a cursory glance at the splintered table, seeing it scratch and pockmarked from years of abuse at the hands of sailors. He shrugs, and flashes what he hopes is his best disarming smile as he pours his own wine. "Of course. I meant no offense." he lies. "I've played Bishop in every tavern in here to Riddleport. I trust you won't object to dice?"


M Gnome Conjurer
Iscarel wrote:
"Perhaps a test of skill?"

"I need all my fingers," Quillin announces pointedly not looking at the desperate plea for attention in the booth. He smiles at the fiddler. "How about "Loudly Bray the Donkey"? Not sure if you know it, but I'll bet you can improvise something in the key of E, say?"

Smudge screeches loudly, Hee-Haw! Hee-Haw!" Timed just when the obnoxious newcomer inevitable opens his mouth once again.


Male Human Swashbuckler (Corsair) 3
stats:
HP: (29/29) AC 19 (FF 15, Touch 14) FS +3, RS +7, WS +0 (+3 vs charms, +5 vs compulsions), Initiative: +4 Perception: +4

A young man, square-jawed and bright-eyed, pushes past the curtain in time to see a half-orc chastising an elf.

This must be the place, I suppose. That table given you some offense, mister? He smiles disarmingly, and takes a seat near the fiddler. He holds his hand up as though gripping a glass and makes a drinking motion, waving to the barkeep.


Minor Crab-beast

Looking up for the first time to flash Quillin a wink the fiddler states "I think I can manage" before beginning to play. The tune is lively and sharp performed with spicatto strokes, flowing from verse to a chorus that features a legato refrain across minor notes... giving the distinct impression of a braying donkey. The man is undoubtedly good, while simultaneously managing to keep the volume at a level that doesn't restrict casual conversation.

Kreer sneers slightly, offering a "Long as ye don't mark me tables ye can do what ye wants" to Iscarel before holding up a hand to attend to the freshly arrived square-jawed man. "Aye, aye - on it's way." thump shuffling towards the kitchen again.

While the half-orc is drawing Rackham's brew, a group of men make their way through the curtain and into the confines of the Crusty Fiddler. Four they number and share enough in dress to identify them as Shackles natives and men of the brine. At the head is a slight man with ginger beard who regards the room with narrowed eyes before waving the rest of them in and towards a corner table opposite where the fiddler still plays.

The other three with him are scarred and have a fighting build, but it's clear they defer to the ginger one. All wear weathered leather armor and bear sword-belts that are weighed down with cutlasses. They spend no words to any other guests of the tavern - instead taking their seats and waiting.

Kreer re-emerges with a foaming wooden tankard to set before Rackham (a stout porter within), before being called over by the ginger man.


Male Elf Rogue 3 | Init +8 | Perc +6, low-light vision | AC 18/14/14 | DR/1 Bludgeoning | HP 14/15 | F +1 R +6 W +1; +2 vs charm and compulsion | CMB +2, CMD 16 | acid splash at will | mwk rapier +7 (1d6+4/18-20)
Skills:
Acrobatics +10, Bluff +7, Climb +4, Disable Device +10, Escape Artist +10, Intimidate +7, Perception +6, Perform (sing) +5, Perform (string) +5, Sense Motive +6, Sleight of Hand +9, Stealth +10, Swim +4

Desparate? Hey! If you're going to be disparaging do it to my character's imaginary face! ;)

Iscarel's sourness seems to soften as he begrudgingly nods at the fiddler. "Not bad. Not bad at all. I haven't heard this one in all of my years. Pray, what was it called again?"

"Don't talk about me as if I'm not here, stranger. Please, first one's on me." Iscarel says, as Rackham joins him. "Those are Andoren navy colours if I'm not mistaken. Gods above, your far from home. What's your story?"


Male Human Swashbuckler (Corsair) 3
stats:
HP: (29/29) AC 19 (FF 15, Touch 14) FS +3, RS +7, WS +0 (+3 vs charms, +5 vs compulsions), Initiative: +4 Perception: +4
Iscarel wrote:

Desparate? Hey! If you're going to be disparaging do it to my character's imaginary face! ;)

Iscarel's sourness seems to soften as he begrudgingly nods at the fiddler. "Not bad. Not bad at all. I haven't heard this one in all of my years. Pray, what was it called again?"

"Don't talk about me as if I'm not here, stranger. Please, first one's on me." Iscarel says, as Rackham joins him. "Those are Andoren navy colours if I'm not mistaken. Gods above, your far from home. What's your story?"

What, this? Rackham says with a chuckle, pulling on his shirt.

I'm no military man, was just in need of some new garb and sailed here on Captain Tantrey's Strix. Good man, that one, James raises his glass to Iscarel at his own assertion, and takes a swig.

I do call Andoran home, though--well, I did, until Captain Hanji's lap dogs pressed me into service. I was just a hand on a merchant ship for some blowhard. No man is fool enough to attack a ship flying my colors, he told us. Well, Bedu Hanji is no man, he's an ape-faced demon. And he now has all that precious Minkai silk we were carrying. But I paid him back for it, paid him good. Now I need a new ship, new crew. Name's James Rackham. And what about you, my thirsty friend? Good thing the sea's not made of wine, or all the ships here would be grounded.

The comment is said lightly, and with a tone of mild admiration for the elf's drinking abilities.


Male Elf Rogue 3 | Init +8 | Perc +6, low-light vision | AC 18/14/14 | DR/1 Bludgeoning | HP 14/15 | F +1 R +6 W +1; +2 vs charm and compulsion | CMB +2, CMD 16 | acid splash at will | mwk rapier +7 (1d6+4/18-20)
Skills:
Acrobatics +10, Bluff +7, Climb +4, Disable Device +10, Escape Artist +10, Intimidate +7, Perception +6, Perform (sing) +5, Perform (string) +5, Sense Motive +6, Sleight of Hand +9, Stealth +10, Swim +4

Iscarel grins as he downs his drink, face growing ever more flushed by the minute. "I've heard tell of an island where the rivers are wine and the inhabitants all elf-maidens." he jests. "Unfortunately I found Lilywhite, instead."

"I am Iscarel. I too was pressganged, some months after I left my homeland. This life suited me as well as any, however, so once I was revenged on my taskmasters I signed on with another ship, and a half-a-dozen since. Now through circumstances entirely unwarranted and absolutely beyond my control, I have found myself unceremoniously marooned here." he says, although his increasing drunkenness might give you some clues about the termination of his previous employment.

"But you can't leave a good revenge tale untold! Tell me about your comeuppance! As they say in the temples of Calistria, vengeance is the sweetest wine."


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M Gnome Conjurer

Quillin has been keeping an ear on the conversations and gnomish braggadocio gets the better of him. He scoffs, "Half the population of the Shackles got here through press-ganging. I ended up on the Wormwood, but they gnabbed the wrong gnome. Soon as I had the chance, I plugged the mate and took their prize."

The gnome brings his bottle over to the tall folks table. "Captained my own ship until the treacherous bastards turned me out here. Ah, just as well. Stress of captaining would have bleached me."

Bleached Bones! Bleached Bones!" the big gray parrot on his hat squawks.


HP 27/27, AC 12/9/12, CMD 14, F+5 R+0 W+2, Init -1

Not long after the four Shackles men arrive another man presses his way past the curtain. He is tall and well-muscled, clearly more used to hauling lines and plundered cargo than darting through rigging. His skin is dark as night and his eyes are dead, seeming to draw in and drown the light of the inn. His head turns slightly to the side as though listening, though whether it is to the fiddler's tune or something only he can hear is uncertain. Whatever it is seems to confirm something. He ignores the Shackles men in the corner and heads right for Iscarel and Rackham pausing to look expectantly at anyone other than the men in the corner. "Speaking of captains..where is the one who is hiring?"


Minor Crab-beast

The club footed barman moves away from the table of four to the kitchen again as the fiddler finishes up on his first tune of the evening. A draught of wine, a hunk of bread and cheese put to mouth before the fiddler takes up another tune. Mournful and quiet this time, all low tones and hearkening to lost loves. Kreer re-emerges with a bottle of rum, some cups and the roast hindquarters of a hare with accompanying root vegetable chunks for the table of four - before moving to attend to Bloody Bek.

"She'll be along... aye aye, she'll be here. Food or drink master? Take a seat, she'll be here." waiting expectantly for an answer first before attending to it.

After another short span another couple of salts enter the room, making the once empty tavern seem a bit more full and lively. A filthy looking halfling with yellowed teeth, scraggly hair, bare skinned and tattooed with sigils of a few different qualities and vintages. Beside him is a leering and hulking half-orc with scarred neck and bearing a heavy curved blade. After a short eyeing of the competition, the halfling chuckles, thumps his half-orcen friend on the arse and motions towards a last table away from any occupied. Calling out through the room he bellows "Oi Kreer, rotgut an some o' whatever stew ye've got festerin away"... which is echoed by a call from the kitchen "Aye aye, coming up"


Male Human Swashbuckler (Corsair) 3
stats:
HP: (29/29) AC 19 (FF 15, Touch 14) FS +3, RS +7, WS +0 (+3 vs charms, +5 vs compulsions), Initiative: +4 Perception: +4
Iscarel wrote:

Iscarel grins as he downs his drink, face growing ever more flushed by the minute. "I've heard tell of an island where the rivers are wine and the inhabitants all elf-maidens." he jests. "Unfortunately I found Lilywhite, instead."

"I am Iscarel. I too was pressganged, some months after I left my homeland. This life suited me as well as any, however, so once I was revenged on my taskmasters I signed on with another ship, and a half-a-dozen since. Now through circumstances entirely unwarranted and absolutely beyond my control, I have found myself unceremoniously marooned here." he says, although his increasing drunkenness might give you some clues about the termination of his previous employment.

"But you can't leave a good revenge tale untold! Tell me about your comeuppance! As they say in the temples of Calistria, vengeance is the sweetest wine."

Rackham leans in to comply with Iscarel's request, but stops himself as the gnome joins them and others enter the tavern.

Might be best told another time, he says.

Quillin wrote:

Quillin has been keeping an ear on the conversations and gnomish braggadocio gets the better of him. He scoffs, "Half the population of the Shackles got here through press-ganging. I ended up on the Wormwood, but they gnabbed the wrong gnome. Soon as I had the chance, I plugged the mate and took their prize."

The gnome brings his bottle over to the tall folks table. "Captained my own ship until the treacherous bastards turned me out here. Ah, just as well. Stress of captaining would have bleached me."

Bleached Bones! Bleached Bones!" the big gray parrot on his hat squawks.

Have a seat! Either that's one smart bird you have there, or you just talk about Bleaching in every conversation. Whichever it is, I'm impressed. How many souls you think this captain's looking to hire?


HP 27/27, AC 12/9/12, CMD 14, F+5 R+0 W+2, Init -1

Bek takes a seat with the others, asking Kreer, "Watered rum will do mate. Bit of bread and cheese." As they arrive, the Bekyar takes in the newcomers, assessing them quickly, then back to the table at Rackham's query. "No way for me to say. Sometimes its one or two. Sometimes an entire crew. Plenty looking for work. They call me Bloody Bek."
Knowledge (arcana) to see if he recognizes any of the halfling's sigils: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (7) + 2 = 9


M Gnome Conjurer
James Rackham wrote:
Have a seat! Either that's one smart bird you have there, or you just talk about Bleaching in every conversation. Whichever it is, I'm impressed. How many souls you think this captain's looking to hire?

"Smarter than most men I've met... I'm more interested in what happened to the souls we're replacing!"

The dreadlocked gnome pays no mind to the odd couple that just entered the room and tugs the turquoise braids on his chin. "Still, odd that they seem to be taking the trouble to talk first. As we've well established, it's usually just a little something extra in your drink or a clout to the noggin."


Minor Crab-beast

The club footed half-orc nods "Aye aye master, on it's way" serving him after delivering the rotgut and two wooden bowls of stew to the halfling and half-orc.

To Bek's eye the tattoos on the halfling don't seem to have any rhyme or reason.


M Gnome Conjurer

With a startled look as it he's just thought of something, the gnome sniffs his wine suspiciously.

perception: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (16) + 5 = 21

Smudge cackles hysterically. "Blow the man down! Blow the man down!"


Minor Crab-beast

Quillin's well trained nose picks up on a few floral notes and perhaps a slight tang of unpalatable tannins... but nothing that suggests that his wine is anything but wine.


M Gnome Conjurer

Quillin bats at his parrot and then pushes the bottle a judicious distance away from himself anyway.


***INACTIVE*** Bloodrager/3

The Tulita turns his chair around with a quiet scrape and an apologetic look at the musician. "Press-gangs are fine if all you want is a green crew. If you want veterans, you pay."


Minor Crab-beast

The room is filled with the sussurant hiss of quiet conversation punctuated by the occasional outbreak of braying laughter or bullish claims to prowess with blade held in hand or thrust from loins. The four in the corner keep to themselves, speaking quietly, while the halfling and half-orc are more crass in their verbal exchanges - but still don't look to be starting anything.

Kreer keeps a steady thump-shuffling pace going back and forward from the kitchen with drink and vittles at request. A calm "Aye aye" is given as affirmation each time, the half-orc not getting excited unless Iscarel looks to be shaping up for any more whittling practice. The fiddler plays a tune, stops to sip at his wine or chew an end of bread... before soon taking up another tune. The longer he plays the more respect you get for his repetoire and ability... but none of you are here for the bloody fiddling.

A half-hour or more passes since the odd couple joined the group in the commons and the fiddler finishes up a jaunty shanty tune with unsung lyrics of rosy breasted women before he stops, stands, stretches and moves into the kitchen. As he passes from the room though, the curtains flutter and a new figure enters...

Lithe and sinuous, bearing a weathered overcoat that hangs open at the front to prominently display a blackened steel rapier and widemouthed pistol, she takes the tricorne off her head to let free shoulder length locks of dark hair. The lass is a beauty that no doubt in safer ports would have suitors lining up at a chance to buy her drinks and loosen her britches... but if they looked in her eyes they might see reason for pause. Her face shows the flushed blooming that sun exposure brings, but it's the hollow deadness in her eyes and a scar left by blade across the left cheek not yet fully healed that chill any potential candour rising in your own smalls.

She pauses at the entry curtain and slowly regards the room, taking a moment to let her eyes cross each and every one of you before speaking "Captain Lanteri... you've come at my invitation, and I've need for about a hand of fresh salt on the Corvid's Bride. That means I don't need half of you." letting the bald and honest proclamation sit in the air to see what response it engenders initially...

Roll once, take all you get

Knowledge (Local) DC10:
The Corvid's Bride is a chelish warship that's at harbour.

Knowledge (Local) DC15:
There's a strong rumour that the ex-privateering vessel recently changed Captains by way of a mutiny.

Knowledge (Local) DC 20:
The previous captain of the ship was also Captain Lanteri... though a male and the last words to wend Lilywhite's way was that he was due to be married...


Male Human Swashbuckler (Corsair) 3
stats:
HP: (29/29) AC 19 (FF 15, Touch 14) FS +3, RS +7, WS +0 (+3 vs charms, +5 vs compulsions), Initiative: +4 Perception: +4

untrained knowledge, max 10: 1d20 ⇒ 5


***INACTIVE*** Bloodrager/3

Untrained Knowledge (Local) check: 1d20 ⇒ 15

Chelish warship...that'll keep me far away from home for a good while. Tipene nods slowly and stands, glancing from side to side in case one of the others decides to cut down on the competition. "If it is a sailor you seek, I can be that. A warrior, I am that too."


M Gnome Conjurer

know local: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (17) + 7 = 24

"and what happened to the corvid's groom, i wonder?" Quillin mutters to himself.


Male Human Swashbuckler (Corsair) 3
stats:
HP: (29/29) AC 19 (FF 15, Touch 14) FS +3, RS +7, WS +0 (+3 vs charms, +5 vs compulsions), Initiative: +4 Perception: +4

James thinks hard but hasn't heard any rumors of this one, but she looks tough enough to lead. He leans in and whispers to those at his table: Only half, looks like it's us or them. This could get interesting. Iscarel, you accurate with that knife in a fight, or just on tables? He stands and drops his arm, keeping his hand near his sword hilt.

Greetings Captain, thanks for the opportunity. I don't know if you want any of our thoughts on the subject, but if you ask me you'd do better choosing us, he sweeps his arm towards those seated near him and ends pointing at his own chest, than that lot over there, he finishes, nodding at the red-head and his lackeys.

They came in together, those four. Friends most like, and they answer to the one with the exquisite fiery beard. Loyalty is a good thing, sure, but those men are loyal to each other. Those of us who came here alone, we have no allegiances but to ourselves. And if you hire us on, well, we'd all owe you a great debt, and our loyalty. Seems like the choice is clear.

Diplomacy: 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (20) + 9 = 29


Male Elf Rogue 3 | Init +8 | Perc +6, low-light vision | AC 18/14/14 | DR/1 Bludgeoning | HP 14/15 | F +1 R +6 W +1; +2 vs charm and compulsion | CMB +2, CMD 16 | acid splash at will | mwk rapier +7 (1d6+4/18-20)
Skills:
Acrobatics +10, Bluff +7, Climb +4, Disable Device +10, Escape Artist +10, Intimidate +7, Perception +6, Perform (sing) +5, Perform (string) +5, Sense Motive +6, Sleight of Hand +9, Stealth +10, Swim +4

Very sly! Iscarel is impressed, as am I.
Untrained Knowledge (Take 10): 10 + 1 = 11

Iscarel opens his mouth to speak, but a glimpse at the captain's expression is enough to silence him, his unvoiced quip hanging heavily in the smokey tavern air. Dropping to a low murmur he turns to the gathering. "...sailor, warrior... I'd be a dancing reefclaw if it would get me off of this island. Especially on a boat like that."

"Well, James. You may find that out sooner than you expect..." the elf says, downing the last of his goblet and sweeping his boots from the table and taking a few sweeping steps to Rackham's side, fingers dancing along the rapier at his waist. He smacks his lips and shoots Kreer a wink.

Finally a little fun in this dive. Don't worry old man, not a scratch more on your bloody table.


M Gnome Conjurer

The gnome's face twitches in a cruel grin at the cunning words. His little hand slips into a pocket for a pinch of colored sand and he readies for what should be a quick brawl.


HP 27/27, AC 12/9/12, CMD 14, F+5 R+0 W+2, Init -1

The dark Bekyar stands with the rest. "Aye, the song is strong in these ones. Not in the others."
Knowledge: Local: Take 10 for 16


Minor Crab-beast

If the ginger bearded man and his friends take any offense... they don't show it. The men stay seated, though a perceptive man might pick out their hands inching closer to where their blades lie. Elsewhere in the bar the half-pair kick back in their chair to watch.

The captain chuffs a short somewhat dismissive laugh before raising an eyebrow "Oh you've a silken tongue on you lad... but I've reason enough to not trust to words alone. And take a thought before you put hands to blades and throw down..." clearly reading the temperature of the room and the potential for a short and bloody resolution to the numbers at play.

"There's two reasons why you should be thinking on that a touch...
First, Kreer here don't take too kindly to men that rough up his place... and gimp foot or not... he's a sight to behold when you get his dander up.
Second, all you'll be teaching me is that you'll take to your sword and cut out what you think you own... fine quality in a mercenary... not so fine in a prospective crewman."
placing plain that while bludgeoning the opposition into acquiescence might solve the immediate numbers game... it'd also teach her that she might see the end of a club as soon as you thought you had the upper hand on her.

Peacemaking and offering an alternative she suggests "It's Bloodgrog tomorrow night, and my crew and officers'll be soaking the sights and taking in the games. Show 'em what yer made of in those and you'll rank higher in their eyes and mine... just depends if you're in for a wage or a journey."


Male Elf Rogue 3 | Init +8 | Perc +6, low-light vision | AC 18/14/14 | DR/1 Bludgeoning | HP 14/15 | F +1 R +6 W +1; +2 vs charm and compulsion | CMB +2, CMD 16 | acid splash at will | mwk rapier +7 (1d6+4/18-20)
Skills:
Acrobatics +10, Bluff +7, Climb +4, Disable Device +10, Escape Artist +10, Intimidate +7, Perception +6, Perform (sing) +5, Perform (string) +5, Sense Motive +6, Sleight of Hand +9, Stealth +10, Swim +4

Iscarel's shoulders droop as it becomes clear there will not be a brawl, he sulkily slinks back into his chair with an exaggerated sigh. "... not a whit of excitement in this profession anymore." the elf mutters, going back to trimming his nails.

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