Rackham retrieves the weapon without ill event occurring, drawing the weapon to show a mirror-sheen on the length of the blade. Turning it over it's exceptionally balanced and sharp despite the time it's spent lying fallow. Hinsin calls after a moment "Don't get too attached... that and the scepter comes to the Captain savvy?"
Quillin just chuckles at Rackham's boldness and the Captain's claim. "Well Tipene, it's a magical sampler basket in there: sword and scepter, magical naturally. The shroud and more below as well." He raises his voice. "Of course, I'll need a bit of time to inspect it all if the Captain can spare them..."
Rackham retrieves the weapon without ill event occurring, drawing the weapon to show a mirror-sheen on the length of the blade. Turning it over it's exceptionally balanced and sharp despite the time it's spent lying fallow. Hinsin calls after a moment "Don't get too attached... that and the scepter comes to the Captain savvy?"
Aye, I know. This one's pretty, but I have a blade already, James says, sheathing the sword.
The sailor approaches the captain and offers the weapon to her before moving in closer and speaking softly: The sword is a beauty, sure, but she sent me some dark visions. I've no skill in magic, but even I can see you should watch your back with this, Captain.
Quillin's purses his lips and watches the Captain's reaction.
Rackham's intercepted by Hinsin before he gets to the Captain, who takes the cutlass from him. As the other man's hands touch the sheath... you see his knuckles tighten and he sucks in a breath...
Tipene rubs the dolphin tattoo on his cheek for luck, then reaches into the sarcophagus and pulls out the scepter. He hands it to Hinsin wordlessly.
As Tipene picks up the scepter, Bek reaches in to begin pulling aside the shroud. "May as well see what else is hidden in here."
Rackham's intercepted by Hinsin before he gets to the Captain, who takes the cutlass from him. As the other man's hands touch the sheath... you see his knuckles tighten and he sucks in a breath...
Rackham nods knowingly to Hinsin before returning to the coffin.
Hinsin doesn't offer any tangible response to Rackham apart from a short nod, retaining the cutlass with himself as he resumes position by the stairs to the Captain's elevated position.
Tipene grabs the scepter and finds it heavier than it looks... though all of the weight seems lodged in the shaft and not the head.
... Hinsin gestures with his non cutlassed hand to see the scepter to his grasp as well.
Bek removes the shroud, and finds it slide near silently from the skeletal form beneath. The shroud shrinks as he hefts it, reducing in size from a large bedsheet to that of a bandage one might use to sling an arm. Exposed from head down over a pair of heartbeats... the recumbant form in state is unleashed.
The humanoid figure is skeletal entirely, with nary a skerrick of flesh or skin shown. It's arms lie crossed in gentle repose across it's chest, and the bones have a 'feel' of age to them... as though they've laid in state for years upon years. While mostly human-like, the jaw, skull and structure give you pause and cause breath to lodge in chest.
The creature was taller than a man, though not a true giant... the load-bearing bones thick and strong. It would have easily stood head and shoulder above the tallest of you, and outweighed four or five men by muscle-weight. The skull itself lacks the definition of a human one... instead having but a single sunken socket for an eye at it's center forehead. Below the eyesocket is a jaw structure unlike anything you've seen on two legs.
Overlarge, and built off layers of intersected tesserae as support and overall structure showing gaps where muscle or cartilage would have been. The teeth sit in rows of three or four, jagged and sharp - angled back towards where the creature's throat would have sat. The structure is known to you, and has been seen and feared by each and all of crew and sailor alike... as it is generally attached to the great predator of the seas - the shark. Beneath the skeletal mass lies a cloak of rough shark-hide, and then the silver inlay of the coffin itself.
The crew gasps in unison and a ripple of shock, murmurs and religious mutterings sound out. Lanteri's eyes narrow, but the sight doesn't appear to be completely unexpected... though both Hinsin and Horumheb share the crew's shocked reaction.
Quillin lets his enhanced vision drift over all the booty so far revealed.
The Tulita shudders slightly as he passes the heavy rod over. "Bek...familiar to you?"
Gemstones: if held in one hand, each of these stones provides the holder with a Swim speed of half their land speed, and at will can subject the holder to an air bubble spell at 5th caster level. Gem must be held throughout the duration of either effect.
Ring: vanilla +1 protection.
Sharkskin cloak: moderate abjuration / transmutation, though the exact workings are presently beyond your grasp. The item would need to be at a minimum inspected (and Spellcrafted) to gain any real insight.
Quillin (mis)directs the crew's attention to the shroud with a conspiratorial nod to the elf. "It'll take a bit of study to comprehend the rod and sword, Captain, but I can tell you about the shroud right now. A gem of a find! Can you see the auras on it? No, of course not, but I'll tell you, no worries. In addition to preserving the dead, it is a boon to the living. If you don't mind being wrapped like a mummy, it will amplify the body's natural healing and fortify you against poison and disease as well. Near as good as a saw bones that blanket!"
Quillin's ruse afoot, Iscarel answers with a knowing grin. He palms the gems and snatches at the ring, before rapping his knuckles on the interior of the coffin. "Amazing this thing is still watertight, Captain." he says, a little louder than he ought.
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Iscarel's furtive fingers flick forward to filch the valuables... and his heat surges a beat as he waits to see if his and Quillin's combined distraction have served to divert attention. There's no sign of discovery though as she instead closes down Quillin's inquiry "I know well enough what they're for without your byword crewman... see the shroud to the sawbones, the cloak goes to Hinsin. The silver cladding's the crew's share - break it down and send what's left of it's inhabitant to the brine."
Hinsin waits to see the cloak delivered to him before he follows Lanteri into her quarters. Horumheb remains on deck, bellowing to the crewmen "Right lads, get your back into it. Quicker we do it the quicker we're at sail and moving on."
The rest of the crew begin to make their way forward - any superstition overcome by the prospect of a hefty slab of silver for their trouble.
Quillin shrugs at the slight and turns over the shroud to the surgeon.
As they're breaking things down, he hobnobs a bit. "Anyone know who the bones belonged to? Can't say I've met a cyclops before, alive or dead. Looks to be some sorta one-eyed high muckity-muck."
Neither Quillin nor Bek can get a mental fix on a name or legend that might directly relate to a cyclops in a box, though each in turn does ruminate on a few points that might be of relevance.
The gnome recalls some footnotes from a book once thumbed through with respect to spellcasting amongst the larger races. Giants typically not known for their expanded minds, bar a couple of cases. The ogrish types from distant Arcadia... and the cyclopes of years past. Though not known to be active in the now, in ages past the cyclopes were thought to rule as sorcerer kings - keeping the smaller races merely as chattel.
Bek on the other hand recalls a few sozzled and drunken tales of the isles. Sunburnt and recently returned, high on liquor and ready to boast - more than once a Shackles sailor has told of their crew stumbling into a ruin or tomb amongst the isles and making off with wealth and riches. Though you've not seen anything bar a few fragments of hacksilver or a well worn stone carving - with one eyed iconography.
The crew set to the task of stripping down the silver with gay abandon, crowbars, hammers, chisels and axes all employed in equal measure. The coffin takes some destructing, but eventually yields to the attention and kindling is separated from the lining. Wood and bones are sent into the brine and to Besmara's keeping - while the silver is hacked into manageable chunks, folded and hammered into a size where it might be easily secreted or portioned up for sale.
Tipene glances at a few of the crew members, then back to the boss. "Captain, is the skeleton worth anything?"
Hinsin waits to see the cloak delivered to him before he follows Lanteri into her quarters. Horumheb remains on deck, bellowing to the crewmen "Right lads, get your back into it. Quicker we do it the quicker we're at sail and moving on."
Tipene puts the question to the most senior on deck - Horumheb. The man shrugs and replies "If they wants a trophy I ain't the one to say no... can't see the bones being worth much in bits though"
Tipene nods and steps back towards the gnome before murmuring, "Quillin. Someone wants the bones...can you tell why?"
"Quillin. Someone wants the bones...can you tell why?"
Quillin shrugs. "Memento? Bones themselves aren't magical though they might come from one of those cyclops sorcerer kings. Might grab one myself and you take note of who's digging in."
Quillin's reasoning seems sound as the most of those taking trophies appear to be going for either teeth or finger bones.
James works to secure the silver and, of course, a share for himself. He leaves the bones to the more superstitious crew members.
Like James, Bek leaves the bones for the others, but he does take the offered share of silver.
Quillin makes sure to get himself a toe bone and a share of silver.
The party ensures that they're not stiffed on the hacksilver and each see themselves to a fair portion of what they're entitled. Folded and hammered it's a chunk of hefty weight (about 20 lb a piece) and unwieldy enough to need both hands to lumber down to your bunk (or wherever you seek to make it safe).
The ship's put back to sail and you begin to put the rocky shallows behind you. Those in the rigging are on close alert for any more sign of scaly devils in your wake... but after a few quiet hours with naught but wind and wave your company even they begin to relax back into the voyage. Talk among the crew turns from memories of blood to the chance to get back to port and hock their hunk of silver for whatever poison's their preference - mainly of the two-legged or cask-borne variety, though there's a particularly lean snaggle toothed gent who spends a good couple of hours expounding upon exactly what sort of cake and sweetbreads he'll gorge on once they make port.
Looking at the heading of the boat, you'd wager that a fairly direct path's being cut t'wards the haven of Freeport... haven that is, if you're looking for a festering well of piracy and vice. The Captain and Hinsin don't emerge from their chambers for the rest of the day - and the fall of darkness brings the ship still a sail, though with relatively calm wind and flat seas.
The next couple of weeks pass initially with nascent fear and anticipation of ill events... though apart from some strange sounds in the night waters and some knife cut rigging slowing progress - the time afloat returns to routine and the threat of sea-devils and reprisal from long dead cyclopean powers fades like the evening sun. Routine however weighs slowly upon those of unquiet mind... and the relative peace soon starts to grate on some nerves similar to sandpaper.
At first it's minor squabbles with the crew or dispute over cuts of meat come chow time - but the straw that breaks the camel's back is when Rackham and Bek are overheard by Hinsin making one too many jokes about his close relationship with the Captain. Words become heated and Tipene and Quillin are painted with a similar brush as the provoking pair. Though blows aren't come to - it's clear that the work relationship has soured and the vessel's become a poison pill as far as the crew's concerned.
Nearing Freeport a crew moot is called, and though your cases meet with some sympathy among the rank and file - eventually the Captain and Hinsin's power base holds and a vote to excise you from the ship passes with a small majority. Promises are made to get your passage paid up, but further passage on the Corvid appears unlikely.
You're put ashore a day ahead of the main body of crew at dawn - the jolly manned by the same stocky half-orcen lass that first looked to see if you were up for crewing a pirate vessel. But still, the full scope and freedom of Freeport lies before you, dank and sweaty - bustling with activity and full of things both nefarious and foul. Once at pier Iscarel sneers at you all and fosters off in his own direction - while Rackham and Bek similarly swear off and set out in the opposite way.
That leaves just the odd pairing of a tulita and a gnome... well and a foul mouthed parrot also... shaping to venture forth into the hustle and bustle of Freeport...
Tempest-damned storms. Twice-damned pirate crew. Lookout drinking at the post and a helmsman that can't figger port from starboard. What possesses landlubbers like that to take to the waves I'll never figure out. Todek Holderhek is floating atop a salvaged piece of wreckage from The Gilded Fist. Two days ago, a nasty storm savaged the ship he was crewing on as they approached a series of shoals. The first he knew of trouble was the unusual creaking of the mast in the whipping winds.
Stepping out of the sleeping cabins below, Tordek looked at the steely green clouds and knew that Gozreh was displeased. Cap'n had us doing duty all night, haven't had enough time to do much of damn anything to help with this squall. Seems like it's time for me to depart this ship's company before too much else comes down on me. he thinks to himself as he hurries back below decks. The other sailors aboard the small craft are scrambling about, desperate to find a way to manage the storm. They step out of his way when the rugged dwarf stomps through the quarters, making his way to his hammock. Pulling the woven hemp net off its hooks, he gathers up the few possessions he has stowed in his little footlocker and crams it into the waterproofed leather backpack lying at the bottom of the chest. A bag of jewels and coins is strapped to his belt. Moving to his locker bolted to the back wall, he undoes the lock and pulls out what he considers his most prized piece of equipment. A delicate looking smock of large tropical leaves. He smiles as he pulls it on over his head, securing the fibrous straps around his torso, his body protected as well as those boarders wearing their studded leather armor. As he goes to walk out of the spaces, a wiry gnome yells at his back.
'Dek! Where the devil do you think you're going? This is the doing of YOUR god, you make him do what you want NOW! Stop this damnable storm! Ah yes, dear Gunner Skipjack. I will just sally up to Gozreh's blessed skirts and demand that she belay her will. Can't even recognize that this is HER doing, not HIS. A pox on you Skipjack. Yer a lousy sailor and an even lousier gunner. Th'only reason you manage to hit the other ships is because we were tethered to 'em. Gozreh, she not be listening to a mortal to stop a rager like this. Best chance is to cast your bets with the waves and send your own prayers to her ears. Pah! He yells as he snatches a quarterstaff from the armory rack on the bulkhead by the ladder topside. Stalking up the narrow steps, he looks out over the rail and sees a sliver of land off in the distance.
As he prepares to jump, a crack of lightning slams into the crow's nest, splintering the mast and splitting the ship in two. With a leap, he throws himself into the roiling sea, his mind sending prayers to Gozreh's ears.
It took Tordek nearly two days of swimming and floating to get here. He'd make landfall today, with any luck.
After reaching shore, Tordek takes a look left, and a look right. Not seeing any appreciable reason to go either direction, he turns left, quipping in his head any port in a storm, eh 'Deky?
A few days later, he found himself standing at the edge of the bustling hive that is Freeport. Steeling his nerves after his morning meditation, he heads into the crowds, ready to find a new ship or new shipmates at the very least.
Quillin blows a raspberry at parting. "Good riddance. That was a sorry crew. Put her on the hit list, Tippy. Soon as we get a ship of our own, we'll take her and rename her Parrot's Prize. Make the 'corvids' try flying with rope around their throats. What do you think of that Smudge?"
"Devil take 'em all! Parrot's Prize! the gray parrot croaks.
Quillin brushes his coat off and glances at his remaining non-avian mate. "Well, we got a little coin in my pocket for the trouble anyway and maybe a little more than that..." he pats the purloined pouch of rubies and ancient knuckle bone. "Shall we see what this port offers?"
The Tulita nods stoically. "Reminds me of the Razor. Smells better, though."
Tom sits in a corner of (insert random tavern here) drinking as he watches the door.
I should have known the tip was crap. Waiting here like a fool for someone that won't turn up.
However, having nothing better to do, Tom still sits there drinking away his dwindling funds. His foul mood keeps casual company away, much to his comfort.
Lysandra, Jali ever-present on her shoulder, wanders around the market district of Freport ultimately settling down for a mid-day meal and perhaps a drink or two in (insert preferablly the same random tavern).
Tordek wanders through the bustling throngs of Freeport, looking about, searching for anything that could help him find a crew. Finally, his eyes lit upon a swinging plank for a tavern that seemed the right mix of seed and salt to sate a sailor's nerves sometime in the late morning. With a nod to himself, he walks through the door and into the lightly filled establishment.
His eyes roam over the crowd, surveilling the room. A collection of gnomes and halflings in one corner sit throwing dice over a meager pile of copper. A barmaid running between rough plank tables, her skirt edge damp with the froth of uncounted sloshed ales. A Varisian fellow entrenched in a corner, with a veritable cloud of anger darkening his features. With a shrug, Tordek walks up to the scarred bar and places 2 silver coins on the rough wood.
A cask of whatever that'll buy me, keeper. And a mug, if ya could. he says gruffly.
When he gets his drink, he will retire to whatever seat lets him put a wall to his back.
Tipene and Quillin:
Elbowing your way through the crowded wharf is made somewhat simpler by the visage of Tipene forestalling any real challenge or jostling. Stevedores generally give you a wide berth, bar an island troll with dim face and squinty eyes who settles in to vacantly eyeball you as you make your way past. Your last barrier to the Docks is a bowed headed goblin pushing a barrow full of scraped barnacles. You catch a snippet of murmured [smaller]"..nice barneys, master pays yes, much..." before the wharves are at your back and the... fragrance of Freeport strikes you solid upon the nostrils.
Filthy ragamuffins with cloth for shoes bark copies of the Shipping News while boots tramp forth and back across the boards. The delicate earthy tones of fish guts mix with the sharper notes of fresh vomit and old p1ss staining both the boards and the clothes of those that didn't quite make it home the night prior. Civilization laid bare in all it's festering grandeur.
The Tulita nods stoically. "Reminds me of the Razor. Smells better, though."
Quillin scrunches up his face. "In fact, all gnome senses are more acute than those of you tall dopes. Also, we're usually closer to the source... just saying I'm the better judge of stench and would strongly disagree with your assessment."
The gnome scratches at the turquoise and black coils of his dreaded head and lifts a long tapering blue eyebrow. "Gnome memory is usually superior too, and I seriously looked at coming here when uh, well, I think I can find my way around."
He straightens his coat collar forcing Smudge to adjust his perch and then the gnome slowly turns taking in his surroundings. "We are obviously in The Docks District and those tall walls mark the Old City. Warehouses over there, obviously the "Warehouse" District and behind it the hoity-toity Mah-chant District. Above that they stuff all the Temples in one place. Not.a.good.idea. if you ask me."
"That's the west side. East of the Old City would be the EAST-ern District. Outside of all that is a bunch of squatters, undesirables, and Scummytown or whatever farther down the coast."
The gnome sighs, "Not a huge fan of taverns, but that does seem to be the best place to catch the latest scuttlebutt. Er, local paper might be useful as well..."
"Hey Kid!" he calls over a newsie and holds up a couple copper pennies. "Paper, and can you recommend a decent tavern?"
Tipene shakes his head and mutters something in his native tongue as the stench crawls up his nostrils and camps out in the back of his throat. "I take that back. How do these people stand it?" At least Ocean and Dolphin are close to this place.
Tipene and Quillin:
With a nose well suited to picking apart the aromas of the city into their disparate but equally important sub-notes, Quillin looks for a news boy that won't steer them wrong. Two are easily discounted on behalf of having shoes, while a third is sidelined by a glance towards his milk washed and uncalloused hands. A fourth is picked from a distance to not quite be a boy, but instead a halfling with mop hair... while even Tipene has the street smarts to avoid asking the half-orc with an eyebrow ridge that protrudes damn near to the tip of his nose.
Instead Quillin picks out the boy with no shoes, ordure speckled rags and open sores on his cheek and legs... as he's the least likely to be tied up to powers that be or have eyes beyond the coin in hand to that at his waist. With enthusiastic nod the boy hands over a paper and responds to Quillin's question on taverns "Dented Helm's a good'n if all you're afters a beer sir, Garek keeps things tight he does. Most the rest here in docks still stink o' the boardwalk though. Fine gnome like yerself might prefer the Kafe or Strebeck's over in East District... if you're new to Freeport I could take you through sir? A skull's all it'd take to buy me"
Quillin does spot an interesting article about the Salt curse and the Rainmaker's Guild that's keeping the city stocked in water. According to the article one of the guild's been arrested for overcharging. Couple of opinion pieces in either direction, but the rub is on the side of lynching the bastard.
"Beer is fine with me. What do you think, Tippene?" Unwilling to part with more coin, the halfling waves off the kid.
Quillin and Tipene:
Based on a wavered hand from the news-barker gnome, parrot and tulita head off in the direction of the Dented Helm. It's not far and only a couple of ramshackle streets back from the bustling dock itself. From the outside it's austere and basic - a warehouse with only a single visual and single aromatic clue to it's other purpose. The door's got a dented iron helm nailed to it, and the yeasty smell of brewing vats suffuses the air as you draw near.
All the party:
Walking inside you notice that the bar's interior matches that without - basic and all business. A smattering of standing tables through the center with half-sawn casks providing what seating there is for the rim of the room. The bar's made of well notched and sweat polished hardwood, with rows and rows of stacked and tapped casks behind the bar serving as backdrop and wall.
At this early hour there isn't much patronage... a couple of fisher-dwarves half snoring at a table in one corner and the other patrons are three solitary singles. Behind the bar is a young dwarf with short-trimmed beard and pig-iron bands framing his wrists. He looks up and calls "Well met, what are you after?" before pausing... looking at Smudge and adding "If the parrot sh1ts on the floor you clean it savvy?"
Tordek / Lysandra / Red Tom:
A dark-haired woman with a pleasant expression on her face and a small monkey on her shoulder sits at the bar, enjoying a dark ale and a bit of lunch.
After the comment about the parrot, she says in a affable tone. "He said something similar to me about Jali here."