The first telltale signs of morning creep into the sky from the east, from beyond a horizon obfuscated by an impenetrable tangle of jungle wilderness that stands wild and untamed even in the shadow of the mighty Port Demalis. Cast in a pall of blues, greys, and deep shadows at the approaching dawn, the massive port-city looks a far cry lonelier on the whole than the bustle of activity along the docks—workers, sailors, and "sailors" going about their business—would indicate. Within the broad and resolute walls of Port Demalis, the reach of the Makhoran Empire is evident: squat, sprawling stone buildings with an excess of courtyards crowded together along a grid of streets that ascend a low bluff. Atop this bluff towers Severo Fortress, a marvel of architecture built to withstand a naval siege from even the Bedool.
Beyond the thick, interior walls of Port Demalis stands a far more haphazard bundle of distinct communities—mostly Bedool—that press against the city's walls from all directions. Narrow, winding streets often turn into a tangle of boardwalks and stilt-borne huts that reach out into the bay itself. At the end of one such boardwalk rests a permanently beached vessel of decidedly human origins—an old galley regarded as primitive by modern maritime standards. Massive, wooden beams act as buttresses to secure the decommissioned ship in place, and wooden "expansions" crowd what once served as the deck. This awkward and gangly boat house now serves as home and headquarters to the relatively small, but respectable merchant guild known as Azure Wake Enterprises.
Stripped and repurposed into a massive tavern, the lower deck of Azure Wake's base of operations is the de facto meeting place for both expectant expeditions and leisurely time-passing in between assignments. It is here that you have all gathered at the behest of Signus Havilar (Signus meaning, roughly, a non-Makhoran landholder in the Empire), one of the partners who actually own Azure Wake Enterprises and the owner of the headquarters you currently sit in. The tavern is entirely bereft of other guild members at present apart from yourselves. Some massive naval undertaking has been the buzz around camp of late, and the absence of company in what would be an otherwise bustling tavern hall certainly indicates that most available hands have since embarked on said undertaking.
Instead, you are left with the tavern to yourselves, silent save for your own voices and the steady lap of water against the exterior hull...
Like most of his kind, Reep'Tchk'Tchk (or as most of the members of the Azure Wake called him, Reep) did his best to avoid drawing attention in Makhor controlled lands; In his case, he had a cloak of dark color drawn around him, and he was stilling in the corner, a small mug of something warm and strong smelling sitting in front of him. His closed eyes and regular breathing likely made one think that he was sleeping, although his ears twitched at each new sound, as if analyzing and discarding them as threats.
Reep was well-known among the expedition, and his odd magical abilities had more than proven his worth.
It was...homely to hear the water, even if the lack of motion from the waves was disappointing. The decommissioned ship certainly smelled like home, the salt having long since soaked into the timbres. The scent of alcohol was certainly a feature of most ships as well, although the sharp, harsh bite of naval rum (an alcohol that could strip the varnish from the deck) was joined by mellower tones such as beer, mead, whisky and wine.
Shambling from the bar itself with a mug in one gnarled hand, Arlk Shatter-Shell moved slowly towards the corner with Reep sitting in it. The shambling pile of cloth grunted slightly as he used a free hand to drag a chair out with a grinding noise, and sat down with another grunt. Arlk's broken form wasn't the most mobile, although he wasn't as lamed as he'd once been. It just hurt to do anything, but if he let pain stop him do something...
"Any idea what the job is?" he asked outlout, his voice slightly raspy from beneath the hood he wore. He glanced around the emptied bar, wondering if the boss was keeping the public out so they could have some quiet to chat, or whether it was simply not the right time for patrons.
Tzacol is very obviously a Togani. And her gilded armour and shield suggests her Sunwatcher heritage, even if her sun necklace did not confirm it. Her skin is pale, barely tinted blue but clearly healthy. Her tall, lean, and muscled figure tells that much.
Her youth and few scars tell another story, one of great skill of arms. Because she does not appear subtle enough to avoid conflict. Her three eyes are watchful however, so she would likely see angered Makhor coming first.
She leans her shield by the left side of her chair, and places her silvered warhammer onto the table, just by her right hand.
She looks straight at Arlk and replies, shaking her head:
"Arlk, I know not. I would have battle soon, I tire of idleness. I can only practice arms for so long before losing my edge."
She then sips at an ale before placing that mug back on the table
"A palatable drink.", she says with a hint of pleasure, "The Elders would encourage us to live before death. Joy before the end."
Decidedly uncomfortable in the room designed for much shorter individuals, Servius has found the nearest stool designed with a Makhor body in mind. Eyeing the distance between him and the others, he scoots the small bench somewhat closer to the table the others are sitting around. Straddling it with his legs, he rests his right elbow upon the adjacent table. Cupping a clay vessel in his right hand, he takes a slow sip of a highly aromatic liquid as he thinks over what to say. Setting down the drinking vessel, he looks towards the others.
Speaking slowly and with great care, he speaks towards Tzacol and Arlk, not wanting to disturb Reep. "I also am unaware of what we are doing. And while I agree that moving opponents would make much better targets to test my bowmanship against, we should not necessarily try to seek out combat." Having said what he meant to say, he will then return his drink to his hand and deeply inhale of the strong smell.
A scoff comes from the darkest corner of the room at the Mak’hor’s words. It would have been easy to forget Lo’tan sitting there, had it not been for the smell of swamp emanating from both himself and the lizard by his side, as well as the occasional clatter of bones as he rolled them on the table he sat alone at. He leaned forward into the light and with a toothy grin says ”You be talkin’ ahbout bowmahnship? What da Mak’hor be knowin’ of ahchery except ‘ow ta be on da receivin’ end of a Togani arrow?”
He then looks to Tzacol, ”An’ what da Eldahs be knowin’ anythin’ about life? Dey be too closed minded ta see da trut’ of tings. Dey care nuttin’ fer anythin’ but keepin’ der own lies passed along like a sickness.”
"No clue." was all Reep said on the matter. He picked up his mug and sipped from it, still refusing to open his eyes.
As Shanga spoke, Reep sighed and said "We're all on the same side here. Let's try not to slit each other's throats, eh?"
Tzacol nods at Reep's words, and speaks, mainly in the direction of Shanga.
"Aye, the Meerk speaks wisdom. I understand that even other Sunwatchers do not adhere to my sect's teachings, let alone the Stargazers. I do not blame you for not understanding the proper ways to honour our ancestors. I would fight alongside you, not with you. And the same goes for you, Servius. The Mak'hor have made for many of our worthiest adversaries and I am glad to have one on this side of the battleline."
This is by Tzacol's standards, diplomatic.
Lo'tan laughs eerily at Tzacol's reply. "You tink I do not undahstand da ways of da ancestors? You be wrong. I undahstand dem all too well. I undahstand dem bettah dan da Keepahs do. An' dey fear what I know. Because dey be fools."
He smiles a yellow toothed grin before leaning back into the shadows, holding his hands up placatingly, "But da Mouse be right. We 'ave no quarrel 'ere. Jus' a difference o' opinion on da finer points o' Archery an' beliefs."
The hood turns to stare at Shanga for a moment, then a light snrk emerges. Arlk had no time, interest or energy to play 'Who wields the Biggest Bow?' with the man, and no desire to do so. Still, it was nice to hear at least some of others had the sense they were born with.
"We're paid good gold to work together," he muttered in a raspy tone, taking a sip of his drink to soothe his throat. "Either settle up now, before the work begins, or leave."
Tzacol nods at Arlk's intervention, after taking another sip of ale.
"I adhere rigorously to any agreement that I make. And our contract is quite clear on the penalties for fratricide."
A rough looking Bedool with a bulky, dark green colored shell that is highlighted with thick orange ridges and pirate tattoos saunters down the stairs to the lower deck and struts to the bar. His fine scales are light green with accents of yellow. He wears two crossed veteran leather, multi-pocketed bandoliers over each shoulder: each sheathes daggers, one hangs a cutlass and a heavy crossbow, while the other a shortsword and a case of bolts.
You know him as Ooduls, a former pirate. Unsuccessful as the story goes. Last survivor of an Imperial attack. Been with the guild several years. He's violent and vicious. Strong and silent when required.
After getting a mug of the best swill available, he swaggers over to the table. "Gray, Shatter, Shanga, Sunny." He nods toward his squadies as he calls their nicknames. Obvious in the absence, he doesn't acknowledge the Mak'hor.
Unlike Arlk, Ooduls hasn't accepted his new name. He tries them on like ladies, but they don't stay. "What? No one else knock shells last night?" the pirate rhetorically asks with a pirate smile.
"Anyone, a clue 'bout the mission?" With that question, he sits down on a chair putting his muscled and tattooed forearms on the back of the chair. His expression now is fairly serious, after he drains half his mug in one drag.
Tzacol turns to him.
"No word yet on that, Ooduls. We are all stuck speculating and waiting."
Glancing around at the assembled people - and there unusual skill set - Arlk considered, "Must be odd, to want us all. Small band, diverse abilities. Be an interesting one."
”So long as dey be payin’ us enough fer it ta be wort’ it,” Lo’tan’s voice says from the shadowed table he is sitting at.
"So long as we have worthy foes!", Tzacol retorts, though with some humour, just before she sips more ale.
Reep again sips from the steaming cup in front of him and murmurs something in his native language, then sets down his cup, sighs, and opens his eyes. "So, since we've been gathered together, perhaps a round of introductions are in order. I know some of you and what you're capable of, but I think each of us should give a quick introduction. I'll even start: You can call me Reep, and as far as you really need to know, I'm a mage that occasionally kills things up close."
"Arlk," the Bedool rasped slowly. "Arlk Shatter-Shell. I am..." He paused for a moment. What was he, exactly? At least in the eyes of others. He knew he'd made a Pact, a Pack with the Blade. But not everyone understood Warlocks especially well, or the deals they made.
"I can call upon weapons no matter what, and I am capable of using some Magics."
Ooduls drains the second half of his wooden mug and drops it to the deck with an accompanying impressive belch. "I take things and kill people. Did anyone see anything to break a fast?"
The Bedool gets us and starts to noisely forage.
Ooduls drains the second half of his wooden mug and drops it to the deck with an accompanying impressive belch. "I take things and kill people. Did anyone see anything to break a fast?"
The Bedool gets up and starts to noisily forage.
What the Azure Wake passes off as a tavern is a far cry from what one expects from a locale with modern amenities. Nestled within the hold of the defunct vessel that serves as the guild's headquarters, this watering hole is very much a throwback to a bygone era, albeit with a notable absence of hearths. A rudimentary cooking station occupies the center of the hold, consisting of little more than a cauldron, spit, table, and chopping block. Simple herbs are festooned in a haphazard manner around the equally haphazard assembly, but the cauldron itself still contains the remnants of meals from the night prior . The aft quarter of the tavern-hold itself is packed with barrels, casks, and kegs of exceptionally cheap swill.
An ominous creak of floorboards overhead gives away the approach of a figure far before they darken the doorway and begin plodding their way down the steps into the tavern. Ruloo the Gullet pauses briefly at the foot of the stairs to regard the motley assemblage of guildmembers before him. Ruloo is easily the fattest Bedool any of you have ever laid eyes on, and a permanent fixture hereabouts in the tavern-hold. His dull, red scales billow out in fatty folds where his extremities emerge from beneath his shell. Old scars criss-cross his face and arms, while his dorsal shell is a veritable tapestry of chinks, notches, grooves, and scores. Ooduls and Arlk note that he is rather advanced in age, easily over two hundred years judging from a glance. With his one good mirthful eye—the other glazed over by a cataract—he continues his mute appraisal of all of you while his worn, scaly hands secure a low-sitting stool that sounds near to splintering when he eases his considerable girth onto it.
"There be few what weren't called away fer a grand sortie, and you lot be sittin' here left behind, rattlin' yer chatterboxes in me tavern by yer lonesomes," Ruloo grates out in a voice all gravel and phlegm. "As fortune do ordain, I'll be givin' yer assignments for the immediate future. Afore I be doin' that, I may be ruminatin' a bit about why ye lot were left behind while all hands were beckoned elsewhere. Ye be thinkin' there's a reason fer that, landbales?"
While filling a wooden bowl with the remnants of the meal from the night prior, Ooduls audibly snorts at the landbales dig.
Then, he trudges over to the table under the one-eyed gaze of Ruloo. He hooks a foot around another Bedool-sturdy chair and sits down to break his fast. The elder had earned his respect, and he knew not to take dangled bait.
"I was told to wait here, and wait here I shall, unless you have something else I could be doing..." Reep looked up at Ruloo expectantly.
"I assume you had a job, and we were the most suited." The pile of robes shrugged a shoulder. "Or you didn't think us suited to the melee."
Tzacol smiles at Reep's questions.
"You should know by now my skills. I can smash foes with hammer, or skewer them with arrows. And I have some skill in sneaking up on them if needs be, unhampered by my armour. Even more so in the wilds."
The Togani snorts at Ruloo's comments.
"Clearly, we were chosen for a task that is unsuitable for most. I would know of it though."
Ruloo's gullet jiggles noticeably as he shakes his head in what might approximate a gesture of disappointment. His chosen seat continues to creak with every movement, no matter how small, as if the stool itself were crying out for mercy.
"Signin' on fer The Wake be a good start, but there be more to this fellowship than coin an' personal gain. Sooner ye figure that out fer yerselves, the sooner ye'll be called on to somethin' worth yer mettle, savvy?" Ruloo relinquishes his perch and rises once more to his feet, slowly, and with an audible groan that accompanies one of advanced age undertaking a labor so grand as standing.
"Meantime, get yer asses to the docks an' aboard Mirael's Destiny. She be an Auroran galleon what looks like a bird. Ye'll be escortin' a clutch of... uh, geologians, I think they were—diggers. Four of em altogether, set on plumbin' some isle somewheres off the Ashing Way Archipelago." He turns and makes his way towards the booze, stopping after a few steps and turning to add, "Best see that yer grog stores be full. Drinkin' be a good way to pass the time on a s!%$e mission."
With that he departs your company fully, busying himself with seeing to his own, ample, breakfast needs.
Tzacol raises her mug to Ruloo.
"I shall take your advice on board."
She turns to the others:
"Let us drink up and get going. I would not wait here any longer."
Lo’tan clicks the bones he had been clacking one last time and drops them into a hide pouch.
”Den les be goin’ ta meet da fancy folk, hmmm?” he says as he steps out from his table. At his side is a large reptilian from the swamps, a reddish brown dorsal frill runnin the length of its spine. However, it is covered neck to tail in a custom made chain barding that protects it from attack. From the one mission you have had the “pleasure” of his company, you’ve seen that Lo’tan has a unique take on the magic of the Togani, and the lizard that he travels with has a savagely brutal nature.
Reep stands and finishes his coffee before rinsing it in the river below and storing it way. "Let's go then." he says, walking out the door.
"Thanks Gullet." Ooduls finishes his meal. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and leaves his bowl and spoon on the table.
He follows Gray out.
Pushing the remains of his drink to one side, Arlk nodded his hood in agreement with the others, rising his feet with an unpleasant series of clicks and cracks and following along, his form bent over somewhat.
Your trip to the docks is not an overlong jaunt. The same walkways and boardwalks that constitute the exterior city neighborhoods link up with the much more solidly constructed docks of Port Demalis proper. The sun has managed to surmount the jungle canopy on the east horizon, a blinding burst of bright light that has already begun to drive the temperature into the ballpark of miserable. What reprieve the morning granted from the oppressive, energy-sapping humidity is quickly vanishing.
Port Demalis itself is not quite the bustle of activity that all of you have come to expect. Many of the streets and causeways are bereft of any souls other than your contingent itself. Even as the impregnable city walls halt at the bay and your field of view is unobstructed enough to command a view of the larger bay—and docks—this unusual vacancy remains. Farther out to sea, an ever-present fleet of Makhoran Man of Wars remain oppressively visible, but the docks of the port-city seem to be relatively empty of vessels compared to the standard fare. Most of the jetties jut out into the waters with no vessels crowded alongside. It is a strange and unusual sight to behold, but it makes spying your own destination all the easier to navigate.
Isolated along the eastern docks is an Auroran three-mast galleon. Mirael's Destiny has a narrow hull of deep red and burnished silver, triangular sails depicting—in cerulean blue—a feminine hand gripping the hilt of a broken cutlass. Matching this ensemble is a silver-cast figurehead of an elven princess, broken cutlass raised as if preparing for a final glorious charge into the fray. It is a vessel equipped for speed on the open sea, a quality made all the more fitting when one considers the swan-like, feathered details that dominate the ship's aft portions. A gangplank meets the jetty from the Destiny's deck, which is seeing current and frequent use from a disparate array of crewmen. At the top of the ramp stands a stern-faced Auroran lass wearing a thick sailor's coat, despite the heat, and resting a hand casually on the brass basket-hilt of an expensive looking rapier. Her hair is concealed by a red tricorn hat, but her radiant blue eyes are visible even from this distance.
"Ahoy to the ship. We're here from the Azure wake. Permission to come aboard?"
"Hail, Captain of Mirael's Destiny."
While his companions hail the ship, Ooduls studies the disparate array of crewmen.
What does the cargo say of the passage? What does the disparate array say about the crew? What does the crew's behavior say about the captain and bosun. Ooduls had spent his whole life on the water, so he applied his experience to the examination.
"Hail, captain." The Bedool nodded to the captain, waiting at the gangplank.
Crossing his arms in front of his chest, Servius bows his upper torso in a sign of respect as he calls up to the elven figure "Hail, honored captain."
Shanga waits quietly at the rear of their troop, squatting down beside his reptilian and studying the boat and the elves aboard it.
"Capta...?" she begins to mouth slowly. Her brows wrinkle, accompanied by a dumbfounded look. Her dazzling eyes scan each of your faces briefly before she dispels the look and leans over the rail with both hands. "First Mate Cinderwake, at your service. If you seek an audience with the captain, you'll find him terribly indisposed for the moment. He's come down with a dreadful case of the too much wine."
Another deckhand, an unkempt human with a bushy grey beard and few teeth, makes to descend the gangplank, but First Mate Cinderwake halts him with an abrupt palm to the sternum that half knocks the wind out of the fellow. "As it happens, your associates are already onboard and settling in below deck. I've orders to process you, however, so let's go ahead and get this nonsense over with. I'll be needing your names to make sure you are who you claim to be, then old Grumblegrin here will show you where your geologists are bunked."
She awaits your ascent, an unraveled scroll in one hand while her other has returned to its perch on the rapier hilt. As you rise to the main deck of the ship, a lazy melody rises to greet you from the direction of the captain's quarters. Two curving grand stairs breach the distance from the deck to the aft-castle, the banisters for each displaying an impressive level of detailed filigree and finished in gold. The source of the music is obscured from sight by thick curtains of silk sheets that hang before what is—in all likelihood—the entrance to the captain's cabin. It sounds more an absent-minded plucking of a lute than anything formal, though the performer clearly possesses some skill.
"My name is Reep'TchkTchk, but most people just call me Reep." says Reep with a friendly nod.
Tzacol smiles.
"First Mate Cinderwake then. A pleasure. So long as we can board and meet the geologists, we need not 'inconvenience' the captain right now. I am Tzacol, hailing from The City of the Sun."
Lowering his head in a small semi-bow as they reach the main deck, Servius says "I apologize if I caused you offense. You had an aura of command about you, so I made an assumption about your position. As for me, I am Servius, of clan Acinon, family Venator."
Lo’tan ambles casually up the gangplank, giving the First Mate a nod. ”Lo’tan I be, an’ I be Lo’tan,” he says with a toothy grin.
Ooduls struts up the gangplank as he has done countless times before. When he reaches the first mate, he looks at her scroll and holds two light green scaled fingers up. "That's two O's in Ooduls."
With a wink he continues to follow his squad to the captain's cabin. When they stop near the captain's curtain, he suggests, "C'mon. Play a livelier tune to wake us up."
Geologists, huh. Interesting. "Arlk. Arlk Shatter-Shell."
Seemingly satisfied with the forthcoming introductions, First Mate Cinderwake rolls up the parchment and places it in a satchel that hangs on her right hip beneath her sturdy coat. Her attention has returned to the work on the docks before she orders, "Grumblegrin, get them below and to the guest's cabin, then get back to your duties. Step lively!"
Looking every bit the part of a beat dog, Grumblegrin nods an acknowledgement to the First Mate and motions for your contingent to follow him. He closes the short distance to a diminutive door that sits dead center between the two grand stairs that ascend towards the captain's cabin. After yanking the door open, he hobbles down a brief stair that descends into the guts of the ship itself. Your guide immediately turns and begins leading you down the length of this deck towards the fore of the ship, passing along several bunk nearer to the ends and an impressive arsenal of cannons that comprise the gun-deck along the interior. Eventually, Grumblegrin comes to a stop before a door leading to the guest's quarters at the front of the ship.
"Here ye be, and be ye here, one an' all! Now, if ye please, I'm like to get hide-tannin' if I don't get back above." His uneven gait clops and creaks down the deck back the way you just came, leaving only the door ahead and, hopefully, those who've hired you.
Stepping through the doorway, you're pleased to see a deceptively large living quarters, walls lined bunks while the floor itself is dominated by a rectangular table that accommodates ten seats in total. At present, four figures crowd around the far end of the table, various maps and other papers arrayed haphazardly before them. A middle-aged human man with salt-and-pepper hair, clean-shaven, and simple (but expensive) leathers occupies the head of the table. To his right and left are another pair of humans, a young rotund woman with auburn hair in a sleeveless dress and a jaw-clenched, solid barrel of a man with curvy, oily black hair and a handlebar mustache well suited to his creased and severe looking face. Looming behind this gathering is a Lyncurian Makhor with grey and silver fur swaddled in green and gold robes. He holds open a journal in his hands, scrawling at a fierce pace and only stopping occasionally to command a view of the maps upon the table's surface.
A moment of silence hangs in the air as all heads swivel to regard your entrance, faces awash in a look somewhere between curiosity and expectancy.
Ooduls follows his squad into the cabin. He drops his sea chest on an unclaimed bunk and gets comfortable to spectate.
"Y'all'r dressed too fine to be diggers. Hope you don't expect me to wield a shovel." The former pirate observes.
Tzacol strides into the room and quickly scans it with her three-eyed gaze. This seems to her standard protocol when meeting new people in a confined space: keep an eye out as if expecting ambush.
Seemingly satisfied with the situation, she relaxes her posture somewhat.
Turning to each occupant in turn as she speaks, she says:
"Greetings.I am Tzacol, from The City of the Sun. What will you require of my colleagues and I?"
"What my companion means to say is that we're from the Azure Wake, and we've been tasked with guarding your expedition. My name is Reep'Tchk'Tchk, but you can call me Reep. I'm sure the others can introduce themselves."
”If dat one be in charge,” Lo’tan mutters in Tzacol’s ear with a nod towards the Lyncurian, ”I be expectin’ ta be lookin’ forward ta slave labah...”
He steps forward and takes the seat at the foot of the table, spins it around backwards, and sits while leaning forward onto the back of the chair. ”So ‘oo be in chahge o’ yer merry band, eh?”