Ollivor rolls about in the mud as well, having nothing better he can do, though he's feeling woozy from the blood loss that continues
Breathing once more, Wyn opens her eyes, realizing that however belatedly, her idea of the smoke was helping, as the swarm that so viciously attacked her fled.
Seeing Doran now shielded from view by more of the infernal insects, she shouts the same advice Thorn called to her.
"Get in the middle, Doran!"
Screaming hurt, her face and neck swollen and bleeding where the mosquitoes had torn into her bare skin. Looking down, she saw great welts forming on her arms, blood dripping in a constant stream from her face and arms onto the rest of her clothing and the ground.
She couldn't help anyone with body slick with blood. She untied her sash and pressed it against the areas it bled most, trying to slow the bleeding. But there were too many places to try and stave the flow, and she accomplished little more than ineffective dabbing.
Bleeding from a thousand tiny stings, Doran reels for a moment, the sensations of itching bites and buzzing wings and tiny predators on his skin and in his mouth and nose and ears all combining to drive him briefly mad. He hears Wyn call out something, though he can't quite make it out, but her voice serves to anchor him to the world again. He wipes away a trail of blood that is slowly thickening as it makes its way from his forehead into his eyes, and sees that the smoke on the other side of the river seems to be working.
Dropping the smoking frond he's holding, he tears more foliage off the closest plants and builds a hasty pile, finally tossing his burning torch onto it. He then stands as close as he dares, fanning the flames with his hands and blowing for all he's worth to get the fire going.
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Vine in hand, with it's tattered end dripping sap, John wrapped the long end around his hand in several short coils. He only had a few moments before the Mosquitos attacked again, and though the bonfire was now roaring and giving off billowing smoke, John hoped to take the attention away from Doran who was currently being eaten alive.
With slow sure steps, each one leaving a small pool of mud, John waited towards the buzzing black cloud of mosquitoes. The vine he now carried like a long whip was burning all along it's length and the sailor wasn't sure how much longer it would take before the fire reached his hand. But John knew pain. What he couldent allow was for the insects to keep attacking his friends. Though John wouldent say so, in his heart he held Doran with respect. He respected of the pressganged crew of the lighthouse, but Doran was special to him. The man never shirked what was asked of him. He stepped up when John had asked him to play the role of a pirate and earn Pluggs trust. Doran had been his rock. John wouldent let some mindless beasts swarm him.
Reaching the edge of the swarm, John swung the flaming vine around his head like a Mwangi fire dancer he had once seen during a port-call. The flaming fine spun around him in a arc, through the cloud of bugs, leaving a wake of heat in its path. As he did so, John gritted his teeth. He really hoped that the mud was going to protect him, because he was willing to bet that he had just made them angry.
As the cloud of smoke raises, the swarm of mosquitoes begins to break up. They break up in a buzzing cloud, reforming a short way down the river banks. They swarm off, following the rest of the swarm, looking for different prey. They leave the sailors in dire straits as they disappear, skin blood-slicked from their ravenous appetites.
Doran manages to hold his breath in the smoke long enough for the swarm to break up and move away, then steps out gasping and hoping they don't just come flying back. As the blood continues to stream down his forehead from the dozens of stings he got there when the swarm descended on him, he tears a strip of cloth off his sleeve and holds it over the wounds, trying to stanch the flow of blood. He manages to slow it down, but it still flows into his eyes, adding to the sting of the thick smoke nearby. Vrunyar," he calls out, "can you help me with this? I can't stop the bleeding on my own!"
"Gods, what a nightmare that was."
Ollivor attempts to heal himself with the wand again, as much to stop the bleeding as anything.
And the wand stops working, no longer healing anyone.
"Oh gods. I've killed three of us..."
He'll try to bind his own wounds, but has no training.
Maybe desperation makes Ollivor better than he should be, but he certainly handles his wounds. and he moves to try to help Doran
But his muddy fingers fumble this time.
"By the gods..." Wyn exhales, relieved as she sees the majority of the insects fly away. "You fellows alright?" She calls out, trying to ignore the pain as she once again tries to treat the vicious stings, but it's clear she cannot manage on her own.
Ollivor tries once more to use the wand, this time on Doran
"No good, I can't seem to focus."
Watching as the last swarm trails after the first, Thorn takes a deep breath and slowly exhales as he allows the stress to leave his body. Thorn observes Wyn trying to stop the bleeding of her wounds with a torn piece of sash. Thorn tears a patch of palm frond from the ground and tears a fresh vine from the canopy. Thorn squeezes sap from the vine on to the piece of palm frond before applying it to Wyn's wounds. The sap does not appear to be stopping the bleeding but may be slowing the bleeding.
Vrunyar drops the burning fern frond onto the ground and rushes to Doran. ”Aye, I’ll do my best,” the dwarf says rubbing his hands on some foliage to clean them quickly. He swings his backpack from one shoulder and opens it to get his supplies of bandages and ointment. ”It’s like they were trying to eat your brain,” he says noticing the wounds on Doran’s forehead. ”You did good work! Shame you can’t be one of those lolly boys, First Mate. ”
Vrunyar presses a fresh bandage against Doran’s forehead and wraps it three times around, tucks it under, over, and then ties it off. ”Who’s next?” he calls.
Vrunyar stops Doran's bleeding with his quick bandages, but by the time he turns to help Ollivor, the sorcerer has helped himself. Over on the other river bank, Wyn's bleeding wounds finally stop oozing. John, Ollivor, and Vrunyar all drip from the sandy mud of the salt river. They all fervently hope that they can figure out some way to eliminate the risk of the mosquitoes in the future - even such a small creature as a mosquito can be incredibly dangerous in huge numbers.
"Thanks, Vrun," says Doran, still in pain but relieved to have the flow of blood stopped. "That was awful, we've got to get away from this river, and hope the mosquitoes don't come after us. Maybe we should rig up some more torches, so we're ready to try our smoke-screen if we meet 'em again." He takes a couple of steps towards a nearby tree, to look for suitable branches, and stops short, his hands out as if trying to balance, "Gods, I feel as if I'm on the deck in a blow, here on dry land. They bled me worse than I realized. Olli, you think you can give me a tap with that healing stick we found?"
Ollivor staggers. He looks, as many of them do, like death warmed over. Blood mixed with mud coating him, and pale as a sheet under that.
"I'll try again, Doran. It didn't work the last time I tried to use it on you, but maybe now that I'm not swallowing bugs..."
With annoyance, he makes a gesture first, cleaning himself off with a prestidigitation spell, he's still pale as a sheet, but at least he's clean.
Then he takes the wand and touches Doran again.
This time, the healing light springs forth at last, and engulfs Doran, healing the halfling somewhat.
"Oh sure, NOW it works. Let's hope it keeps doing so."
He turns to Wyn and gives her a tap as well
And again the wand fails, "Gods, I know I'm no cleric, but give us a break here eh?"
Tying up her wounds, Wyn watches the smouldering fire. "Alright, we've still got to get the rest of the boys across." She goes back to looking for vines and things to help make an easier path across the river.
If and when Ollivor does get to her, Wyn waves off his attempt to heal her and says bitterly and honestly, "Save it. I can walk and the bleeding's stopped, and we need to get moving. Besides, if I am lucky enough to die and go to burn in the hells, that will be paradise compared to this bloody life. I don't know what god I pissed off but I am about done with my penance."
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As the black clouds of swarming mosquitoes disperse in the swaying palms that littered the edge of the quicksand filled river, John wiped the mud off his face with the back of his hand, nodding in satisfaction. In his other hand, John held the flaming vine. It's length aflame, hissing and sputtering with licking bits of orange fire. Quickly unwrapping it from around his dominant hand the marine flicked it into the swampy morass where the flame gutted with a final hiss of wet steam.
Turning back to the others, John raised both hands to his mouth to amplify his voice and with a loud voice, tinged with concern asked, "Is everyone alright?" looking across the far side of the embankment John can see Thorn and Wyn, both moving around, though Wyn looked pale and drawn. On his side, Doran and Ollivor seemed to have borne the worst of the attack. Vrun was the last John looked to. Despite the seriousness of the situation, the gruff sailor couldent help but bark a laugh. Like John the dwarf had thrown himself into the mud, but without a mirror John had no frame of reference to see just how muddy the two appeared. Like some horror story about mud-men the dwarf and the marine were covered in a sheet of thick brown sludge mixed with bits of dead leaves and fallen twigs. Shaking his head ruefully, John sighed before limping towards young Ollivor. Olli, I know your doing the best you can and you have my thanks. Once we are healed up with yer wand, we can see about regrouping. shaking is head John glanced towards the other shore. I hate this island. John though, turning back towards Wyn and Thorn. Wyn, can you check for planks hidden on your side of the bank? It's the only thing I can think of for how the Vudu's were able to transport Crimson and Sandra across.
Ollivor casts prestidigitation on each of the others in turn, "Well, at least I can clean you up right."
He turns to John and tries to heal him up, and then turns the wand on himself.
When he uses it on himself, it works again, "Well, at this rate, this could take a bit."
”I’m fine John. I had no idea insects could behave that way. Another incident like that and I’ll be wishing I was back on the boat...er, ship,” Vrunyar says.
The dwarf bows to Ollivor after the mud and filth is magicked away. ”Thank you! I’ll wash dishes for a fortnight as a sign of gratitude.”
Vrunyar scans the sky for more swarms. ”I’ll keep alert for anything that can help me make some alchemical defenses for bugs. Maybe in the next day or two, I’ll find enough. If Wyn doesn’t find those boards, do you want me to cut a tree down? Give us half a bridge?”
Wyn sounded so fatalistic. Lucky enough to die and go to hell? I hope she doesn’t do anything reckless to endanger her safety...besides tracking these vudu and help us fight Plugg, he thinks with an internal sigh.
Wyn looks for boards or anything that the vudu could have used to carry their kidnapped victims across the salt river and quicksand. She doesn't find anything after a few minutes of looking, but does find a branch that is long and straight enough to help measure the depth of the river; they may need additional supports for Vrunyar's bridge. She deftly hops out a few of the intact poles and crouches down with the length of wood. It doesn't go down nearly as far as she expects, and she pulls it back up quickly. Only four or five feet of the branch come up muddy. She checks again, firmly tapping the wood against the bottom. It seems more than hard-packed wood; the bed of the river must be made of actual rock. The vudu likely simply walked across, using the strength of their stolen bodies to walk while holding the pair of trophies above the waterline. Wyn, Thorn, and Doran could probably just help guide the other three through the sandy water, using a branch to pull them up if they slip below.
Standing on a piling in the middle, Wyn pulls up the long branch so the others can where the mudline sits.
"If you take it slow enough, you can probably wade through. And we can pull you along with this, or a vine." Wyn says, pointing at the end to the charred vine John was holding.
"That's great, Wyn! Let's get everyone across," says Doran, excited to have a plan for crossing the quicksand with some degree of safety. He hops out a couple of posts away from the bank, holding a long branch he's collected, and says, "I'll help 'em on this side, you and Thorn help 'em out over there. John, why don't stay as rearguard while Olli and Vrun cross, in case we get any more surprises. I'll cross last with you and we can be shut of this damned place."
Vrunyar nods in acceptance of the plan. He moves into the sluggish river and steps carefully forward, navigating towards the other side. He carries his axe over his head, in his right while his left hand is ready to grab Wyn’s branch to help him should he fall. At the deepest parts he resorts to a one handed paddle stroke since he can’t touch the rocky river bed. ”My luck one of those crokogators will attack me now,” he mumbles as the water line sloshes against his lower lip.
Ollivor makes sure the wand is secure, then follows the plan, "Don't jinx it, Vrunyar." He says with a smile.
Thorn searches the trees located in the surrounding area along the south side of the river banks for a vine long enough to reach the other side of the river. After a few minutes of sorting through a tangle of vines Thorn spots one long enough and flexible enough for his liking. Excitedly pulling the vine away from the others and a few sturdy yanks on the vine finally breaks the vine free from the canopy. Thorn still holding onto the end he used to pull the vine from the canopy quickly ties it into a lasso loop.
Walking to the edge of the south river bank while slowly spinning the loop of the lasso to expand wide enough to fit around a persons torso Thorn yells out "Hey Ollivor, grab a hold of the loop and secure it around your waist." Thorn observed Wyn was already helping Vrunyar across the river and through the quick sand with a vine of her own. Thorn takes aim of Ollivor as he speeds up the rotation of the loop just before he lets it fly. "Heads up!!"
The nimble trio assists their counterparts by guiding them with branches and vines after putting out the fires on the north bank. Their return might otherwise be challenged with a raging fire. John worries greatly that his peg leg will get sucked down by the pressure of the quicksand pockets, so he takes it off and holds it above his head as they move slowly across the river. Doran deftly helps him with his lengthy branch, giving him a crutch to pull on when mere hopping does not do. Wynifrid assists Vrunyar, while Thorn haphazardly pulls Ollivor with a vine tied around the sorcerer. After a painstakingly slow trudge through the mud, water, salt, and sand, they come out the other side. Their clothes are soaked and filled with silt. Ollivor casts his magical cleansing spell several times, but none of the three who crossed the shallow river feel that it has left their skin or their clothes. Exhausted for the long night and day, they sit upon the south bank for a minute as the bonfire smoke billows above them. John reattaches his prosthetic, softly rubbing the blisters made where his wet skin was rubbed raw under the leather straps.
The press-ganged sailors rest up and head south, making their way to the next landmark: the massive tree that juts out of the forest canopy. It is half a mile farther, and considerably more difficult than north of the river. The undergrowth seems to rise up out of the ground in an attempt to pull at their feet; it is especially difficult on John, who cannot step as high or as quickly as the others. Nettles and reeds nip at their skin and tear at their clothing, slowing them even further. Vrunyar tries to find the proper plants to create his alchemical formulae, but finds nothing useful and constantly has to run after the others to keep up. After nearly an hour of exhausting hiking, they arrive at the base of the huge tree.
A terrible stench fills the swamp, a fetid odor of cheap perfume and rotting flesh. The huge tree stands in the middle of a clearing in the bog, draped with some sort of huge tent along one massive side. The roots of the tree slip in and out of the soil, high enough at times for a man to walk under. Clouds of flies buzz in the tent, though none are as thick as the mosquitoes that stung them so terribly at the river. The horrific smell is unmistakably the smell of long-decayed corpses left in the heat to rot many times over.
Doran stares at the strange scene, searching for threats, or some sort of explanation. A look of disgust creeps slowly across his face as he asks quietly, "Gods of the deep, what is this place? Does anyone have any idea?"
"The world's most grotesque graveyard?" Ollivor casts detect magic about. He's been grateful for Thorn's aid, but he's feeling very paranoid and it's making him terse. At least casting spells now and then makes him feel active instead of reactive.
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Rubbing his red stubble covered chin thoughtfully, John scrunched up his nose at the odious smell eminating from the tent covered tree. I doubt it Olli, John muttered eyeing the structure. What it looks like to me is a makeshift tent. When we first surveyed the island we saw a reinforced stockade atop high ground on the other side of the island. Then during a battle with the Vudu's we saw the corpses of Cheliaxians that Thorn was able to date from at least three years ago. What I'm thinking... John trails off before swatting at a large fly that buzzed near his face. Is that at some point there must have been some sort of survivors on the island. Probably a different group than the village. This tent looks newer than the village. Nodding at the tent John runs at his leg again, grmimcing at his fingers touch upon the raw blisters. Anyhow, that's what I think. We should check it out. There might be some clues as to what happened on the island, or where our shipmates were taken. Unsheating his boarding axe and cutlass John limped toward towards the tent. I'll take point.
"You may be right, John, but what's that perfume smell?" asks Doran, laying a hand on John's arm as the marine begins to move towards the tree. He sniffs at the air suspiciously, his expression one of uncertainty, and a tinge of concern. "I'm thinkin' it's something to do with that tree, like a flower that smells sweet but traps the bugs that come sip from it. I can't explain how a tree'd make a tent, but this feels like a trap to me. Anybody know anything about whether giant people-trapping plants exist?"
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Nodding slowly, John stops in his tracks, peering towards the large tree before taking a few cautious steps back. Your right, there are plants like that. Never seen any, but I've heard a few horror stories about such things. If I had to bet, I would figure that the smell would be the dangerous part. Bit like shiver. Don't know about the tent though, that looks man-made. Carefully, John takes a bit of silk from the sash wound around his waist and with two quick cuts from his dagger severs a bit of silk. Balling them up into tiny plug's John pushes them into his nose before nodding back to Doran. It may be a trap, but if it is, it's one we know about. Besides, we need to climb the tree to get another fix of the island. It's the highest one we could see from the fist. before offering the dagger to Doran, handle first.
Doran laughs and declines the offer as John presents him with the dagger, gesturing at the array of knives he already wears. "We wanted to climb the tree, not sure we needed to," he responds. "If that's how the thing traps you, we might want to change that plan. Knowing about a trap only helps you if you use that knowledge."
The group checks out the tree before John pulls back the opening flap of the tent. The tree is unbelievably huge, and must be hundreds of years old. Countless branches split off from the base of the tree, which extends upwards nearly three hundred feet. The trunk itself is so thick that the six of them could link hands and be unable to wrap themselves around the base. The tree lacks flowers or fruit, making it unlikely that it is the source of the perfumed scent. John may not be a horticulturist, but he feels confident after several minutes of examination that the tree is nothing more than a huge example of its kind. There are carnivorous trees that exist in nature, but none (as far as he knows) are anywhere near this size. John has seen a few giants in person, but this tree dwarfs their massive size.
While John and Doran check the tree out, the others recover the trail left by the vudu. The animated bodies are far from subtle in their movement, so they leave an easy trail to follow. The trail - oftentimes muddy from the trip through the river - leads straight past the tent with no seeming interaction with it.
Satisfied with the tree itself not being an ambush predator, John pulls aside the flap and looks inside. A blanket of insects and flies seems to have made this tent their home. Clouds of flies - already sated - dance above the decay inside. John sees a bed of moldering cushions along the base, several piles of rotting clothes, and scattered refuse. Several leaking, broken bottles of perfume lay discarded about. It seems that someone made this place a home, at least for a little while. His peg leg hits a shell, running a chill of fear down his spine. He bends down to check it out, finding that it is another of the corpse-controlling cephalopods; this one, however, is badly burned along its rubbery tentacles and long-dead.
Three bodies lay on the makeshift bed. The corpses have gone through the process of decay, bloating and bursting with horrid gases before settling into putrefaction. The bodies have begun to skeletonize at parts, leaving only tattered, blackened flesh. The bodies all wear decayed, vermin-infested dresses. Two of the women hold hands with each other and empty flasks with the other. The front of those two corpses seem badly burned from the jaw down to the bottom of the abdomen. The third woman's corpse is burned as well, but instead from the crown of her head down her back.
Braving the disgusting nature of the tent's contents, the sailors search for anything that will help them survive the island, even if the previous inhabitants did not. They find a marked potion of cure moderate wounds in a discarded leather hip flask that depicts a crocodile, as well as three sharp silver daggers. They open a chest half-wedged underneath the moldering cushions and find it filled with a half-dozen plus one flasks of alchemist's fire. The chest has four open spots with no flasks held, likely used in the last moments of the owners' lives. A cloth bag with a drawstring is hidden in the bottom of the chest, filled with a handful of precious gems. A quick appraisal shows that the gems are worth around three hundred gold pieces.
Doran's eyes turn cold as he surveys the gruesome scene inside the tent. Though he is relieved that the tree is not attempting to eat them, he fears the presence of an older foe in this place. "Gods-damned Chells!" he mutters. "These women were their 'companions' as they like to call them! Not much better than slaves, paid to keep the Chelish officers happy while they're on campaign - and met a hell of an end, these three. Looks to me like they did themselves in, though what could have made them choose such a hellish end, I couldn't begin to guess."
He moves to take a closer look, saying as he does so, "John, maybe you can sort out what happened here, or Vrunyar, your knowledge of healing might tell us a bit." He doesn't like it, but he knows that he and his friends need to seize any advantage they can in order to overcome Plugg and his cronies, so Doran begins to search the tent. He is pleased with what he turns up, though seeing the chest of flasks, and realizing how the women took their own lives, gives him pause and sets his teeth on edge. His eyes can't help but light up a bit at the discovery of the gems, and he pockets them, saying, "Nothing like a bit of bribery to get folk on our side if we need 'em. Nice thing about a pirate, they can be bought."
Following from the rear of the group, Thorn quickly scanned the clearing surrounding the massive tree. Once it had been determined there was no danger to the party he knelled down to one knee to remove barbs and stickers from his pants. Thorn watched from his knee as Doran and John discussed what to do next and measured the threat of the tree and the tent hanging from the tree. Thorn slowly while straightening his clothes and adjusting his gig line and weapons to fit for comfort.
Once Doran and John decided the tree was not a threat and they made their way to search the tent, Thorn notched an arrow to his bow string and stood relaxed and ready for anything to present itself. "I'll cover you from here" Thorn called out to Doran and John just before they revealed hidden unknown. The odor coming from the tent was a strong familiar odor to Thorn that he had not smelled since his time raiding villages with his Ulfen brothers. Once the tent was open the odor magnified ten fold and caused Thorn to take a step back.
Thorn took in the sight of the putrefying bodies and recognized the Chelaxian custom of maintaining companions Thorn said to himself finally giving it a name. Doran came from the tent carrying found treasure and spoke of taking a bag of gems and something about some flasks of fire. Thorn approached Doran and ask "How large are the Flasks and could one of the Flasks be attached to an arrow?"
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Towering over the short halfling, John nods in agreement. Companionship it was little more than slavery, except for a new name. Seeing the three women, blackened and burnt, John felt a sadness tinged with anger rise up in him. Alima had been a companion once. He could still remember her night terrors and the way she would toss and turn in her sleep crying out in Osirini. It had been a hard thing to watch, to know that was her own battle she had to fight against her own demons. But John had not forgotten and standing before the three women John clinched his hand in anger. Gods dammed Chell's is right, mate. John muttered, breathing out heavily.
After several long breathe, John managed to regain his composure. He wished that Sandra was here to say a prayer. The women were owed better. Hells, right now John wished that he still had his key pendant. Any blessing right now would be better than none. Glancing around the room, John sighed again. The others continued searching the tent, but John kept his eyes fixed on the women.
If he had some ale he would have poured a cup at the feet of each women to call out to The Drunken Hero to recognize the women's bravery in their last moments. Had he held his key he would have beseeched The Golden Lord of the First Vault to show them mercy and justice in the next life. But John had neither of these things. What he did have however was a newly pilfered bag of gold, recovered from the same tent that the women had died in.
As Doran makes reference to the plunder and the bought loyalty of pirates, John nodded sadly. Aye Doran, the can be bought. But, anyone who would sell you their loyalty for gold would sell it again to someone else for the right price. Respect needs to be earned. Digging into the pouch of gold and gems, John fishes out a handful of gold coins. From the jumble of mixed currency he selects a gold Andorran Eagle, four Absalom Nobles and a Ustlavan Full Moon.
Limping back towards the bodies of the women, John kneels by their sides. Carefully he places a coin atop each of their vacant sockets and hangs his head. Queen of Pirates, The Black Lady, Scourge of Seas. I call your attention to these women. Though I do not know them, they traveled upon your seas and when they died they did so bringing down a foe. Accept this humble offering from a sailor on their behalf and if it your will let them find more freedom in the next life than they had in this one. Rising painfully, John winced at the way his blister covered stump rubbed against his peg. But at least he was still alive and that was more than he could say for the women.
Turning around and knowing that there is nothing else that can be done, John nods to the others. You can take the gold from my share. I don't care to impose. Vrun, you can take my bottled fire too. Seems to me you can do more damage with it than I will. Chemicals and all of that.. Peering towards the clearly marked trail, the red haired sailor withdraws his silk balled nose plugs and stuffs them in a pouch. Doran and Vrun get two flasks of the fire. I'll pass on mine. Everyone else gets one da' keep it fair. One of the front-liners should take the potion. Be handy in a pinch. We might want to keep it in reserve though, in case Olli needs it, since he's working our wand.
Stepping towards the beginnings of the trail with a limping gait, John glances back behind him. I'll take point again. Everyone ready to move?
Hearing of the companions policy, Ollivor snorts, "I'm not sure there's anything about most Cheliaxians that I'm much liking ever." Like most Andorans, he's of that ethnicity, but he considers himself a part of a new, and better, nation.
"Let me know what you want me to do, Doran...John. I can give the wand another crack while we're here if you want."
Vrunyar sighs in wonder at the gems. As he inspects them, rotating each one through diverse angles looking for flaws or any interesting features, the style of cuts, and the degree of wear on them, he forgets about the carnage and decay around him. ”What beauty! Korgrym was right, ‘Gems are flowers that never wilt,” the dwarf says then repeats the line in Dwarven. He clears his throat and blinks away a tear. He passes them back to Doran who pockets them.
”Even more beautiful considering the field where they were found,” the dwarf says indicating the corpses and destruction. He bends down, squatting if he needs to get a better view, as he inspects the corpses. ”Pouring alchemical fire on yourself takes desperate courage. It’s better than walking around as a vudu. Let me think about rates of decay in these conditions and try to estimate when this occurred.” The dwarf mumbles to himself as he furthers inspects the corpses. ”I’m not sure if these dresses are uniforms. Seems unlikely in the Chelish navy, but I don’t know about those things. My point? Maybe they were part of a colony.” It isn’t until minutes later, when John offers a prayer on their behalf that the purpose of the being here bursts into understanding.
”If you insist on the alchemical fire, John, I’m happy to use it. What about the silver daggers? Now that seems like an unusual weapon unless you’re expecting werewolves, right?” He examines one dagger, looking for a maker’s mark of either the weaponsmith or alchemist.
"Ready and eager to leave," the dwarf calls out.
Wyn keeps her hand over her mouth, though whether it's due to the smell, the sight of the dead bodies, or just the shock of what happened to the women, it's hard to say. She reacts little during the search of the tent besides that, but looks upon the corpses with sadness.
After Vrunyar speaks, she nods. "Indeed, they were brave, however they lived their lives." She looks up. "I say cut down the tent and let it be their shroud. We've not time for more--still need to find the others."
She accepts the flask when it's handed to her. "If those damned bugs come around again, this might be more useful than a torch. Maybe you shouldn't give up yours so easy, John."
Thorn accepts the flask of alchemy fire, "Thanks you John, I will make sure it is put to good use."
Grabbing an arrow from his quiver, Thorn compares the flask to the arrow head and tries to figure out a way to attach the flask to an arrow head to maximize the alchemy fires range of effectiveness.
"I believe I can modify a few of my arrow shafts to carry some of this alchemy fire to give us a more effective threat range. It will take me a little time to complete and it would really help to shorten the time of completion if could take one of the silver daggers to help me carve and modify some of my arrow shaft to secure the alchemy fire in the shaft."
Thorn and Vrunyar examine the daggers, finding them to be primarily beautiful art pieces, as the handles are finely carved ivory. They were sharpened somewhat poorly, but it doesn't take much time or effort to properly sharpen them. It seems that the companions tried to use them as weapons to defend themselves.
Meanwhile, Doran climbs to the top of the tree to get a better bearing on the island's features. It takes a while to climb the tree, which is almost one hundred times his height. From the apex of the massive tree, Doran can see that the edge of the jungle is a mile or so away. Once they break free of the jungle, the southern half of the island is itself divided into two parts: the high cliffs to the west and the grassy lands to the east that leads to a beautiful sandy beach. He can see the stockade at the top of the cliffside better, as well as the winding path up the side of the cliff. He plots out a route that leads him back to the pathway, sketching out the island's features in his mind. Doran clambers back down, arms and legs burning with fatigue from the climb.
The sailors follow the path of the vudu as it turns sharply west. They cross a shallow river cautiously, looking for any spots of quicksand. The trail leads to the beaten pathway that they saw from high up on the fist of stone. The jungle begins to part on both sides of the pathway, becoming less dense in both the trees and the undergrowth. The sun begins to press down on them again, and some wind actually makes it through to give them some relief from the oppressive and humid warmth. Finally, they burst through the edge of the jungle, freeing themselves from its clinging grip.
The grassy lands provide a beautiful vista, with the shining sea and picturesque beach to their left and the ominous stone cliffs to their right. The sun hangs overhead, starting to head down to the sunset. The sea breeze blows over them, making it far more pleasant than the jungle. The pathway makes it more difficult to track the vudu, but every so often they will find a telltale mark that indicates they are still following their kidnapped shipmates. Without the jungle to slow them down, the group hikes several miles in under an hour. The signs to track slow and eventually stop, leaving them with little guidance of where to go next.
The crew walks towards the middle of the island, standing at the fork of the pathway. One side leads south, to the overgrown field of crops. The other leads west, towards the cliffs and eventually up to the stockade atop the cliffs. Neither has a clear sign of the vudu's path.
"Okay, I Like this a lot better than that damn jungle," Ollivor is pretty sure he's not alone in that. "I suppose I might glean some food from the crops. Course, higher air might mean fewer bugs."
Wyn is too tired and sore from the welts the mosquitoes have left to properly appreciate the beauty of the area, but is at least glad to have made progress.
"I'd think if they'd gone through the crops, they'd have pushed some aside walking. So they've most likely gone up the cliff. Plus that stockade's the best place to keep prisoners, if that's what they're doing. Let's keep going either way, if I stop moving for long I won't want to start again. "
Though he’s still worn out from climbing the great tree, Doran breathes more easily as they leave the still, oppressive air of the jungle, and his beloved sea breeze refreshes his body and spirits. He pauses and takes a deep, calm breath, grateful that he and his friends survived the swarms of mosquitoes and have made it out into the open air. Looking at the fork in the path, he agrees with Wyn, ”I think up is the way to go. I want to know what that stockade is about, and we’ll see more of what’s goin' on from up there than down below.”
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Feeling the sun on his face after emerging from the tepid jungle, John closes his eyes and raises his face up to the sun. They had reached mid-day and by John's estimation they had perhaps six hours left before the sun went down. Standing at the fork of the path, John glanced towards the overgrown field of crops in the distance and then to the west with its cliffs dotted with the mysterious stockade.
Running a gnarled hand up to his bandana John takes it off and balls it up, letting the accumulated sweat run through his fingers before fixing it back into place. I agree, the stockade looks to be near the end of the island and will give us a good point to survey the western edge. I figure we have about six hours left before the sun goes down and when it does we will need to re-evaluate our options. Trying to find a trail at night will be more difficult and its likely the mosquitos are going to come out in force as the sun sets. If this place is anything like home, thats when they tend to the be the worst. The hour before and after sun-down. Raising a hand to forestall arguments, John nods seriously. I'm not suggesting we give up the search. Only that we should plan to have a fire going if we are going to be outside when the sun goes down. If we get up to the stockade and we find some sort of indication of where our shipmates went, then we should press on. Turning to Ollivor, John points to Wyn. In the mean time, some of us are wounded and might not survive a second attack from those hell-blasted bugs. Olli, while we march can you see about healing up those that need it? Then, turning to Vrun, John studies the dwarf. Any luck finding some herbs or plants that might help us combat the bugs? I have sharp eyes and can help keep an eye out while i'm on point if you describe what I need to look for. Waiting for a consensus from the others, John uncaps his waterskin, now half-full and takes a long swallow before handing it around. Everyone drink some water, it's been a long day of marching and we still have to get up those cliffs. Dehydration can be dangerous.