”Aye. And that third party whipped up the orcs into destroying my home and near everyone in it. I’m putting my vengeance on hold for ye, so ye don’t end up with my problem.” He looked at the farmer-druid and said ”Duty and tragedy bind us together. You’re fortunate we came along when we did. I’d hate to think of others being forced to walk this road.”
After a pause, in a voice laden with feeling Frytor says, "I am sorry...for both of you." It seems as though he would like to say more but is at a loss for words.
As time passes Frytor speaks again "I am grateful for your help. It seems the attacks on my village are more that what they seemed. I know we have just met, but as you have said there is much we share. I hope in time you can trust me enough to tell me more. I do understand discression however. You have given me much to think on."
The old female holds up a hand to quiet you. She whispers "We are approaching the cove. We have explored it more than anyone else in our animal forms. There are rocks underwater here that make navigation dangerous." She draws a rough map for you then leads the way forward. The forest in front of you gives way to water. Anchored in the cove, you see a frigate about one hundred feet long.
You hear sporadic cheers and clinks come from aboard the vessel.
That is Van Beem's ship.
"They're celebrating something," Mel says quietly. "Good -- that should make it easier to take the ship."
Muse is, in a word, cluttered. Pockets overflowing with crumpled papers, taxidermied parrots, children's toys, and all manner of other knicknacks, amulets and holy symbols fighting for space around his neck, fingerless gloves that don't match, the near-petrified end of a hangman's noose tied to his bandoleer, a long coat worn like a cape, held in place by his belts and backpack, there's a leather and rusted iron leg brace tied to his pack, and atop his cranium a discolored tricorn so old that it's style has made the rounds in public opinion and become popular again. Hanging from his back are a dark wooden shield with a brass rim and a large wooden duck painted on it, and an obsidian edged club that's most probably older than written language. Tied to the handle of said terbutje is a ratty old scarf. There's no particular unifying theme to his toggery, except, perhaps, that most of what he owns is visible aged and faded. Everything about the captain, from his peculiarities of dress to the way he swings his arms and clomps along in his heavy boots, seems aimed at attracting attention, at going noticed. Despite (or because) of this, Captain Muse looks as perfectly at home in the forest as he does on the deck of his ship; slightly out of place, he still manages to belong.
"Anyways, what about yourselves? The captain has shared her story, I am eargar to hear yours."
"I collect life stories," Captain Muse claims, "and so thank you for sharing yours. As to my own, I've sincerely no idea where to begin or end such a tale. I . . . I suppose I'll say instead where I am in it." He points back the way of his ship. "I've pretty much won at life, I think. I have a ship, a crew of both the like-minded and the entirely antithetical. My job is to always expand my horizons, to seek out the strange and unusual, but I get to meet adventure on my own terms, the only curveballs life throws are the ones I ask for. I don't really want anything but what I have."
The smile suddenly falling from his face, at the sight of Van Beem's ship, Muse adds a sentence atypical to his heartfelt advocacy of shipping both the strange and mundane at a fair price. Grimly, he says, "I'm just worried about keeping it."
After considering Mel's assement that the pirates are celebrating Frytor speaks,"it would seem best to attack in a way the pirates will not see it coming." Turning to the Elder he asks,"Eldest, could the druids of the isle summon enough fog to cover the ship. It could be done at night and from shore such that there would be little risk. Doing so would allow the Sonder to approach unseen. I can summon a fog, but alone I don't think I could summon enough to cover the ship completely and I think I could help the most by being among the boarding party."
The woman nods confidently. "Yes we can manage that. We can also conjure wind to blow it in or out."
Mel nods thoughtfully. "If you could build up some fog around the pirate ship to conceal our approach, that would be extremely helpful. As General Tullian discussed in De Bello Spineto Segundo, 'Surprise makes a good ally, but a terrible enemy.'"
"Then, as we arrive, blow it away again. I'm an archer, and I believe Captain Blackskull's marines prefer to use bows as well, so we'll need to be able to see clearly."
“We keep a bare minimum of sailors abovedecks,” Captain Muse continues the train of thought, “so I can protect them all against arrows. Kazador teleports onto the deck of the Serendipity with a boarding party - which is looking at this moment to be me and him. Can any of you druids hold your own holding the line? But the boarding party takes attention away from the Sonder, and we go after Van Beem. Mel, I have a flight spell I could cast on you. Ward you against arrows, and then you can get where you’re needed without too much personal risk. I’m thinking we’ll need your bow’s help if we’re going to capture van Beem; they won’t be pulling their punches and so we can’t afford to.”
Frytor says confidently but with a hint of resignation in his voice, "I can handle a blade better than most. I also know a few spells and tricks that may help keep us alive. I'll join you in the boarding party."
The elderly druid shakes her head and speaks with finality. "No. We will not board the pirate vessel with you. We will cast a few spells from afar but that is all. These pirates are a nuisance to us but we will not risk our lives to deal with them."
"Hmm," Mel says. "To fly? I'm ... intrigued. But, Captain, certain experiences in my past have led me to be cautious in allowing people to work their magics on me. The forces we call 'magic' can achieve amazing things -- for good, or ill. And they sometimes come with prices."
"So, tell me, Captain Brolin Muse: where does your power come from?"
"Flying's kind of a universal dream, isn't it? Lives up to the hype, too, for the most part . . . a little bit vertigo-inducing, looking down and not standing on anything . . ."
Muse takes off his pack and rummages around in it. "I mentioned that I collect life stories. My power, such as it is, comes from three distinct places; when I cast spells I'm either channeling the psychic echoes of the past that we spend our lives swimming in, just that most people can't see them, which is pretty lucky for most people, since soul-detritus doesn't really do much but get in your way or float in front of your eyes when you're trying to read. Anyway, either I'm shaping dead people's discarded memories into replicatable spells, or else," the captain pauses in rumaging through his backpack to pick out one of his many amulets and medallions and hold it up where Mel can see it; a discolored platinum piece minted by the Bishopric in years long past, worn almost smooth from passing hands so many times. Still visible, though, as on most Bishopric coins, is the holy sign of Abadar, "I'm just acting as a doorway for the holy power of Abadar. I'm not a cleric, but I know someone who is. A ghost. Psychic imprint. Mostly intact, which is rare in a ghost so old - usually they fall apart. I think the coin helps, gives her something to hold on to; most of the really old memories I've found that are still in one piece are bound to a place or thing."
Finding what he was looking for, Captain Muse holds up a waterdamaged tome. "Or, and this is how I'd be casting on you, I'm casting spells out of this here wizard book." He flips it open and leafs through the pages, pointing at one. Like all the pages before and after it, the waterstains render the spell unreadable. "This one's the flight spell."
The hairs on the back of Mel's neck stand up a little. "Shaping dead people's discarded memories into spells?" she says. "Brrr. Creepy. But you also channel Abadar's power from a ghostly cleric ... and cast spells like a wizard? What a bizarre hodge podge. How did you come to learn all this?"
"Shaping dead people's discarded memories into spells?" she says. "Brrr. Creepy."
Brolin shrugs. "I guess - people tend to react that way. But I can see them, the memories, grew up with them, so . . . it seems pretty normal to me. Flying loses a bit of it's mystique when you do it regularly, you might learn, and the ocean loses just a little of it's ineffability when you live there. I think it's the same with psychic imprints."
"How did you come to learn all this?"
"Ghosts told me some of it, figured out the rest myself."
With a look of concern Frytor says, "The important question to me is are you always in control? Or do the spirits do what they want through you? It doesn't sound much different than being possesed..."
"An excellent question," Mel agrees. "Spirits can have intentions -- desires. What do yours want?"
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“Ghosts, like the living, are by and large honest and trustworthy. Really, there’s a lot of undeserved prejudice against them. And they want the same things anyone else does - gratification, to mean something to someone, to be remembered. They’re good people.”
Well, except Asher, obviously, and, if I’m being honest, Rook scares me sometimes, and, well, Scabb could be charitably described as ruthless, Omit says that morality’s a social construct that doesn’t apply to her, individually, and Savvy’s just the tiniest bit . . . mercenary, and Legacy, well, Legacy’s a product of his time, we’ll give him a pass. The rest of them, though . . . wait crap no that was all of them. Huh.
Mel turns her gaze to the pirate ship, as Captain Muse speaks, trying to get a rough count of those visible on deck.
It's difficult to make out at this distance. All she can really get is that there are several moving figures.
As Brolin finishes, Mel glances back at him thoughtfully. "Hmm. Well, I think I'd like to think about that on the way back. We shouldn't dawdle -- if we want to take advantage of this celebration they're apparently having, we need to get back to the Sonder and start getting into position. Can anyone get a good idea of how many there are? It's difficult to make out at this range."
"If we can wait a little while I believe I could just make it out"
After squinting a bit, Frytor reconsiders, "Maybe not, it's pretty far..."
Mel shrugs. "It would be nice to know, but knowing wouldn't change how many there are. Anyway, there are probably a bunch of them below decks. I think we should get back to the Sonder and get under way. The longer we wait, the better the chance they'll wrap up their celebration."
Frytor turns from the cove, ready to go to the ship.
Captain Muse takes a timepiece out of one of his many pockets, checks it, and then hits it with the heel of his hand. It unfolds into a spyglass.
Letting his spyglass drop from his face, Captain Muse offers it to Mel. "Here, this could help."
"Ah! Thank you," Mel says.
The druid looks around at you. "Are we finished here? Shall we return?"
Mel, not having any experience with spyglasses, managed to bonk her eye with it. Peering through it with watering eyes, she is unable to make out any further detail. She hands the spyglass back to Brolin, and wipes at her eye.
"Yes, unless anyone else wants to take a peek with the spyglass, we should get moving."
"May I?" Frytor says with a submissive nod towards Mel and the captain. Taking the eyeglass he peers...
After a moment Frytor says,"Let's get moving, I'll explain what I could make out on the way back to your ship." Handing the captain back his took he comments, "I like that gadget you've got there. I'll have to get one myself."
"Anyways what is the plan exactly? You mentioned Kazador teleporting a boarding party aboard the ship? How dangerous are these particular pirates? Do we know if they have any magic users?"
Fyrtor spots eight men and women walking on the deck of the ship but there are definitely more below from what he can hear. One of the women on the ship holds a lute which she is playing while a man has some small gold symbol on his neck that Fyrtor can't quite make out.
Frytor explains, "I could see 8 of them on the deck. One's playing a lute and another has some golden symbol on his neck, but I couldn't make out what it was. There's definitely more below deck though. We had better be able to get our people on board quickly or there will be quite the welcoming party."
You return to the small collection of druid huts. The older woman asks you "So when will you attack? We can summon the fog you ask for and perhaps help a little more as well."
Mel looks at Brolin. "How long do you think it will take us to navigate around the island and make our approach, Captain?" she asks. "Ideally, the fog would go up shortly before the Sonder arrives, and get cleared out just as we begin the assault."
Mel looks at Brolin. "How long do you think it will take us to navigate around the island and make our approach, Captain?" she asks. "Ideally, the fog would go up shortly before the Sonder arrives, and get cleared out just as we begin the assault."
"If we want to go far enough out of the way that they don't see us coming, six hours - give or take. We'll need a way to communicate, coordinate when the fog's laid down."
"Hmmm, if we wait till nightfall I could cast light on an arrow and someone could fire it into the air. If we did it correctly I think the druids could see the arrows and they could be the signals needed. We would just have to do it in a way that wouldn't alert the pirates.
"Another thing that might work is for me to summon an air elemental. It wouldn't be around for long, but they're fast. It might be able to fly fast enough to deliver a signal before returning to the plane of air."
"Didn't the elder say there are rocks at the entrance to the cove? Navigating into an unfamiliar cove entrance full of rocks by night sounds ... hard. And flaming arrows would be easily visible to the pirates as well."
Mel thinks for a moment. "When the orcs assaulted Brookside, they coordinated their actions by sending animals as messengers. So how about this? The Elder details one of her druids to stand watch just up the coast until they see the Sonder show up. Then they send a bird or a squirrel to find the Elder and let her know we're making our approach. The chances of detection are slim to none, and it lets us worry about the assault itself rather than the timing of the fog."
Mel steps back into the trees. "Hearing no objections, we should get moving. Time is a factor. Hopefully by the time we get there they'll all be thoroughly drunk. That would be helpful."
She looks at the elder. "Elder, may I have a word in private, please?" While the others prepare to go, she has a brief conversation off to the side with the Elder.
Soon thereafter, the group is on their way back to the Sonder.
The group returns to the Sonder with plans in place for telling the druids when to bring on the fog. Fyrtor accompanies them onto the Sonder where they begin sailing into position.
Mel seeks out Brolin. "Captain," she says, "I've been thinking about your spirits. They pose a problem. As I said, I'm cautious about accepting spells; I want to know where the power comes from, and what sort of intent or agenda might come along with it."
"That's usually not too hard. I would happily accept healing from a cleric of Sarenrae, for example. Sarenrae has been around forever. People have had plenty of time to figure out what she's all about. By the same token, I would absolutely reject the services of any servant of the dark gods."
"I am fine with druidic rites -- that power comes from nature. I might reject specific practitioners, if I had a reason to distrust them. But the power itself is neutral, like a fire. It can burn you; or it can keep you warm through the winter, depending on how it's used."
"Wizards do different sorts of spells than druids, but they're similar in that the power is neutral; any complications come with the intent of the caster."
She drums her fingers on the railing of the ship as she speaks. "And that brings us to you. If you were yourself a wizard, or a cleric, or a druid, I believe I would trust you to cast spells on me. But ... you're not any of those things. You're a vessel for the dead. And the dead are not always benevolent. So ... is there any way I could ... speak with your spirits? If I can satisfy myself that they mean no harm, then you can cast your spells on me. Otherwise, I must respectfully decline."
As the ship approaches the fog bank cast up by the druids, Frytor, with a grim expression on his face, pulls out of his bag a small unadorned dark wood buckler of obviously good craftsmanship and straps it on.
Pulling out a sprig of holly he chants a few words in druidic and the returns it to the pouch on his belt.
Then he pulls out a flask and downs the contents in a single swift motion and draws his sword. Returning his flask to his satchel he says, "I am ready"
Those who inspect Frytor's sword more closely notice it's not the normal scimitar of a druid, it is a cavalry saber of a dull grey. Like his shield it is unadorned though it appears to be very well made. He handles it with an uncanny grace.
"So ... is there any way I could ... speak with your spirits? If I can satisfy myself that they mean no harm, then you can cast your spells on me. Otherwise, I must respectfully decline."
"Sure. Ask whatever you want, Omit's listening."
"I need," Captain Brolin says, transforming his spyglass into a chalkboard, "something to distract me anyway, or I'll pay too much attention to what I'm writing."
What happens if I cast fly instead of communal protection from arrows? Can the boarding party hold the pirates' attention? Would they shoot at unarmed sailors?
Taken aback slightly, Mel says, "Oh. Uh, somehow I didn't expect it to be that easy. So, Omit -- why do you linger instead of passing on? What do you want so much that you stay?"
Brolin receives a message of woe.