Gunari barely aids the Drongos in paddling away from the destruction of the rowboat as he shoves his paddle against the boulder at the last moment.
CRAAAACK!
A resounding crack echoes through the oar as a large jagged splinter looks to have been torn off by the collision, but the boat sweeps through the tight channel and puts the group closer to the arrival point.
"Oh god! Is it over?" Agosa whines, his head between his knees.
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The boat seems to be making good time with the four stout warriors at the oars and there doesn't seem to be any more issues in the vicinity, however looks can be deceiving.
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Cyrus bobbles about on the boat, his nimble legs easily keeping his balance and not upsetting the boat as the group narrowly avoids disaster.
better get this out, just in case... Cyrus thinks as he pulls his potion of touch of the sea from its place on one of his crossed bandoliers.
The darkness had hidden the jagged stone pretty well, but looking for the froth on the waters surface was a good idea. He alternates that method with scanning the horizon to make sure nothing surprises them again.
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The old man braces and balances himself within the vessel, leaning with a tilt and using the increasing angle to apply his weight to the tiller. His hands grasp the mechanism with determination, straining against the forces constantly wracking the rudder, seeming to push with malign intent against the submerged fin, as if the current were trying to turn the rowboat intentionally toward the all too welcoming rocks. With a sickening shudder, these forces propagate up the linkage, pressing back against Ibid.
Feeling the increasingly violent vibrations moving the tiller in hand, causing the mechanism to come to life and dance, spasmodically in his grasp, he surveys linkage and surrounding well of the ship, channeling his knowledge of engineering in order to increase his mechanical advantage to multiply his strength. By adjusting his grip further down the handle and bracing one foot higher on the cutter's vertical wall, he leans into the control with a more directed, judicious application intelligence and outright fear of drowning.
Cyrus keeps a careful watch, but the adrenaline rushing through his system causes his eyes to dart too quickly and he fails to see the giant shadow under the water directly in front of the rowboat.
CRRRRRRRRRREAK!
Ibid slams on the tiller as the rowboat grounds itself on a small shoal outside the cove, but his strength is too little to keep it in the deeper waters. The boat now appears to be stranded in the water, but there seems to be little danger of drowning as the water is only mid-calf high at the moment.
On the horizon, dark clouds seem to be forming and an alarming burst of light pierces the sky.
CRACK!
Thunder rolls over the party a few seconds later. They know that they need to make it to the alcove soon otherwise they might be dealing with rough seas.
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"Ah that went fairly well. I think the key was that we were rowing in such .... unison. Eight arms all synced up, working ... in concert. Should be smooth sailin="
Abruptly cut off, Finarin is jolted in his seat as they come to an abrupt stop in the shallows. Glancing towards the sky, a dark look crosses Finarin's face.
"I hate boats. Amaranti, how does one make this .... go again? We seem to be stopped."
At the sudden jolt, Agosa looks up from between his legs, his face a shade greener than is natural. "Have we made it?" he asks weakly.
Looking at their situation, the man falls to despair. "Oh god! Death by Gozreh's spear or to be swallowed by his sea. What have we done to deserve this!?" he bemoans.
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"Heh. Why don't we jump out and give it a push?" Lort suggests, as he hopes out of the boat, "When we get back in, perhaps I should take the tiller, Ibid! No offense, but a half-orc's strength is what's needed here. Ha!"
Lort pulls out his rope, ties it around himself and passes the other end to Gunari. "Just in case, eh?"
Lort jumps into the water, calls upon the power of Kurgess to aid his arms and heaves upon the boat.
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"Aye," the old man says, looking abashed. He looks briefly to his own arms, knowing they are still quite powerful for a man for his advanced age.
For a man of my age, he thinks, shaking his head indignantly at himself. No matter what, you'll still look weak as a sniveling child beside a half-orc. The time is coming soon, old man, when you'll have to hang up your hat and leave all this adventuring to the younger and more capable lot.
Moving through the small cutter, he takes a few exaggerated steps over the crossbeam seats, and takes his place at Lort's previous oar. "Take the tiller, Lort. I'll take your oar where my weakening constitution will be less noticeable amidst the sure grasp of Gunari, Finarin, and Amaranti."
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At the sudden jolt, Agosa looks up from between his legs, his face a shade greener than is natural. "Have we made it?" he asks weakly.
Looking at their situation, the man falls to despair. "Oh god! Death by Gozreh's spear or to be swallowed by his sea. What have we done to deserve this!?" he bemoans.
Turning to the cleric, "Worry not friend Agosa. We shall either be entombed at the .... bottom of the sea, or we shall reach the land of anti-religious zealots that will want to kill you ... first sight of a spell. Ah good, you feel better now, don't you.
"When will we be pushing off? I would help ... but I seem to have left my Wellies on the boat ... and honestly I do not intend to get my new boots wet."
Lort stands on the shoal and tries to push the boat back into the sea, but his muscles can't seem to push the rowboat laden with six other people. Also, the waters around his legs seem to be moving fairly quickly, though the half-orc fears no danger from them.
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Yikes! Way to go dolt...
Cyrus' face flushes red with embarrassment having missed the danger in the waves beneath them.
"I'll help..." he says sheepishly, and jumps overboard to lend his arms. "It's the least I can do for not seeing it."
His daredevil boot clad feet dig into the sand, finding solid purchase on some hidden rocks beneath. His arms strain, his face flushes even more red, and he can feel the boat begin to move with his added effort.
His hand regrips his vial of magical liquids, still paranoid he may be swept into the waters.
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Sitting camly in the boat, Finarin looks encouragingly at the other heaving and hoing.
"Well done. Now let us get this boat to where it belongs .... on dry land."
Finarin grips the oar and makes a few futile rowing gestures, not really doing anything of note to make the boat move better, faster, or correctly.
"What shall we do now?"
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Ibid, now having taken a seat beside Finarin, also grasps an oar. Hid old bones pop as he leans well into the motion, trying to stretch for the arduous task of rowing yet to come. After a few repeated attempts at actuating the wooden blade, churning nothing but the air just above the surface of the water, he feels more confident for when they dislodge themselves from the rocky shoal.
"Most of us may have to get out," he says, slowing and eventually stopping his actuation of the oar. "To save you three the trouble of not only pushing the boat, but the weight of us plus all this gear." He looks over the edge of the small vessel into the shallow water, hoping the boat will dislodge at any moment so he will not have to attempt to push it, and invariably swim after the vessel once it breaks free of the submerged ledge.
The old man then looks to see if he can wind and tie off each of the other's ropes to the vessel itself, effectively tethering Amaranti, Lort, and Cyrus to the rowboat.
Cyrus, Lort and Amaranti leap out of the boat and push it back into the sea. Cyrus and Amaranti steps forward on the shoal with a quick push before deftly leaping back into the rowboat as Lort's foot finds the one spot on the shoal that gives way as he pushes as well.
The sand collapses under his foot and Lort goes tumbling into the water as the current catches him and drags him 15' away from the shoal and boat. The rope around Lort's waist burns Gunari's hand as it yanks through his grip, but luckily there is nearly 50' of rope, so there is still plenty to grab on to.
"Oh god! He is lost to Gozreh!" yells Agosa, as he begins to freak out. It is clear that the Serenite is not a sailor.
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The old man sees his friend slip into the water and quickly leans to grasp the half-orc's tether resting resting with Gunari. Finarin is indeed quicker and Ibid takes a grip on the slack behind the elf. As he begins to pull with the others, he can Agosa's panicked mutterings just over his shoulder.
"Get ahold of yourself, Agosa," Ibid snaps in a curt whisper. "Lort will be fine, we'll pull him in as if he were a big, flopping salmon. Please keep your voice down so we don't draw attention to this little excursion."
The old man begins to pull the line connected to Lort, not taking the lead but dragging in their friend with the others.
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Cyrus sloshes onto the deck of the rowboat, leaping out of the water with ease. He moves to clap Lort and Amaranti on the back, but only finds the Garundi to congratulate for helping him out of the mess he created.
Oh no... His heart drops as he sees the half-orc floundering in the water.
At least it is tied off...
Cyrus grabs the rope and begins to pull, wrapping the end of the rope around one of the cleats to make sure that they don't lose it all.
Lort surfaces as the group pulls him with the rope around his waist. The ballast provided by Lort's mass makes it so that the half-orc is fairly buoyant and the group easily pulls him over the edge of the rowboat.
"Thank the goddess!" praises Agosa as he sees the waterlogged cleric breach the water's surface as he is dragged back into the boat.
Lort gains his breath once more as the group heads towards the cave's mouth.
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"Lort. It is good to have you back in the .... correct side of the boat. Should you choose to go for a swim again I suggest you inform us. Now back to ... rowing I presume. This is such the life. Physical labor. Strain of muscle. Why did I ever leave Kyonin again? Ah yes .... the adventure."
Doing his best with his slender frame, and lithe dancer's body, Finarin moves gracefully forward and back, smooth motions barely breaking the surface of the water.
"I guess this isn't so bad. It could .... be worse. Right Agosa?" Finarin turns to soothe the terrified cleric. "At least the kraken is not wrapping the ship in ... tentacles. Or we have not broken up on the shoals to wreak the boat and .... float aimlessly toward the beach. Come now ... rise your spirits to the great god Grozeh!"
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Leaning around the wet, dripping form of Lort, Ibid clambers into position on the crosswise bench seat and takes a oar in hand. "I'm glad you're back aboard, my friend," he smiles and looks to the half-orc. "Aye, Finarin!" he calls now, turning to the cheerful elf sharing the same row as himself.
"That's the spirit! We'll be ashore in no time, at last quit of these waters and safe from our own prodigious skill at sailing..." he add sarcastically under his breath, mentally prepared for the group to beach the vessel on the shoals again, or worse.
As the lighter nears the cave mouth, the swirling tides spontaneously form a whirlpool. Cyrus keeps an eye out for rocks and shoals, but doesn't think to watch the currents as a whirlpool forms just as the boat attempts to cross the swirling waters.
The rowers slam on the oars to try and push the boat from the inevitable capsize, but it looks like their strength is too little, too late. At the last moment as the boat seems about to flip, Lort slams on the rudder, giving it a good shake, which seems to settle the boat and the craft escapes from the danger.
Agosa has turned back to hiding his head between his legs as this amazing feat was performed, but the group has little trouble making it to the cove.
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Perception:
The group sails into the cove and sees an easy landing near the back as Lort proudly steps onto land. Agosa sees the rocky area and happily leaps from the boat to the hard ground, kissing the rock. "Oh great land. You are the best!" he praises the ground in reverence.
Ahead of you, you see a stairway leading upwards, likely the start to the smuggler's area.
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"Kurgess be praised, we have reached the shore!" Lort looks down at his empty tankard, "Empty and we have sworn off divine magic! By Aroden's silvery ball-sack, but I could use a drink after that! Never mind. How is it even possible we did not see that storm coming? Are we so pressed for time that the captain had to let us go in the middle of such inclement weather? Curse his callous heart.
"But still, lucky I was on board," he boasts, "Did you see that move with the tiller? Ha! Slapped us right back on course. And it took five of you to pull one half orc back to the boat. Heh. Remind me to help all of you with your strength training tonight." Lort gives Ibid a friendly - if a little too hard - 'tap' on the shoulder with his big mailed fist.
Lort struts around the cave a little, soaking in their surroundings before returning to the companions and grinning. "Well there are some stairs leading upwards, shall we?"
Lort takes the first step, drawing his greatsword. "Smugglers caves. Might as well be ready to face smugglers," is his only explanation.
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Stepping lithely from the gunwale to the shore, Finarin is beaming with pride.
"Ah that was not too bad, was it not? Much better then .... well every other time. And Lort though you did some handy work their the .... thing that moves the boat, it was quite the group effort. I am sure that should the captain that let us off had seen my .... prowess he would wish to give me command of my own ... thingy. Captain Lord Finarin.
"Well on to the next task at hand ... smugglers. I am sure they will smell ... fantastic."
Producing his kerchief, Finarin dry washes his hands to get the boat off of them.
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Cyrus leaps from the boat to the rocks on shore nimbly, eyes cast down to the ground.
Not once. Not once did I see the danger coming. Worst. Sailor. Evar.
He chuckles half-heartedly when Lort puffs his chest out. He was right, if not for Lort's strength, Cyrus' misses as the lookout would have had them all waterlogged and sputtering for air.
Time to find something you are actually good at...
Cyrus shakes the water from his tunic and breeches, and pours a stream of water that somehow had a fish in it from his boot, from his earlier plunge into the waters. He then pulls his Wakizashi from its sheath on his side, commanding the electricity to stop crackling. Lastly he pulls a small tin can from a pouch with a greasy substance on it. He smears it liberally over any metal on his body, and on some of the high points on his cheeks and ears that tend to reflect light easier.
"I'll go ahead just a bit and check it out." he offers, though is already doubting his ability to spot any dangers.
Maybe it was just the water. Not so good on a boat.
With that, while everyone disembarks, Cyrus slinks ahead in the dark.
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Gunari sets his slightly unstable feet onto solid ground and surveys the area. His hand goes automatically to his belt pouch, where he pulls out a hip flask, and he takes a quick belt. He offers it to Lort, saying, "For once we have to be on tight rations! I am sure that once we get the lay of the land, I shall be able to procure more as I have not heard this was a nation of teetotalers, just athiests, of a sorts. Now, as I understand it, they don't disbelieve that the gods exist, they are just unwilling to pay the price that devotion to the gods incurs. Not at all sure what that means, though. "
He checks his gear to make sure everything is in place. "Does my heart good, though, to see these smugglers caves. As Uncle Guaril would say, where there are smuggler's doves, there are bound to be smugglers. I am sure we can work some deals with men such as that!"
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The old man reaches up without a second thought and applies pressure to the impact location where Lort's fist struck him. Taking a moment to rub his shoulder with one hand, he unintentionally winces with a twinge of pain, shutting his eyes for a split second. "Strength training, perhaps that is a good idea," Ibid says as Lort continues on. "And perhaps I'll need to swig off that flask, as well, Gunari. I need something to dull this pain," the old man continues, still holding one hand on his shoulder. After the varisian warpriest passes the hip flash Ibid raises the container slightly, speaking a few words before taking the smallest of delicate sips.
"To Uncle Guaril," he says, contorting his face as the sting of alcohol takes hold. "May some kind of smuggler's luck be with us..." he finishes the words quietly and passes the container back to Gunari.
After he falls in light with the others, he unslings his longbow and watches as the form of Cyrus fades into the gathering dark and is lost from sight.
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"Amaranti, you coming?" bellows down Lort, "Or are you summoning Kaisharga? I sure wouldn't mind having your 'worm' on the front line... especially with how huge it is now."
Lort cheerfully bounds up the steps, his mighty blade - Lockpick - bouncing playfully on his shoulder. The companions notice new serrations along certain sections of the adamantine edge. Combined with its magical enchantments, the greatsword truly looks as vicious as any the companions have seen.