A young man steps off the ship and onto the docks at Port Peril. Though no stranger to ships, he had mostly worked aboard whalers and they never docked in such a large place. He turned and gave a wave to the men still on board. Knowing he can't block the gangplank he slung his shield over his left shoulder and walked into the throng of people...
Kiltem pushed an empty crate around till he had the view he wanted. He was up a few blocks from the dockside streets, sitting at the opening of an alley. He munched on a disappointing meal of fish and chips he bought from a street vendor. He thought of his last really good meal. It was with his mentor. As he stared out at the sea and the coast he wondered what the old man was doing...
Turns out the old Halfling was reminiscing as well.
Old Tully watched the young man walk up the steep trail shouldering a gutted pig. The carcass must have weighed fifteen stone but Kiltem carried it with little difficulty. The old Halfling tended the fire that would soon begin roasting the porcine corpse. Part of him was happy to have an excuse to have a feast and indulge himself a little, but another part of him was a little sad that this would be a farewell meal for he and Kilt. Old Tully had grown quite fond of the big human. Living by himself in the deep jungle he was happy to have company. Though the young man was so serious when he first arrived. The old Halfling enjoyed playing many tricks and funny jokes on Dar. He remembered at the end of the first week Dar had been worked into a furious rage. With his broad shoulders and huge muscles swinging a big piece of firewood around, Old Tully would have sworn he was a berserk barbarian rather than an apprentice druid. Just to be safe the Halfling had turned himself into a small bird and flew away till the young man calmed himself. Tully was proud how he helped develop the big lad’s sense of humor to such things. Life at times was be difficult and Mother Nature could be a cold hearted b*#++, but there was nothing to get upset about. Such is life.
The old Halfling enjoyed this last meal and thought about his past few seasons with Kiltem. He soon found one thing very different about the lad’s attunement with nature. While he was fascinated with animals and loved to spend hours observing them, Kiltem didn’t have much of a gift with animals. The lad did however seem to have a special ability with the weather. Old Tully was shocked to see how easily the boy could feel the air pressure drop or rise and could call up a thick mist with hardly the snap of a finger. Brains were surely not one of the lad’s strong points either but he did truly show some promise to one day be a powerful druid. He figured the boy’s big muscles would maybe make up the difference in the meantime, and for the most part Kilt had the wisdom to know when he should or shouldn’t flex his strength.
The next morning the lad set out, easily carrying everything he owned in a light backpack. The Halfling followed him in several different forms, a small monkey, a parrot, and finally a gull as Dar made his way out to the seashore. Though primitive, the boy had fashioned an outrigger canoe complete with a small sail. Tully knew he planned to sail along the coast to the village of Cuttle where he would join the crew of a ship. The lad needed to be out on the open water to truly develop his gift for the weather.
Old Tully wished him well.
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Beer sits back in his oversized chair and puts his feet up on the table, his diminutive 3-foot frame hidden by the table's height. The pint of beer he holds in his right hand appears comically large. He puts it to his lips and takes another large swig.
The tavern is lively this evening. The riff raff of Beggarspoint have come in with the tide it seems and not a table remains unoccupied. Gales of laughter erupt spontaneously from different corners only slightly more frequently than the occasional fight.
Beer glances at the human sitting to his left, his head slightly bowed, his eyes studying the table's cracks and scratches. He appears to be forlorn. Another human sits directly across from him staring at the sad man with a bemused look in his eye.
Beer: Vern, yeh look to me like the sorriest sack of crow shit mine eyes have ever seen.
Vern: I just can't believe it's over...
Beer: Aye. The sea giveth and the b~+~& taketh away...what can you do? Be glad you escaped with yer life. That counts for something with me.
(Vern pounds the table)
Vern: Damn the fates! The Black Talon is gone forever (his eyes well up with tears)...what a fine vessel it was, what a fine crew it was!
Beer: Aye, a fine ship she was, but that's in the past. She belongs to the rocks now. Best to leave it in the past. And besides, your cousin Bran here is gonna take great care of yeh.
Bran: That's right, I don't know why yer bellyaching. Just be thankful I have room on my crew for you....and we actually know how to steer straight.
(Bran glances at Beer condescendingly)
Beer: You'd be wise to speak of me crew with a bit of respect.. yer cousin and me go back a long way, but yer flaring me temper laddy.
Bran: (bursts out into mocking laughter) Oh please, little man. It's no wonder The Black Talon lies wrecked across the rocks of Shenchu Bay...why you could probably barely raise a sail. They clearly sacrificed brawn for entertainment. Did you do little dances for your crew, little man?
In a flash, Beer pulls his feet off the table and onto his chair. He jumps onto the table, and drives his half full mug of ale into Bran's face with a straight punch. Bran keels straight backwards in his chair and hits the ground with his feet straight in the air. Beer jumps down from the table and pulls up the greataxe embedded into the floorboard beneath his seat. He hovers over Bran menacingly as blood begins to pour from his nose and run down the sides of his face.
Beer: Don't mistake me, laddy. Yer short man jokes don't affect me. Gozreh, in her infinite wisdom gifted me my three foot frame and a passion for making the scum of the earth a little shorter. Trust me, lad, you don't know pure joy until you hack a man down at the knees. No yeh pissed me off when you spoke ill of the dead. Lucky for you, I keep a fair bit of affection left for yer cousin in me breast. Otherwise (Beer crouches on one knee, balances on his axe and gets close to Bran's face), I'd be performing Beer's special surgery on yer kneecaps.
Beer pats Bran's face with tender sarcasm. He rises to his feet and turns to Vern.
Beer: Welp, I think I've had me fill of booze and blood tonight.
Beer tosses Bran some coin and turns to leave. He pauses at the door and looks back.
Beer: Good luck, Vern.
The City of Korvosa in Late Neth, in the year 4708
East of Castle Korvosa, near the banks of the Jeggare River
The Coronation of King Odric and the three days of feasting that followed was a heady time for a young Korvosan man. Lasses, rich and poor, noble and common were in the streets at all hours, drink flowed, and the pickings were easy for good looking young lad of twenty summers. He ate, drank, loved, fought on a few occasions in good-natured brawls as young men of Korvosa were wont to do. On one occasion, Lucas even thought he caught a glimpse of the King as he was leaning on the crowded bar in the Keg and Eagle waiting to be served a mug of King Odric’s famous Stout.
The Upturned Cup had seemingly upturned the city overnight. What was a terrifying place with evil lurking in the castle, the alleys, and in the shadowy haunts of the city seemed brightened by the victory King Odric and the rest of the Upturned Cup had won.
The sky seemed brighter, the beer seemed better, and the ladies certainly seemed more willing than ever. His friends called him Lucky because when it came to the ladies, or gambling, or really anything - the lad was Lucky.
Lucky as any he supposed, as he smiled at a friend passing by. With a few sail in his pocket, he felt like he could take on the world as he walked down Field Marshal Avenue. He cut left through a neighborhood he had seldom passed through, trying to shorten his walk to a certain young lady’s loft he had just met. He watched the shadows lengthen as he crossed Harborview Boulevard and smelled the dank air coming off the river.
Checking his bearings, he started counting side streets off on his fingers as he walked. In his mind he was imagining himself in battle, standing side by side with the King, with Morkeleb the Mighty slinging spells overhead and the deadly arrows of Ferox raining death upon the foes they faced. He imagined Gaius slinking around behind the enemy, preparing to unleash Flagg on them at the most opportune time. To his left, Thorgrym was fencing with two men, Sharkslayer and Serethiel flashing with blurring speed. Beyond Thorgrym, Sandor’s rage was apparent in his silent warcry as the dwarven warrior shoved past his foe’s defenses. To his right, was Bucho was snarling and barking…
Lucky was startled out of his fantasy world when he realized that wasn’t Bucho, that was a mangy, crazed dog fighting its way through a broken down fence between two dilapidated houses and charging straight for him!
Lucas sprinted away, trying to keep count of the side streets. As he passed whatever boundary the dog deemed the edge of its feifdom, it stopped and the young man stood panting for a moment. He looked up and figured he was pretty sure he knew where he was. With a shake of his head, he turned toward what he thought would be an exciting amorous encounter.
In a flash, he was on the ground, a filthy rag stuffed into his mouth, and his hands being tied roughly behind his back. Without mercy, and pulling the joints of his shoulders painfully, he was dragged across the street, onto the hollow-sounding planks of one of the Jeggare River’s many docks. Lucas thought in a panic, "By Gorum’s grundle, I’m being press-ganged!"
The youth fought, but the rough men holding him had the iron grip of men of the sea, and they were as implacable as the tide. He tried to shout for help, but the gag made shouting impossible. A mast with loose rigging swayed gently in the current, and Lucky renewed his struggle as his fears were confirmed. The men laughed harshly and tossed him over the rail and onto the ship. He blacked out when his head hit the deck with a sharp crack.
It would be many hours before he came to. When he did he knew it was morning. The sun beat down and he could feel the gentle roll of the sea. He sat up, a chore with his hands still tied painfully, and looked over the ship’s rail. The pungent but friendly shores of the Jeggare, and the familiar skyline of his beloved Korvosa were out of sight over the glimmering horizon.
Water. Water everywhere. Lucky indeed…
Present Day, Approaching the beach of Port Peril
When the first mate had ordered him ashore to run a message to the Captain, Lucky Lucas D'Edrin, considered himself lucky indeed. A misunderstanding with the grog ration a week ago had earned him ship duty while the other men were allowed ashore to reprovision the ship, and to make such amorous acquaintances among the locals as their prize money and sobriety allowed.
The chance to join his shipmates, even if only briefly, was an opportunity not to be missed. Lucky absently brushed a loose lock of his dark hair back behind his ear, exposing the tiniest point to it that hinted at some distant elven influence in his family's past. The young man was human, let there be no doubt. He lacked the darkvision and natural grace of his elven shipmates, but his features nonetheless had a hint of the forest folk in them.
The jolly boat ground into the sand on the beach and Lucky jumped out to help beach it, mindless of the water and sand soiling his ragged trouser legs. Barefoot and armed only with the short blade at his side, Lucky was up the beach in a few short minutes and set off in what he believed was the proper direction to find the Captain to deliver his missive.
Harisko sank his full weight into Tao’s back, pinning his human bench cushion in placed. “Quiet.” Harisko’s voice was. Still, it commanded. Tao’s whining squawk died in his throat.
Dremmer and Boneyard stood eyeing Harisko across the table. Despite being seated, the seven foot Bekyar was almost eye level with them. He smiled, and its pearly expanse stood in stark contrast to the slavers’ dour grimaces.
Both men held daggers. Cutlasses still hung on belts. Harisko balanced his dagger point down on his index finger. His ebony hand drifted in a hypnotic circle. The smiled widened, inviting.
Dremmer’s eyes flitted. Boneyard’s remained fixed on Harisko’s blade. The Scrum’n’Chum swirled around them. Besides a few curious onlookers, the standoff continued uninterrupted. Piles of sawdust covered several “messes” scattered across the tavern’s planked floor; the only remaining evidence of earlier showdowns.
Harisko’s blade wobbled. Boneyard surged. Harisko shoved the table forward. Its corner crashed into Boneyard’s crotch with such force that the slaver flipped over the table and landed on the bench atop Tao’s legs. Tao howled in pain and surprise. Harisko’s blade pressed against Boneyard’s throat. Boneyard grabbed his crotch. He moaned. Tears streamed from clenched eyes.
Some heads turned, but not many.
Dremmer’s eyes widened. He rubbernecked. He took a step back. A voice from the crowd belted, “Coward.” Another said, “Yella.” A deluge of insults followed. Dremmer grit his teeth. He reached for his cutlass as he stepped forward.
Harisko shook his head. He spoke. His tone was even, his diction measured. It was a voice used to being heard, and being obeyed. “I’ve a knife to one throat and a red mantis stinger to the other.” Dremmer’s eyes flicked to the stinger pressed against Tao’s neck. Blood welled from its point. “He should already feel the poison’s tingle.”
Tao gasped. He said, “I feels it. I truly does. Its tingling. Ahh. He’s killin’ me. Stop him. He’s killin’ me.”
Dremmer half drew the cutlass before Harisko’s bark stopped him. “Stop.” He pushed the stinger harder. “Quiet.” Tao obeyed. “That’s not enough poison to do much. But, any more, and it will paralyze him and start to eat his blood. It will take a while. Hours, maybe days. There is no antidote. He will slowly drown in his own blood, unable to move while his body is wracked by painful spasms.” Harisko’s eyes darkened as he slid the dagger, drawing a dribble of blood from Boneyard’s throat. “Boneyard’s death will be much quicker.” Dremmer was a statue. Harisko nodded. He said, “Now, my friends, we have some business to attend.” He forced his eyes to stay on Dremmer. Forced his neck not to swivel. Gozreh save me, he thought. This is getting…already…out of hand. How long before someone tells this moron that stinger has no poison?
Where is he?
Kiltem stood in the back of the dingy bar and guarded the rear exit to make sure none of the slavers could run out. He thought back to the second part of Ko's instructions, "Be ready to step in. You'll know when..." Kilt had tried to ask Ko exactly what he meant by that, but he didn't get the chance. Now as he watched the scene unfold, he wasn't entirely sure when he should step in. Honestly, he was pretty impressed with Ko handling two of the slavers easily all by himself. He thought for the moment he would just watch and pounce on this third man if he needed to.
Then the seconds started to stretch out. Now Kiltem thought maybe he should step in. A heartbeat's more hesitation then he hefted his cudgel and calmly walked forward.
Hey. Kilt spoke just sharply enough to get Dremmer's attention. If you don't take your hand off your cutlass I'll hurt you... After an awkward pause he followed up with ...badly.
This newcomer to the scene was very different than Ko. While he lacked the dark skinned man's impressive height, he did have some substantial mass to his frame. It wasn't a rippling body builder's physique but hard muscle but on by hard work and labor.
He had a strange presence. He wasn't intimidating, nor was he blustering. But he was absolutely unafraid and completely calm. He hadn't even bothered to pull the stout cudgel that was slipped through his belt.
A few more seconds slipped by...
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Vulgtlagln Zura.…Praise be Zura. The words sprang unbidden into his mind at the sight of Kiltem’s imposing bulk. It took every ounce of Ko’s will to keep the infernal words from leaping off his tongue.
Something flickered in his peripheral vision. He turned. There, she stood. Zura. The Vampire Queen. The demon lord of cannibalism. A gown of coal-black ichor flowed over generous curves. Elegant cheek bones framed plump lips, while glistening, ivory fangs peaked between their arterial-red expanse.
She strode towards him. The crowd did not see her, yet they parted around her. With each step, tantalizingly glimpses of her body emerged from the liquid gown, as if her naked form sought escape from an ever lengthening shadow.
She flickered. Horror replaced beauty. Voluptuousness became desiccation. Come-hither smile twisted into a snarl. Bat wings unfurled and snapped out a menacing flap.
She flickered. Beauty again. Another stride. Another glimpse.
Harisko was captivated, yet horrified. Paralyzed, yet muscles trembled with enslaved fury. He pulled his blade from Boneyard’s throat as Zura locked him with her golden-eyed gaze. He felt…
***************
…a cool breeze against his bare back. Rychtor Dawn rolled beneath his feet. Harisko rolled with it, delighting in the familiar feel of gentle waves. He looked out, squinting into dawn’s light reflecting off the crystal bay. Lush Sargavan salt flats spread out before him. Yet, their primal beauty was marred by the burning ruin of Salasanta. The once idyllic Cheliax settlement was nestled in quiet cliffs overlooking the bay. They were no longer quiet.
Screams echoed. They carried well over the water, seeming to ebb and flow like the waves rolling beneath Ko’s feet. A tingle ran down his spine; half excitement, half horror. A pair emerged atop Salasanta’s tallest building. One was towering ebony, the other, diminutive porcelain. The porcelain Cheliaxan backed away. A third figure emerged, towering over both. He was enormous; his broad shoulders seemed to blot out the rising sun. Golden dreadlocks framed a massive skull; a lion’s regal mane. Yet, Harisko’s knew his father to be more brutal, than regal. He was also blunt. H’Rayth, Chieftain of the Seksar Bandu, Captain of the Rychtor Dawn, slayer of the demon-snake Veksu, and most notorious slaver on the Sargavan coast wrapped a single hand around the Cheliaxan governor’s face and gave a little nudge. The governor stumbled back. His hands wheeled, then reached. There was nothing. He fell without a sound. Silent among the dead and dying and desperate.
Nostalgic dread spread over Harisko. He at the barbed whip in his hand with dumb horror. He turned his head and felt the familiar, yet hated, dreadlocks rub his shoulders. He pawed at his chest, desperate to find the jagged cutlass scar that was his father’s parting "gift."
His chest was smooth as the day he was born.
Ko’s breathing quickened. No, he thought. It can’t be. He looked around, wide-eyed.
A whimper caught his ear. Seckor said, “This one’ll make good sacrifice. You’ve never seen one of them.” Harisko looked at his brother. Seckor beamed at him. “So good. Zura rewards us well for them.” The Cheliaxan girl tried to crawl away. Cruel slashes crisscrossed her legs. Her right wrist was bent at an odd angle so she used the elbow to pull herself. Seckor stepped on her ankle. She cried out. “Not so fast.” He chuckled.
Ko thought. Zura? Is she giving me another chance? An opportunity to do it right? To play my father, instead of being played? A chance to apply the lessons he taught me, instead of squandering them on youthful rage?
Harisko smiled at his brother. He opened his mouth to play along with the tortuous merriment. Yet, instead of sly words emerging, a snarl leapt out and he found himself careening towards Seckor. A thunderous fist swung and…
**********************
…crashed into Tao’s kneecap. There was a sickening, crunching pop, like the smashing of a giant egg. Kiltem’s cudgel came away wet with blood. Tao screamed, but Kiltem cut off the shrill shout with a massive mitt. He lifted Tao up by his throat and studied him for a long moment. Without further fanfare, he slammed Tao’s face into his forehead three times, as if the moronic slaver’s face were a palm meant for forehead slapping. Blood streamed from what was left of Tao’s misshapen face. His eyes rolled. His head lolled. He let out a tremendous sneeze, blowing blood and snot and teeth across Kiltem’s chest.
From the crowd, someone said, “Gozreh bless ye.” A bevy of “Ayes” echoed the sentiment.
Another voice said, “Bloody Gozrehites.” Shouts and loud thumps followed.
Boneyard perched atop Harisko. His forearm pressed into Ko’s throat. The slaver’s disadvantage was size and strength. His advantage was position. He knew how to use it. Harisko had a grip on Boneyard’s dagger hand, but it was tenuous at best.
From the corner of his eye he could see Dremmer pushing through the crowd. He tried to shout, but Boneyard’s forearm pressed harder and only a weak gurgle emerged. Ko tilted his chin and slid it beneath the forearm, giving himself just enough breath to croak, “Kiltem! We need Dremmer. He knows. Don’t let him get away.”
Just to clarify, worship of Zura is in Harisko’s past…a past that still haunts him. What happened here might have been a trick of his mind. Or, it might have been real. Who knows?
Kiltem swore a little under his breath. He was there to keep the slavers from escaping and he was already “cocking it up” as Old Tully would say. He gave a moment’s hesitation but then trusted Ko enough that he could handle himself.
He turned and started toward Dremmer. Very quickly he realized the slaver would reach the door before he could catch him. Kilt slowed to a stop and focused his will Come on Papa Storm, help me! .
Then the dim light of the bar became just a bit dimmer as one of the cheap fish oil lamps blew out and the others guttered in the breeze that suddenly kicked up inside the room. With a light crack of thunder a swirling tempest pushed Dremmer to the side just before he would have made it through the door and ghosted out into the night. The strange winds were suddenly gone just as quickly as they came, but it was enough to redirect the slaver’s momentum and send him smashing face first into the door jam. Blinking dumbly Dremmer stumbled back a few steps and fell onto a bench that got in his way.
The young druid smiled. He was sure Dremmer could see little stars dancing around his head…
Boneyard strained. His dagger moved an inexorable inch towards Harisko’s heart. Ko shifted, trying to get a better grip, a better angle, on the dagger hand. His move was the opening Boneyard sought. The lithe slaver slipped his forearm back beneath Ko’s chin and hooked vice-like fingers into Ko’s shoulder. He sank his weight into the choke. Ko’s breaths rasped. Dark spots formed in his vision. A long, blood-tinged strand of spittle stretched from between Boneyard’s snarling, clenched teeth. The spittle pooled on Harisko’s forehead and then oozed down his bald pate. Boneyard leaned closed as Ko’s world faded to black. His voice rasped in Ko’s ear, “Hlirgh.” The dagger inched forward.
Hlirgh = heretic in the infernal tongue.
Ko is in trouble. Looks like Kiltem is preoccupied. I wonder if Ko owes another PC something? Maybe a favor? Or some cash lost on a drunken bet? Perhaps someone is waiting to hit him with the perfect Costanza-esque retort…”Guess what, the jerk store sent a carrier pigeon and they’re out of you!” Either way, they don’t want Ko dead…yet.
Kiltem walked over to where Dremmer was still stunned. He pulled the man's cutlass out and tossed it out the open door. Then he grabbed the man by the back of the collar and begin dragging him back over to Harisko.
As the druid turned he saw the dire situation his new friend was in. Angry at himself for not paying closer attention to the big picture he swore, Besmara's teats! Not sure what to do, his cudgel was in hand but too far away. He had to keep a hold on Dremmer...
Without thinking, he lifted the club and sent it spinning end over end toward Boneyard.
throwing attack
The stout piece of scrub oak struck the man's shoulder. It was far from the best throw in the world, but it was just enough. When Boneyard's torso shifted from the unexpected hit, Ko twisted his hips and pushed against the floor. Able to use the leverage from his long powerful legs Ko rolled the man off and now with a grip on the dagger he was able to drive the point of the blade deep into the wood floor. A large black hand palmed Boneyard's face and slammed his skull into the hard wooden floor once, and then a second time for good measure.
Kiltem smiles dumbly as he watches Harisko turn the tables on the slaver.
Ever since he was a young lad able to string a sentence or two (or, in his case, three) together, Arthur Delgado was a charmer. Blessed with good looks to match his natural magnetism, he seemed to always get what he wanted--loot, jobs, women--although sometimes it *did* take a little work. His sliver tongue and wit (he thought he was hilarious & clever, and most people agreed...most of the time) was nearly matched by his quickness and coordination.
Having grown up in The Shackles, he picked up several important skills (such as swimming) on his own, and signed on to short-term voyages & picked up other skills (such as swordplay--and even how to shoot a gun!) over his years, adding his own panache to whatever he was taught. He took to simply wandering the coast, trying to find a worthy pirate crew to join to start up a REAL voyage--a true test of his skills and mettle! He kept getting distracted by pretty girls and wine, but he was young and had his whole life ahead of him. Too bad he could never actually afford a gun...and they were rare enough that they were VERY hard to steal.
His wanderings took him to Port Peril more than once...as in this day...
...on towards evening, Arthur strolled through Port Peril aimlessly. He found himself near Scrum'n'Chum, a place he usually avoided due to the unsavory reputation and common presence of slavers. He heard some commotion, and something made him swerve toward the door of the establishment of ill repute.
As he approached, a loud THUMP right by the door fairly shook the front of the building. There was the sound of a brief scuffle, and a cutlass sailed out the door. Arthur dodged it easily, smiling at the fact that some ruffian just got disarmed. He decided to enter the bar and see what he could see.
It was easy to slip into the room, as all attention was NOT on him. All the patrons were furtively watching either the back of the building, where a large Mwangi man was dealing with two ruffians, and the two moving towards him from the door. One of these was an equally large light-skinned human dragging someone whom Arthur recognized: Dremmer, a known slaver. Arthur stayed to the wall, and made his way quietly toward the huge Mwangi, gaining a better view of the ones on the ground. These were the scum associates of Dremmer, and Arthur knew immediately that, despite not recognizing them, these two outlanders were on the correct side of whatever scuffle they were now putting the finishing touches on.
It seemed that not everyone agreed with the young man; his keen eye caught a movement, as one of the patrons started to slink toward the kneeling Mwangi's back, hand under his cloak. Arthur moved swiftly to intercept--the man's murderous intent was clear in his eyes.
As the ruffian closed on the broad back, Arthur stepped up to him with a winning smile, arms crossed in a non-threatening manner. Now now, sir, I really would advise against interfering with this little brouhaha. Do you really want to be seen on the side of these..."gentlemen" bleeding on the ground? He said the word "gentlemen" with a sneer of sarcasm. Our big friend here, and HIS big friend THERE, appear to have come out the better in this exchange fair and square--and at 3-to-2 odds no less. Do be a sport and let them be!
The thug stopped short at the interruption, then scowled evilly at this boy getting in his way. His right arm moved under his cloak, but Arthur's rapier was drawn and at his throat in the blink of an eye, before he could clear the hidden dagger from the cloth.
After two heartbeats' pause, Arthur spoke in that same, jovial voice. Once again, I will advise--in the STRONGEST possible terms--that you leave this man be. The swordsman tipped his head slightly to one side, as if he were listening to something. His eyes darted to the pendant he wore--it was actually a small skull of some animal that looked eerily human, but only the size of a baby's fist. What was that, Bert? Oh my, how rude! He gave an apologetic shake of his head to the ruffian. My scout here thinks you're a sniveling coward for trying to creep up on this mountain of a man and stab him from behind in order to protect the scum he's kneeling on. He further thinks I should spill your entrails out on the floor right now. However, I am a man of honor and forgiveness, and I give you this one chance to leave unmolested. So scoot.
Now that his surprise was ruined, the ruffian had no stomach to continue the fight. With a snarl at the young man, he slunk away and out the door.
Addressing the large men who were still standing under their own power, Arthur spoke up, sheathing his sword fluidly. Might I suggest, boys, that we three get the hell out of this place before that scumbag brings any friends? Can you finish up your business here quickly, and buy me a drink at a somewhat nicer place, as thanks for having saved you from a new scar?
Boneyard grabbed for the dagger. Ko slammed his fist into Boneyard’s hand. Bone’s crunched. Boneyard howled. Harisko knocked the blade aside. It skittered into the crowd.
An enterprising, peg-legged woman festooned with piercings and jewelry picked the dagger up. Her cheek bore a kraken tattoo, branding her a minion of the Master of the Gale. She placed the dagger between her teeth. As she bit down, red eyes appeared within the tattoo and the beast’s legs elongated across her face. Finding the blade a good fit, she released it and tucked it away with a satisfied smile. The kraken tattoo quieted. Melist returned to her drink.
Harisko used his strength, size and not inconsiderable skill to pin Boneyard. He wrapped his hands around Boneyard’s face and pressed his thumbs against his eyes. The guttural and twisting infernal tongue leapt from his throat. “Who are you! Who sent you! My father?! You say that to me?! You dare?!” His thumbs sank into the sockets. The slaver screamed and thrashed. Ko opened his mouth, but the words, “I own…” stuck in his throat. That was his father’s ultimate admonishment; the truest statement of his world view. Ko rolled off the slaver. Boneyard rocked on the floor, whimpering as he alternated between holding his hand and his eyes. Harisko sat wide-eyed in a puddle of sweat and muddy dust. He peered into the crowd, searching for…something. Nothing. Most went about their business unperturbed. Even the shouted infernal tongue had only drawn scattered eyebrow raises. The few onlookers bore bemused looks. They offered neither wisdom, nor consolation. Harisko had to provide that himself. He spoke. He used common. The words were barely audible. “I don’t. Nobody does.”
He patted Boneyard’s shoulder, stood and came face to face with a smiling man. “Might I suggest, boys, that we three get the hell out of this place before that scumbag brings any friends? Can you finish up your business here quickly, and buy me a drink at a somewhat nicer place, as thanks for having saved you from a new scar?”
Harisko spotted Trig and Jini leaving. The newcomer had saved him. He chided himself for not spotting the other slavers. That was a fatal mistake. Had it been Gozreh or Zura who saved him?
“Good idea,” said Harisko. “Almost done. We just need a little information.” He motioned for Kiltem to bring Dremmer. His massive new friend obliged, dragging the slaver by his neck like a mother cat with sulking cub. Ko grabbed Dremmer’s chin and pressed cruel fingers into his jaw. Tears dripped down Dremmer’s face. His lower lip quivered. Harisko’s face twisted in disgust. Weakness, he thought. Ko spoke, “Now, laddy,” he said, doing his best impression of a Ulfen accent. The impression was $hi^. “Buck up and tell us about your cargo.” Dremmer opened his mouth to speak and Ko squeezed harder. He said, “Be careful. I’ll know if you lie.”
Welcome Ross! Loved the riff.
I have to think about where to go from here. Ideas??
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Lucky followed the first mate's directions easily. As he rounded the corner he saw the Scrum & Chum lurking at the bottom of a small hill, shrouded in iniquity.
The young man strolled towards the door, enjoying the sights and sounds (If not the smells) of the bustling town. It was a nice change from being relegated to the hold of his ship, The Queen Anne's Hand.
A sword laying in the street some 15 feet from the entrance piqued his interest, and Lucky bent down to retrieve it. He looked around for a moment, searching for the blade's owner. Seeing no likely prospects, he tested it's balance with a couple parrys and cuts. Smiling, he slid it through his belt. Lucky find.
He entered the Scrum & Chum and moved into the room, pausing for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dimly lit interior. Hopefully he could locate Captain Scurve quickly, pass on his message and have time to enjoy the town for a bit before his absence started to irk his nemesis the first mate.
As he scanned the room, his blood ran cold. He saw none other than Captain Dremmer, the foul slaver who had Shanghaied him all those years ago on the Korvosan docks. After his escape from that hated vessel, Lucky hoped he would never see the man again, but Captain Dremmer was currently being dragged across the filthy floor of the common room right in front of him. Lucky found himself at a complete loss, and simply stared. Memories of his years as a slave washed over him, and he stood slack-jawed as two monstrous men and a jovial fellow dragged a bloodied Dremmer to what he hoped would be a fitting end.
Dear reader, I hope that you're enjoying the opening of this tale. Starting out in a tavern is one of the icon beginnings a tale like this can have. The players are all here, and I really only know one of them. That would be the big black one named Ko, and our friend Kiltem. I'm Slappy, your teller of stories, and sometimes comic relief from all this serious stuff. No No No I'm not the story teller that's the guy behind the screen who is most super awesome, I just have a small... get its small cuz I'm a gnome" part to play in this adventure of pirates, probably some mystery, and I'm sure as you can see lots of mayhem.
... Ooops gotta run time for the short guy to save them again.
Slappy jumped off the bar and strode over to the fancy fop and smooth talker that scared Trig and Jini. Those two weren't cowards, and he figured that Dremmer had more men about, he saw three heads running around from the back towards the front where a shocked boy stood.
Excuse me sir, but you have the odds wrong. There it was three on three before you came in. You, You make four.
The gunman looked down and gave a short, mostly involuntary, slightly insensitive but instinctual snicker at the small gnome standing in front of him.
OK! OK! have it your way. Two and a half vs three.
The three running heads just made it past the next window. Excuse me sir, that gun looks very well lubricated, you must do that to protect it from the salty air. Slappy reached up produces a spoon from somewhere, and draws it down the barrel. Making some wierd hand gestations and rubbing his fingers against the slick spoon.
With a sly wink to the gunman. This is what you call a greasy spoon. He tosses it towards the door. When it hits the ground the spoon disappears, but the floor is really shiny.
Trig, Jini & Flip come running through the open door carrying their shiny new boarding pikes. Their feet hit the grease, and Trig flails about the boarding pike catching one of the overhead rafters stopping his progress with his feet coming up to waist height before planting him back on the ground. His boarding pike falls down smacking him in the head.
Startling the lad with the cutless that is, no, was staring at Captain Dremmer spins and lifts his sword just in time as Jini and Flip trip over and fall forward, but the cutless severs Jini's hand at the wrist, and Flips foot at the ankle.
Now you can stab or shoot them Mr Gunman, It's five on four and a half. Slappy whispers.
Dremmer seeing the boy cut on two of his crew realizes that he knows the swordsman. Lucas Now you really owe me! You'll pay Dremmer manages to choke out before Ko tightens his grip.
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After a hike that lasts few a hours, Beer arrives at a secluded spot atop a cliff face overlooking Jeopardy Bay. This will do. He drops his pack from his shoulders and pauses to look out over the open water. A cool sea breeze kisses his face. He inhales deeply the aroma of salt water and it stirs within him the memories of past battles and a deep longing for the open ocean.
Beer picks up his great axe and readies himself in a fighting stance. He begins swinging his weapon with rhythmic overhead strikes. His form is tight and disciplined, his stance balanced and sturdy.
After a set of two hundred, he stops and silently stares at the axe clenched between his two fists. Moments pass and it's as if Beer is in a sort of trance. All sound falls away but the waves crashing beneath the rocks below and his quick, heavy breaths now becoming slower...slower...slower.
Then, suddenly, a flash of anger.
Weak!
Beer switches to a single handed grip (right hand) and continues the exercise. He labors under the awkward, unbalanced weight of the axe straining more and more with each strike. After fifty repetitions the muscles in his arm begin to fail. He is now grunting with each swing as his pace gradually slows. A sense of self pity begins to creep into Beer's mind like a silent invader as well as the faintest echo of a more distant grief. Before that thought can surface into consciousness, however, a boiling, murderous rage meets the intruder and Beer loses himself entirely.
NO! NOOOOO!
He howls as his strength surges. With grit teeth and wide eyes filled with madness, Beer picks up his axe in his right hand and begins swinging franticly. His disciplined, measured strikes are replaced with berserk movements of reckless abandon as he swings his axe at a frantic, desperate pace.
Thirty seconds go by before the fires slowly dim in Beer's eyes. He raises his axe to swing one final time, but as he raises it above his head, his grip fails him. The axe falls and lands upon a rock with a clang. Beer falls to his knees and brings his left hand up to his right bicep, which is now burning. He cradles it tenderly. He is soaked with sweat and is so exhausted that he's seeing spots in his vision. Three, slow minutes pass as Beer kneels still panting.
Finally, he rises, his right arm dangling limply against his side. He collects his belongings with his left hand, throws his pack across his left shoulder and silently heads back to town.
You all remember the night before—the ringing laughter of a wild night, the punches thrown, the plots foiled, the romantic conquests attempted, the heady joy of excess, the scents of rich stewed meat and perfume lingering in their nostrils....
But now, now it's different — a pounding headache, the sickly taste of cheap wine in your mouth, the hard floor, a rhythmic creaking noise, and the feeling of the room swaying, as if you are still drunk. Before you can do much more than sit up, however, several pairs of heavy footsteps enter the dark room, and the harsh light of a lantern painfully spears your eyes...
Six rough looking men stand behind a seventh, a sneering man with a braided beard and a mouth full of gold teeth. His body is tall and thin, and even his long coat and heavy boots fail to give any impression of strength or bulk. An expression that might be mistaken for pain but which is clearly an attempt at a smile bruises the man's face as he cracks the whip in his hand and screams at you, "Still abed with the sun over the yardarm? On your feet, ye filthy swabs! Get up on deck and report for duty before Cap’n Harrigan flays your flesh into sausage skins and has Fishguts fry ye up for breakfast!”
You have the aftertaste of oily nutmeg on the tongue. You can read the next spoiler if you next pass a DC 15 Craft (alchemy) check or DC 10 Knowledge (nature) check...
You vaguely recall seeing this man's face last night.
You quickly discover that all of your weapons and equipment are gone...almost
Perception
Kilt is clearly not used to drinking so much.
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Beer sits up from the floor. His head pounds and his stomach is in knots. shouldn't have had that last pint... He looks around the room through bleary eyes, ignoring the seven men who provided such a rude awakening..Where the f$@& am I? Jail? Argh! Not again.
Beer smacks his lips. There is an odd taste on his tongue. Cheap ale? Hmm..
Beer peers up at the man with the braided beard and gold teeth now barking orders at him.
Hey, I recognize your face laddy, but me mind is full of fog. Remind me what happened. Is this here a jail? What're the charges, if yah don't mind me askin'. And if it twas yer sister I shagged this time, accept me humblest apologies...I'm sure seein a c&%$ twice the size of yours danglin from a three foot shy halfling is an emasculatin' experience..
Beer moves his head slightly to see the gang of men more clearly. A ray of sunlight sunlight stabs his eyes through the door and Beer recoils, his head pounding. He lies his head back down.
On second thought, I'll take it up with the judge. Kindly leave and close that godsforsaken door behind yeh
He couldnt remember too much of last night. He was at a bar with Ko and two new people, some guy called Elgato or something and one of the more strange looking gnomes he had ever seen.
Then he sort of recalled a lovely looking woman he tried talking to. He quickly made a mess of it. He was pretty nervous, he hadnt much experience talking to girls other than his mother. He went back to have another drink to relax and then try again.
But after that drink he was still nervous, and the next as well. Then he lost count of drinks and couldnt remember much else...
***
His head pounding Kiltem roughly rolled to his knees and slowly got up to his feet. It took him a few blurry seconds to realize all his stuff was gone. He took a lurching step and cursed. Before he could start to work himself up into a rage he thought about how Old Tully would handle this...
After a few breaths he was much calmer. He first realized that not EVERYTHING was taken from him. Other than his clothes, he had his holy symbol, dunked in sea water and dried. A bunch of coastal rose.
Kilt wasnt sure yet if they were actual slaves or just press ganged into this voyage. He stopped and glanced over his eyes finding the big bald head of Harisko. He smiled in spite of himself. At least he wasnt alone and boy will Ko be mad if we are slaves
He was pretty sure they didnt know he was a druid. He could still cast if need be. Kilt decided he would see where the day took him. This might not be bad at all, he was looking for a sea voyage. Maybe fate placed him here.
The man with the whip gives a belly laugh, "We've got a funny one here! He'll be a hit after hours!"
His gaze turns to steel, "But for now I suggest you shut yer festering gob! I AM the judge here. You WILL learn to hold that tiny little tongue of yours maggot!"
Arthur blinks blearily, trying to gather his wits. What *is* that strange taste??
the young man notices Gold Mouth and does a double-take, which he regrets for having jerked his head too much. he then looks about at his "deck mates," and has vague recollections of the debauchery that must have led to their current predicament. He looks down, sees his gear is gone...but at least they missed a dagger..
After clearing his throat, he speaks up.
My good host, there seems to be quite a large gap in my memory--and judging from my friends' groggy reactions, I'm betting in theirs too. Is it too much to ask to know what the phook is going on here?
"You'll see soon enough maggot! Once the rest of you sorry excuses gets yer wits about ye, I'll let the captain explain!"
Lucky opens one eye with a groggy moan. After a moment, he realizes what must have happened and his eyes fly open. A look of despair invades his features and he slumps in utter defeat.
He knows that antagonism is seldom the best policy, and subtly distances himself from the truculent halflimg by shifting his body away.
Lucky, although he felt far from it, made an attempt to divert the man's ire with a question, "sir, what vessel are we on?"
Lucky looks around at the hold he finds himself in.
"I sense it is well made, and it seems to handle the swell as though 'tis a seaworthy vessel of X feet or so..."
"IF I WANT YOU TO LICK MY BOOTS I'LL TELL YOU TO!" The man cracks the whip, expertly, in the shallow of Lucky's eye, enough to slice an eyelash. He seems to REALLY not care for the silvered tongue.
...the pirates behind him seem to soften though.
A pirate behind the man with the Scourge, a barefoot woman with a kerchief on her head speaks up, "Tis the Wormwood."
She quickly bites her tongue of any follow up.
Lucky has been enslaved before, and as much as he hates it, he knows what is expected. He assumes an attitude of submission and nods ever so slightly to the woman for her kindness.
Does Lucky know anything of the Wormwood or of her crew?
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Beer takes a good look at the imposing figure with the golden maw and the sharp tongue. Well balanced. Fighting spirit. Not my fight today As he perceives the ground beneath him rocking gently and his fellow captor inquire about a "vessel", Beer's mind fog clears enough for him to finally realize he's on a ship.
He struggles to his feet and looks around the room at his fellow captors. Who the hell are they?
He straightens up and addresses the man with the whip.
Argh! I am Beer, former crew member of The Black Talon, may she rest forever in Gozreh's embrace! I came to Port Peril to settle some debts and to find me a new crew. If yeh wanted a new hand, yeh need only tah ask, laddy. I carry me self in battle and have a strong back. Ye need only pay a fair wage to have me prove my value at sea. Yer way bout going with this seems...unnecessary. And who you be anyway?
The druid can't help but laugh a little at the halfling's remarks. Yet even as he laughs he knows its foolish to go up against the bosun like that. Unless you plan on killing him and using his body to feed the fish...
For a moment his mind races with images of different sea creatures eating their piece of the man, then interrupted from his reverie he offers a hand to Ko and helps him to his feet.
Kilt takes another second or two to stretch and then he seems ready to head up on deck.
Just rolling first to see what I know
Harisko kept his face impassive at the sight of Kiltem. He kept his eyes off Arthur as well. Allies, the deep and melodic voice of his father echoed in his mind. Human connection. Its how slaves get a mind of their own. Mutinies are built on friendship. Remember that. Remember fear. Remember respect. But, never forget about friendship. It will be your undoing. Ko concentrated on his father’s words, refusing to acknowledge the reality of his captivity. The dagger hidden in his boot provided little solace. Still, he was glad to have it. As he father had always said, “One can never have too many knives.”
You've heard of the Wormwood. It's nothing of note, but has been making some fortunate scores under Captain Barnabas Harrigan. He tends to use press gang labor and is known to be a major hard ass. Otherwise you know little.
"ALL RIGHT! FOLLOW MASTER SCOURGE!" With a crack of the whip, Scourge leads you above deck. Along the way you see a few other pirates. Some give a wry grin, some spit and scowl, but most of them don't even look.
1. Learn about the Sweet Trade, piracy.
2. Earn your stuff back.
3. Figure out which of the crew is with you, and which of the crew is against you.
Feel free to get to know the people in The Dramatis Personae, as you'll be spending a LOT of time with them. To begin I'll link to a lot of stuff, but over time you guys will know who is who and what is what.
When you reach the main deck, it’s quickly apparent that you are on a sizable ship in the middle of the ocean, far from any land. Port Peril and the mainland of the Shackles are just an ochre haze many miles astern. Figures cluster around the ship’s mainmast, looking up at the higher deck on the stern, where two figures stand. One of them is a broad, muscular Garundi man with a shaven head, a long beard bound with gold rings, and an eye patch— clearly the captain. The other is a younger, balding man with a long black ponytail, wearing a long coat and carrying a well-used cat-o’-nine-tails.
You notice that you are not the only new recruits—four others are standing with you on the deck, set apart by their relative cleanliness and their apparent unease with their newfound situation.
A dozen or so other pirates, clearly existing members of the crew, stand about on the deck or in the ship’s rigging...
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Beer carefully assesses his surroundings. He has no battle advantage nor can he identify friend from foe. There is no place to flee and he's never been one to hide. All that is left to do is endure and, little do his captors know, Beer knows how to endure with the best of them. He'll play this game, bide his time, carefully sort his company into friends and enemies and someday...someday...he'll find a way for axe to meet bone.
They done messed with the wrong halfling, they have...
A sly grin appears on Beer's face as he stands before the captain and awaits his orders.
The captain spits over the side, “Glad you could join us at last! Welcome to the Wormwood! My thanks for ‘volunteering’ to join my crew. I’m Barnabas Harrigan. That’s Captain Barnabas Harrigan to you, not that you’ll ever need to address me. I have only one rule—don’t speak to me. I like talk, but I don’t like your talk. Follow that rule and we’ll all get along fine.
“Oh, and one more thing. Even with you new recruits, we’re still short-handed, and I aim to keep what crew I have. There’ll be a keelhaulin’ for anyone caught killin’ anyone. Mr. Plugg! If you’d be so kind as to make pirates out of these landlubbers, it’ll save me having to put them in the sweatbox for a year and a day before I make pies out of ’em.”
At the end of his speech, the captain walks away, leaving behind the man with the cat-o’-nine-tails. "I AM Mister Plugg, the Wormwood’s first mate."
He looks down at you and other impressed captives and smiles unpleasantly. "It's time to go to school. Due to Besmara's fickle fortune we need some new riggers. I need to know which one of you can handle climbing a line best. NOW MOVE YOU PUKES!"
Fewest checks wins!
Kiltem: Climb!
Beer: Climb!
Ko: Climb!
Arthur: Climb!
Lucky: Climb!
Slappy: Climb!
While they are being introduced to their new environment, Arthur takes stock of the situation.
There is no easy way off this boat. Being a thorn in anyone's side is going to get me some very unpleasant treatment--but being helpful will only aid me. Best thing to do is to bide my time, learn as much as I can...and wait for The Opportune Moment.
At the first "challenge" presented, Arthur takes a professional look at the rigging...
...and simply cannot determine where the best place to climb might be. So he shrugs, and starts to climb from where he is.
It takes him a bit to get his sea-legs--and at one point he appears stuck. But after a few moments, he makes it to the crow's nest in relatively short order (at the last bit, he makes the mistake of looking down, which nearly causes him to lose his footing...)
On his way up, Arthur gives the lovely red-headed girl a friendly wink & smile.
Ideally, Lucky would be able to make it up the line with a bit of style, but with the sharp eye of the first mate on him, he thought it best to simply ascend the line successfully.
As he climbed, Lucky silently wondered why all first mates seemed to be the most reprehensible specimen on any given piece of flotsam he happened to be sailing on. Always.
Kilt looks up at the rigging for a moment. When he served on various whaling ships he usually never worked in the rigging. He wasn't a great climber, but he did have a strong grip. He shrugged his shoulders and started carefully hoisting himself up toward the crow's nest.
Climb
Hmm, this is much easier with out my armor on... Kilt manages to climb up relatively easy. He notices Beer climbing up with rather good skill himself.
For some reason he reminded Kilt of his halfling mentor, Old Tully. The big human decided that Beer must be some sort of distant cousin or such thing and related to his old mentor. So in some ways it was almost as if he was a long lost relative to Kiltem.
The big druid waited up in the crow's nest for the nimble climbing halfling. As soon as he was in arm's length, Kiltem reached over and grabbed the halfling by the belt and easily hoisted him up and plunked him down next to him. I think you said your name was "Beer"? Like the drink? The big man nodded dumbly and continued on. I'm Kiltem and he reached out to shake Beer's hand with the rote politeness of a first grader.
When the other halfling got within reach Kilt leaned over the side and snatched her from the rigging and gently set her down up in the crow's nest. Hello I'm Kiltem
Four of the new recruits hustle up the line. Lucky nearly gets caught up at the bottom, and gets laughed at in the process, but he quickly passes over Arthur. Kiltem scampers up like a monkey out of hell and meets Lucky at the top.
Arthur is only seconds behind, but still beats the intimidating looking halfling.
She looks up and gives Kiltem a smile, "I don't object to making new friends, but all in due time. Meanwhile, focus. Plugg will make any excuse for the lash."
Kiltem: 4
Beer: 6
Ko: Climb!
Arthur: 5
Lucky: 4
Slappy: Climb!
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Beer feels himself hoisted up by his belt and experiences a flash of hot anger before being introduced to the burly Druid who just manhandled him. He suppresses his rage.
A strong one. And me need allies.
Beer grits his teeth and widens his lips horizontally in an attempt to feign friendliness, his contorted expression resembles the face of a man struggling to relieve himself over a latrine more than a smile.
Aye, laddy. Beer, like the drink. Look forward to knowing yeh more friendly like, when we be farther away from that c*&ts whip
Sun warmed. Salt smelled. Wind whipped. Waves rolled. Despite himself, Harisko smiled. He leapt forward into the rigging.
Ko was neck and neck with his big friend until the end, but Kiltem pulled ahead, using his massive muscles to surge high atop the rigging.
Harisko caught his breath as Beer and Kiltem talked, then added, "I'm Harisko." He extended his hand. "We all need to become friendly. And, right quick. That's what will save us from that whip."
Lucky begins to relax at the top of the crows nest. This bit of forced seamanship feels a bit more like the standard press-gang bit rough captains have used throughout the shackles for years unnumbered. A chance to find a place on a 'legitimate' pirate crew beats a spot on an oar in manacles any day.
"Kiltem, I'm Lucky. I saw the beating you and Ko layed onto Cap'n Dremmer back in town. That lousy bit of a shark carcass nicked me off the docks back in Korvosa years back and strapped me to an oar for the better part of three summers. I barely escaped, and I never got the revenge I always dreamed of... Thanks for giving him a down payment!"
Lucky's tanned features were handsome in a winsome way. He had an easy smile that he unfurled at a moment's notice.
Well said, oh Great Dark One! I'm Arthur. Let's all find some time & place to talk, when we're out of the way.
he gazes out onto the open water while the rest of the new "recruits" clamor up the rigging. I *did* want to try my hand at making my fortune on the open sea, but I was hoping to volunteer to a worthy crew rather than be pressed into the gods-know-what. But let's make the best of it...until we can make it better!!
he glances down at the deck, once again giving the pretty redhead as winning a smile as he can muster, without drawing attention of Whippy McWhipster.
Upon hearing Lucky's brief tale, Arthur looks on him with seriousness. That bastard got you?!?! you truly are Lucky to be out! that Dremmer has a bad rep. Glad someone stuck a finger in his eye.
Slappy does his level best to scamper up the lines:
Slow and steady he makes it up!