From any number of ports in the world, whether fleeing from or toward something, you found your way to a life on the sea, on the privateer sailing ship Aurora’s Kiss. Your captain was a man named Golly Fleetfoot, whose jovial demeanor belied shrewd sailing skills. While you mainly carried cargo and fought the occasional sea monster, you battled pirates as well, although as the youngest members of the crew you had yet to see a good deal of action. Still, as mercenary mariners, many saw you as little more than pirates yourself.
Headed to Port Peril to turn in a monster bounty—only to find your ship accidentally caught in the middle of a battle between the Chelish Navy and the Free Captains of the Shackles—Cheliax had been trying to wrest control of the Shackles, and the Free Captains were successfully fighting them off. Flying no colors of your own, your ship was quickly presumed by both sides to be the enemy’s hired help (nor were you especially keen to assist, however accidentally, the Pirate Lords or the devil-loving Chelish). While Captain Golly skillfully steered the ship to the edge of the fray, avoiding the worst of the great battle, your ship was rocked by fireball blast from a formidable pirate ship with a dragon-shaped mastheard: the Wormwood. While your fellow crew scrambled to evade the ship, Captain Golly jumped to fire your ship’s one ballista and managed to seriously damage a chunk of the Wormwood’s deck, knocking at least four pirates overboard in the process. However, a huge Garundi man manually tossed a whaling harpoon at your Captain. The harpoon cleanly pierced him through the middle and nailed him to the mast behind. The mast shattered moments later, and as it toppled, your ship became unbalanced enough to capsize. Only you few made it safely to the ship’s lifeboat.
You managed to get to Port Peril, but with no Captain and no ship, you were stuck in the dangerous city with few trustworthy prospects and little plan of how to start over. Your letters of marque were damaged or lost in the scuffle. After a week of looking for reliable work—and failing—you’d sought solace in some grog and gambling at the Formidibly Maid Tavern. One evening, before heading back to your boarding house while tired, disheartened, and probably a little drunk, you were caught unawares by the five thugs appearing out of nowhere in the alleyway. While you fought as best as you could, you had little useful gear on you and were unable to gain advantage. The leader of the five, you recall, was notably fast and hit hard. Overwhelmed by your foes, unidentifiable due to bandanna-masks and the shadows around you, the last you remember is more sap-blows to the head and darkness.
Thren, Lee, and Lark jerk awake to an ear-shattering noise. You find yourselves piled against one another in the corner, on a wooden floor. Your throbbing headaches quickly remind you of the thugs that ambushed you in the streets of Port Peril--particularly of the saps they most brutally smashed into your skulls.
You each sense the familiar, soft rocking sensation that immediately tells you that you’re aboard a ship, and it is obvious even to a lubber you’ve been press-ganged. The good news is, you are at least not tied up.
As each of you blearily open your eyes, seven silhouettes loom before you. As your eyes adjust, you can see you are in a dimly lit hold of a large sailing ship; the sight of hammocks hanging and the acrid, lingering scent of body odor makes it clear you’re in the crew berth. Now that you can see better, you see the foremost of the seven pirates holds the source of the thunderous cracking noise: a nasty, well-oiled whip. Bearded and dressed in black, he leers at you with shimmering teeth, all made of gold. Behind him stand six crew, who solidly block your way past them to the rest of the ship. Each crewmate carries saps--perhaps familiar-looking ones at that. The pirates are comprised of two human males, one tall with a mustache, the other chubby and bald; two human females, one with a scarred face and another, blond, with a cruel grin; one male half-orc, huge with yellowed skin; and the other a male dwarf with a black beard.
”On your feet, filthy swabs!” shouts the man with the whip, spittle flying from his mouth. He points to a narrow staircase. ”Tis past time to get up on deck and report for duty. The Captain himself has deigned to introduce himself to you lowlifes, and if you decline the offer, he’ll flay your flesh into sausage skins!"
He adds with a growl, "I am Scourge, and I have no problem softening you up for the process first, if you don’t proceed.”
He cracks his whip again for good measure and gestures for you to head up the stairs. The six pirates behind him watch you like hawks while gripping their saps in grim anticipation, perhaps hoping you’ll disobey.
Thren rises unsteadily to her feet, swaying a bit. That's one part too much to drink, one part too many hits to the head, and one part giving the pirates no reason to think of her as a threat. "You don't need to shout, you've made your point." Thren then checks herself over quickly, making sure she's not bleeding and nothing's broken. If one of her horns is damaged, she snarls softly. Turning to Lee and Lark, she extends a hand to help up whoever is closest. "Coming?" Thren asks them.
Lehland takes Thren's offered had with a quick, "Thanks."
While straightening and brushing at his clothes, Lehland gives the 'welcoming committee a quick once over...
...and notices nothing out of the ordinary.
Knowing that nobody takes on the name 'Scourge' and sports a well-(lovingly?)-cared-for whip without enjoying the whipping and hitting, Lehland starts a count of the number of times he and his friends are struck by that whip. He is, as yet, unsure how he'll even the score for those future strokes but to be sure the repayment will be numerically accurate.
Moving to the stairs and answering Threnody, Lee says, "I suppose we should go meet the lord and master of this vessel. Let's try to make a positive impression."
Lark's unfocused gaze wanders randomly around the hold while he tries to get the bells to stop ringing. "Mom, I don't want to go to church today." Hand probing the lump on the back of his head, Lark staggers after his friends.
Some of the pirates seem to sigh in disappointment that you agree to go without a fight, but Scourge nods with what might be called an approving sneer. He waves for them to part, so you can progress upward, and so you do.
Going up the narrow stairs, you pass through a cargo hold (with some live chickens running amok amid the stores). There are also some rooms on this level as well, and a lingering greasy smell indicates this is probably where the galley lies as well. Further up an almost ladder-like set of stairs through an open hatch you arrive on the main deck.
You stand near the 60-foot-high mainmast, the base of which is scarred with thin lines and old brown stains, suggesting its secondary use as a whipping post. Toward the bow (fore) you see steps lead up to the foredeck, with the ship’s bowsprit shaped like a dragon’s head. Two doors lead somewhere, likely to berths for higher-ranking crew. Set between the doors is an ornate copper-and-brass clock inlaid with images above and below the face of worm-ridden whale corpses (while few are so ornate, you know the clock as on any ship would assist both with navigation as well as telling when work shifts start and end). The flag showing the ship's colors also depicts a rotting whale, in white, on a red field.
Toward the stern (aft) a similar short set of stairs leads to the poop deck, where the wheel resides. A wiry woman with wavy red-hair stands behind it, leaning over to view the crew assembly below with a faintly curious smile.
A nasty scent directs you toward a cage that hangs off the rails of the poop deck, over the main deck; it contains a very obvious, emaciated corpse. A mangy parrot sits atop the cage, looking wistfully within. You’d think it too was dead if it did not occasionally ruffle its feathers.
One door leads into another room or berth under the poop deck. Sitting against the same wall by this door is an iron-banded box with a small slit at the top. You recognize this as a sweat-box, used by pirates and other cruel sailing crews as punishment.
You are not the only crew assembled—indeed, given the relative emptiness of the rest of the ship that you have seen, you surmise most of the crew is above decks with you. If any of you care to count, you find 18 total crew are present besides yourselves.
Standing in front of one of the sets of stairs to the poop deck is a massively muscular, bald Garundi with an eyepatch. He is probably the best kitted out man aboard the ship both in terms of weapons and jewelry, and undoubtedly the captain. All of the crew gaze upon him, some with awe and even pride, most with unabashed fear.
Moreover, all of you recognize him as the man responsible for killing Captain Golly—taking the ship's mast with him—and effectively forcing you to abandon the Aurora’s Kiss. Whether he recognizes you specifically from that skirmish is unclear.
Next to the captain stands a much younger and slenderer man, shaven-headed with a black beard; he wears a well-kept purple coat and carries a cat-o-nine tails. His chiseled features would be handsome were it not for the cold rage etched into his gaze. Likewise his bearing suggests he is an officer of the ship, and the other men and women nearby probably have similar standing.
At front of the other stairway leading to the poop deck is an enormously muscular man, who stares at nothing with a sort of blank amusement. He wears little more than a dingy pair of trousers and an iron collar with a bit of chain hanging from it about his neck; his shoulders and arms appear to be covered with chunks of pitch with feathers stuck to them. The rest of his skin is blotchy, suggesting that he was covered in more of the stuff and it has been cut or peeled off over time.
The regular crew are nearer to you, and four easily stand out to you as, like yourselves, less grubby and, perhaps, more fearful looking.
One is a halfling woman, ripped with wiry muscle, who twitches her fingers nervously.
Another is a gnome, in a ridiculous purple outfit one could only think of as a “pirate costume,” complete with eyepatch you’re not particularly certain is needed.
The next is a scowling Varisian man wearing a blue scarf around his head.
Finally, an auburn-haired woman wearing a black tricorne emblazoned with a silver-embroidered jolly roger. She also bears an ebony medallion marked with the same design. As you look at her, she flashes you a quick, sympathetic smile before resuming an unfocused gaze at the sea beyond.
While a symbol of pirates in general, the jolly roger is particularly a symbol of the goddess Besmara, capricious goddess of piracy and sea monsters. She is worshipped by all manner of seafaring folk, honorable sailor and cruel pirate alike. You would guess with the repetition of the symbol and the quality with which both hat and medallion are made, this woman is at least a worshipper of Besmara, and the medallion is a holy symbol.
As you are shoved or step into place amidst the other crew, the Captain steps forward to address you with a toothy smile. The rest of the muttering crew goes instantly silent when it is obvious he is going to speak.
“Glad you could join us at last! Welcome to the Wormwood. I am Captain Barnabas Harrigan. I’ve but one rule regarding you and me: don’t speak to me. Remember that, and we’ll get along just fine.” He points to the corpse in the cage with a dark smile. “That’s the last man who spoke to me out of turn.” The officers laugh.
He continues, “Thank you, for ‘volunteering’ to join my crew; the interview process is brutal, I know, but you are full crew now. I’ll be feeding you, giving you a place to sleep, a daily rum ration, and a cut of any booty you help us to attain—which is better than most employment prospects you can find in this part of the world, yes? Work hard and obey my officers, and you’ll find serving here will bring more than enough reward for your initial troubles. Disobey and cause trouble, of course, we can always keelhaul you.” He finishes this thought in a light tone of voice, with a broad grin.
Harrigan turns to address the rest of the crew as well as you. ”Now, we lost some of our number in that fight with the Chells, and we have some new crew members to get to know. Let’s get along, now! Anyone found unexpectedly dead, the scab responsible will be keelhauled.” The crew silently nod, some almost shaking in terror as his gaze crosses them.
Harrigan nods toward the man in the purple coat. ”My first mate is in charge of your... acclimation to the Wormwood. Make these lubbers into pirates, Mr. Plugg.” The Captain turns again toward you, and says casually, “If that fails, we’ll have Fishguts make them into pies, so they’ll at least be some use to us.”
A portly man in a stained apron jerks out of a glassy-eyed reverie when the name “Fishguts” is referenced. He does not look especially thrilled at the idea of being asked to make pies out of anyone.
The captain pivots and enters the door behind him (to the berth under the poop deck), the door’s lock clicking into place.
Mr. Plugg steps forward, pacing as he eyes you over. "Is this all we've got? A slip, a mongrel, and a doe-eyed lubber?" He shakes his head. ”You are under my command, and when I’m not around, under that of our bosun, Master Scourge,” he says, pointing at the man with the whip. ”Do as we say, and your hides stay intact.” He leans forward, gripping the cat-o-nine tails he carries, and leers almost hungrily. “But I will be made just as happy to tie you to the whipping post, so bear that in mind.”
He stands back. “I expect if you're in the Shackles, you know bow from stern at least. For now, you’ll be working as swabs. I’ll be watching, and if I decide you’re better suited for something else, THEN I’ll give you better work.”
He points to mops, buckets, and holystones (sandstone blocks) piled in a corner. ”See that the brains of the Chells are good and scrubbed off the decks--all but the poop deck; that is off-limits to lowlife lubbers like you. Now, that's a simple enough task, so if I see you skiving off, it’s three lashes for you.” He looks around at the rest of the crew. ”Cusswell, Cog, and Quinn…” he points to the halfling, the Varisian, and the woman in the tricorne; ”You’ll be swabbing the decks as well. Master Scourge, keep our lazy crew upright and working, yes?”
Master Scourge nods and snaps his whip while shouting, “Everyone, to your posts and get to work!”
Mr. Plugg walks up the steps to the poop deck to stand by the wheel. The redhead who had the wheel nods and leaves, walking into the quarters below the foredeck (you notice she carries an ornate, crystal topped staff as she passes). One of the crew who escorted you replaces tarred-and-feathered man in guarding the walkway up to the poop deck, while another crew member guards the other stair. The tarred man goes below decks.
A number of crew climb the masts and begin to work the rigging and sails, including the ridiculous looking gnome—you hear someone call out to him as Shortstone—while others set to working ropes or keeping lookout. A few others go below decks. Scourge paces about, making sure the others stay on task. You catch him glaring coldly at Quinn in particular, a look she returns without hesitation.
She then snaps her head away, and picks up a mop and hands it out to one of you. "Best get going," she says.
And so begins our first day as crew of the Wormwood.
Luckily, Lehland is able to tolerate the hard work on ship. If the people in charge of the Wormwood talk to us, to maybe try and figure out how we can best be employed, Lee will let them know that his last shipboard position involved more reading, writing and math and not so much of the unskilled labor.
As he's going about his business today, Lehland will try to get a handle on how well-maintained the ship is.
In the course of doing his duties, Lehland will also try to figure out how well stocked the ship is. Things like how much fresh water they carry. Fresh food. Amount and kind of general stores. Maybe the things on ship will tell us where the ship has been and where it may be heading to.
Lehland will make himself available for conversation with Cusswell, Cog and Quinn. He suspects that conversation, even done while working, would be viewed as "slacking off" (while actual slacking would be more tolerated if it is quiet and out of sight) and is the short path to the lash. As such, he'll allow the more experienced sailors initiate conversation.
Given the chance to speak to his companions, Lee will reveal that, "Hey. Good news. Muffin is on ship. He must have followed me. So, how do we introduce the presence of a cat to our new command structure? We don't want to get him chucked overboard. And we don't want one of us to be the one to 'find' him. Maybe we impress the cook with what a good ratter he is? I'm unsure..."
If that is to be one possible strategy, Lehland will look around for signs of vermin (droppings, chewed wood, provision containers that have been holed by mice, etc).
Lehland:
The ship took recent damage, which you can quickly surmise is due to the battle with the Chelish navy. You can even see the scarring on the woodwork left by Captain Golly's ballista.
Nonetheless, major repairs have been made swiftly. A handful of swabs under the direction of a reedy looking--but with strong arms--older man in glasses are seeing to more minor repairs.
You make quick work and are able to get to the cargo hold on the premise of also cleaning without much issue.
There are two sets of stairs leading up in this cargo hold--the ones you came down from the main deck, and another forward that leads to a closed hatch. The shirtless man with the tarred and feathered shoulders stands by the stairs.
"You can't go up," he says to you, "And you can't steal." He crosses his arms, and narrows his eyes at you in an exaggerated display. While he is huge, he does not speak threateningly but more matter-of-fact. The way he speaks and holds himself suggests he is perhaps not very bright.
You realize you are being followed, by Cusswell, the female halfling. She gets to mopping right away. "This place is always full of chicken s*!# and spilled stew from Fishguts' galley," she says. The scent rolling in from the galley aft of you indeed probably indicates some kind of fish stew is being concocted.
She leans a little closer, to block the large man's view of you. "If you're looking for something valuable though, it'll be locked in Cut-throat Grok's store." She nods her chin aftward, and you see far at the other end, probably past the galley, a wiry half-orc stands against a solid wooden door. You can surmise she is the quartermaster.
Cusswell's eyes linger in the direction of the quartermaster's store a bit long, suggesting there is something in there she wants.
"Best not to linger here too long, or Owlbear will get antsy." Cusswell nods back at the large man, and she moves to mop quickly. Chickens, loose from the a pen they are obviously supposed to be in, flap about as they dodge the halfling's mop.
Come to think of it, it looks like something may have frightened the chickens out of their coop.
And you look at the chickens and consider their situation, a very nearby ping indicates *guilt*.
Thren's a bit weak, whether from the beating or something else remains to be seen. But she does her best to get the deck clean. The tiefling spends her time trying to get a chance to open up a dialogue with Quinn. When Thren gets the chance as she's mopping the deck, she'll make eye contact. "Does everyone get such a warm welcome on this ship?"Thren asks casually.
Thren's trying to get a general feel for where Quinn stands.
Threnody:
You work toward the foredeck, where Quinn also mops.
She shakes her head. "I gather some of the older crew probably weren't, but me, Cog, Rosie, and Conchobar came aboard a few days ago much the same you did."
She makes of show of showing you where some dirt is that needs to be cleaned. "As skilled a Captain as Harrigan is, word is the Wormwood didn't fare too well against the Chells. Even now we've barely enough crew to man the ship." You follow that she is suggesting the pressing of crew was done out of some degree of desperation. "I almost wouldn't mind, but..." she purses her lips, and sends another glare in Scourge and Plugg's direction.
Her hate for the first mate and bosun--especially Scourge--is genuine and obvious. She is also sizing you up as much as you are she, but seems at least at ease that you spoke with her, if not outright glad, and open to further conversation.
To Thren and Lee: "My head is finally clearing. I think I'll soon be ready to get something done around here."
If Shortstone is ever low enough in the rigging to hear it Lark will curse his luck in Gnomish.
When his work is near Cog Lark will speak to him. "I like your scarf. This ship could use some brightening up. I bet we're not the only ones who think so."
"My friends and I got a group rate coming here together. Did you and Cusswell and Quinn get a similar deal?"
If challenged for talking Lark will try to Bluff. "We're lookin' to work together and get this job done right. I want Mr. Plugg to see his reflection in this this here deck!"
Lark:
He gains an opportunity to curse in Gnome but Shortstone does not have a chance to reply as of now.
Speaking to Cog, whose face grows red with exertion as he mops (though he seems healthy enough), he gives a half-shrug to Lark. "It was my mother's scarf. I'm glad Cut-Throat let me keep it. You seen her? I want to know how she got that scar." He adds with a dark grin. "For color, I prefer blood-red, myself."
A nearby female crew member with a fishing net laughs. "By the looks o' yer face, wouldn't that be crimson, Cogward?"
Another crew member chuckles along with her. "I like that! We'll call ye that then, Crimson Cog!"
Cog grits his teeth and starts to snarl a retort, when Scourge's whip cracks out, causing everyone to scatter and focus on their work.
The bosun saunters over to both Lark and Cog. "Enough yapping!" he barks, poking Lark in the chest with the handle of his whip.
Lark gives his retort, and Scourge gives a low growl. Seeing that you have done more than your fair share of work, he can find no reason to argue, but retorts, "I see you talking again, 'tis the lash for ye." He returns to his rounds.
Lark bends silently to his work. He' s eager to eat or bunk down with Threnody and Lehland to compare notes.
Noting Cusswell's reaction, Lee says, "On my last ship, I was the quartermaster's right hand. Inventory. Pay. General accounting. It's not exciting but I spent a lot of time, unstructured time, in and around the quartermasters office..."
As part of his duties, Lehland sweeps up the chickens' mess and then makes sure there is clean food and water in their cages.
Turning to Owlbear, Lehland acknowledges, "Understood. I'm not to go up. I'm not to steal. Have a good watch." And with that Lehland hurries off with Cusswell.
Lehland is eager for some alone time with Lark and Thren to compare notes.
Thren tries to keep her voice down and keep working, tired as she is. She nods her thanks to Quinn about the spot needing work. "Any idea how many of us are on this boat? Or where we're going?"
Thren's still interested in seeing what Quinn knows before calling it a night, tired or not.
The halfling woman nods with perhaps a look of understanding, but she says nothing else for the moment.
As you clean up around the chicken's cooping area and shepherd the birds back to where they belong, you note that while they were dispersed by the *cough* something that frightened them, there is no sign of any of them having been attacked or eaten.
"About 21 crew, including you. Plus a dozen or so officers." She straightens and wrings out her mop overboard before continuing. "Northwest, roughly. No one's mentioned a destination."
Out of nowhere, the already-too-soon familiar KRACK! of Scourge's whip, rings. He stands at the base of the stairs to the foredeck, but he has expertly guided his whip so that the tip smacks against Quinn's cheek. She drops her mop in her startlement.
A long, nasty laceration instantly appears on her cheek. Painful, but superficial.
"More work, less talk, wench!" He stares at both of you.
She clenches her fist, the other hand moving to the ebony Jolly Roger medallion at her throat, and opens her mouth as if to retort--but seems to change her mind. When he sees her touch her medallion, he reflexively steps back a pace or so, but growls and turns away.
She retrieves her mop and gets back to work, muttering things that would make a sailor faint.
Around sunset, the ship's clock gives out grotesque, atonal chime to mark the end of shift, and Scourge blows a signal whistle loud and long, to summon the crew for an announcement.
"All hands on deck for the Bloody Hour! All hands on deck! Anyone who fails to appear will be dragged out and forced to 'perform' in the next 'show'!" The tone of the announcement indicates "performing" is not something anybody wants to do.
Other officers echo the announcement throughout the deck. All of the crew begin spilling forth onto the main deck. Some grin in some form of anticipation, others look a bit sick.
Lee finishes the sweeping and cleaning before preparing to move off.
Response to *easier food found* --> *don't get fat and comfy. we'll be hunting soon*
Response to *desire to continue hiding* --> stay clever & stay safe
If Cusswell heads off in response to the 'chime' and the whistle, Lee will follow.
At some point Lark would have tried to discern if anyone is currently in the sweat box.
At the announcement for the Bloody Hour Lark will hurry to locate Threnody and Lehland. He doesn't want anything to make them late for the "show."
If that goes smoothly Lark will turn to Cog. "My friends and I have reserved seating, if you'd care to join us."
Thren finishes up as quickly as possible. She heads up on deck with everyone, but makes a point of seeing if Quinn's all right after taking that hit from Scourge's whip. Are you all right? I'm sorry I got you in trouble. Thren asks softly as we join everyone on deck.
Lee: Cusswell does indeed go, so you follow. She doesn't look happy about it, however. "Someone got caught for stealing yesterday," she says to him as they go topside.
Lark: Cog shrugs and nods, following him. As of the announcing of Bloody Hour, he is tense, a strange ambivalent mix of concerned and excited.
Thren: Quinn shakes her head. "Any trouble I have I was already in. Get that worried look off your face, or they'll think you're soft."
Everyone
You all find a place to stand near each other and the new recruits. The air is tense, and the crew look on some with an eagerness, others with concern or fear.
Standing on the poop deck is Harrigan, Mr. Plugg, Master Scourge, and the red-haired woman with the staff.
The last to come out on the main deck is Owlbear, the large man with the tarred-and-feathered arms. He carries slung over his shoulder a dark-haired pirate, bound at the wrists and feet. As they pass through the crowd, you notice a faint odor coming off the pirate, that of sweat mixed with foul water, and his feet are soaked. You can guess he was probably in the bilges.
Owlbear places the pirate before Plugg and Scourge, who wobbles to find his balance.
“I brought Magpie,” Owlbear reports to the officers.
“Very good, Owlbear, now go stand with the others,” Plugg says, as if instructing a child. Scourge hisses “Idiot,” at him as the big man joins the rest of the crew.
The officers on the poop deck tie a large rope around Magpie’s waist, but relieve him of the bonds on his wrists and feet. Magpie, however, looks less and less happy the more the procedure continues.
Standing next to the wheel, Harrigan addresses the crew. “I was very disappointed to learn that Mr. Magpie stole from us the night before last,” he says. ”Mr. Magpie, you have confessed to Master Scourge and Mr. Plugg, yes?”
The pirate and nods. He is visibly shaking.
”You have heard his confession, Mr. Plugg?”
The young first mate nods. ”Aye, Cap’n. The scurvy knave broke into Grok’s store and stole 20 gold, a deck o' marked cards, and a cask of brandy.”
Harrigan turns back to the crew. ”You all know we have few restrictions on this ship. I am a good captain to you, yes?”
Most of the crew gives a resounding ”Aye!”
”But you don’t talk to me, you don’t kill my crew, and you don’t steal from me. The punishment for Mr. Jakes Magpie, as for all scabs who take what isn’t theirs, is keelhauling! Mr. Plugg, at your pleasure.”
Scourge and Plugg push Magpie overboard. He falls, screaming. Most of the crew cheers, some genuinely enjoying the spectacle, some perhaps more making a show of it. Others watch tensely. A few make bets as to whether he will survive.
Mr. Plugg holds onto the rope, which is all that connects Magpie to the ship. Others help maneuver the rope so that Magpie would be, effectively, dragged underneath the keel, while Mr. Plugg controls how close or far away Magpie’s body is kept to the ship and how quickly the keelhauling occurs.
Golly Fleetfoot was not the kind to engage in keelhauling as a punishment but you’re aware basically how this works. A sailor is dragged underneath the ship, for the ostensible purpose of frightening or torturing him. You can try to keelhaul quickly, in about 30 or so seconds, but this increases the risk of slamming the body of the keelhaulee into the barnacle covered keel and shredding him to death. You can go slower, about a minute, but that of course increases the risk of the keelhaulee drowning. You are supposed to do whatever you feel gives the pirate the best chance of survival, but pirates seldom do what they are supposed to, and even a benevolent ropeman can still easily end up with a dead mariner.
Plugg works to draw the rope just little by little, and it is obvious he is going for a slow keelhaul.
A little over a minute later, they drag Magpie’s body up from the other side of the ship. He is covered in bloody cuts from head to toe, and dangles listlessly from the rope. Plugg and Scourge look pleased at the results, while Harrigan is grimly satisfied. Some officers and crew cheer at the mangled and gorey form; others look horrified. Shortstone runs to the side of the boat and pukes.
”A shame,” Harrigan said. He looks as regretful as if he lost a pair of socks: something vaguely useful, but forgettable and replaceable. ”But this is the price to be paid. Mr. Scourge, feed what remains of Mr. Magpie to the sharks.”
Harrigan marches back down the stairs and back into his quarters, while Magpie’s remains are thrown overboard.
Quinn clutches her amulet and mutters something.
Mr. Plugg turns to address the crew. ”Now that we’ve had our evening’s entertainment, report belowdecks for mess and your rum ration.”
Everyone disperses, eager to get to their rum.
"Come on," Cog says to the others, with a smile. "The Lady of Graves has got a new lover, let's go drink to his passing. The ration is the only good thing about being here. They don't water the stuff down."
Quinn leans over to Thren. "It knocks you off your ass too. You look pretty beat from swabbing already, so be careful." She looks over to Lark. "You, on the other hand, look like you could swab the deck all over again."
Lehland is...
...horrified. The officers on this boat tortured and killed a crew member over 20 gold and a deck of marked cards?
He turns to his friends and says in a low voice, "That doesn't even make sense, does it? Why would you steal something now? It gives everyone a chance to investigate. Wouldn't you steal right before port? Or whatever? Steal then immediately leave the boat. Not steal then loiter around waiting to be caught. Right?" Lee looks to Lark and Thren to see if he'd sufficiently tapped into the roguish thought process. "Blessed Desna, we need to do something..." he mutters, turning toward the railing and noticing the Gnome.
Lehland picks up a rag as he walks over and hands it to the Gnome. "Hey. Puke into the scuppers, not over the rail," the Halfling instructs while pointing to the drainage system built into the ship. "People who puke over the rail fall off the boat. Clean yourself up and come on." And with that, Lehland turns and walks back to his friends.
"You, on the other hand, look like you could swab the deck all over again."
"I find our present circumstances very motivating."
"You may have met my friends, but I'm Lark. It's nice to meet you. I think Cog has the right of it - I'd love to share a drink with y'all."
Lark replies to Lehland: "Some pilfering will go on through out the cruise, but that was an awful big haul for one fellow in one go. Maybe he was desperate and maybe he took the fall for a partner."
"Whatever the case you're right we need to do something. The sooner the better. Let's go see what our grog rations will buy us."
The bard is rather calm about Magpie's injuries, despite their gruesomeness. Perhaps because she's seen people tortured to death before, being Chellish and all....
Thren gives Quinn a thankful nod and quick smile. "You're right, I'm beat. In more ways than one. I'm used to working on a ship, not getting worked over, thenworking on a ship. I'm going to join my friends over mess, care to join us?"
The gnome replies, flushed face, to Lee, "Oooh, arrr, aye, sir. 'Twas just overcome. Must've been too many weevils in the ship's biscuit. Nothing to invigorate the senses like a good keelhaulin', eh?"
He adjusts his ridiculous hat--which somehow did not fall off when he bent over the rail--and nods in thanks to Lee. "Come join the lads at cards later, aye?" He scampers off.
Quinn nods to Lark. "Sandara Quinn."
Quinn overhears Lee's protesting. Given the noise around her from the people buzzing about the Bloody Hour as well as getting to the crew, she is less shy about talking at length. "We WERE in port the other night. That's how you got here, remember? He tried as you said, but got caught." She looks at the others with a raised eyebrow. "He got hit on the head pretty hard, didn't he?"
She shakes her head. "I don't like what happened. Keelhaul's risky, but Plugg used the chance to murder him, I'd swear it, and I'd reckon he felt threatened by Magpie. He was a good sailor. But don't look so shocked like a lubber, either: I'm sure if you ever served under any captain, stealing wasn't tolerated."
This is true. Golly considered the keelhaul a waste of time, but he chained a thief to the bilges if they were at sea, feeding him nothing but water and seabiscuit, for weeks. A second time offense, he kicked out the mariner at first sight of land. He was more forgiving of a fistfight breaking out over a moment of passion than over theft, because theft was seen a planned betrayal. "A man in it for himself can't serve with a crew. We've all got to work as one," he said.
"A pirate steals from others, but never his own. Doesn't matter if it's a bent copper or the queen's jeweled garter. You take from the ship, what you've done is commit treason. You're thumbing your nose at both your captain and your fellow crew and saying, 'Screw you, my gambling debts are more important than you, your authority, or your fair share.'" She pauses, as you join with the crew waiting on the mid-deck for your ration, looks around, then fixes a firm look at you newcomers. "Even if the current circumstances don't inspire you to loyalty... the only way a good crew survives is working together. Do you get me?" There is emphasis on the "good crew" to suggest that she is clearly referencing the small band having the discussion, not the entire crew of the Wormwood.
===
You line up for your evening meal, which is handed out by the cook, Fishguts Kroop, and the quartermaster Cut-throat Grok (when you get closer to the half-orc, you see the scar on her neck that gives her her name). In between serving, they talk and laugh to one another. It is plainly obvious that Fishguts has had his rum ration already and then some... and then some more.
As a pirate approaches and takes his or her bowl of fish stew and cup of rum, Grok checks a list of crew, saying their name aloud and checking it off--making sure no one's disappeared or fallen overboard that day.
In this way, you are able to place faces to names of the large crew that you've observed during the day.
Most of the other officers are taking their meal in their berths or with the captain, but Scourge is present to oversee the affairs.
"Anyone seen tossing your rum ration aside or giving it to someone else gets six lashes."
Everyone seems happy enough to get their rum. After drinking it, they become more relaxed, some even listless and lazy, but more open to conversation. Quinn, Cusswell, and Cog all take theirs.
As pirates pour into the berths below, some fall into their hammocks to rest, while a game of cards starts up in one corner, and in another, some pirates break into an arm wrestling match (the loser gets his hand shoved into what are effectively caltrops). One pirate starts singing--badly--and Cusswell looks at her fingers, twitching them, and sighing.
- Gain a 1d4+1 alchemical bonus to Charisma-based checks for the rest of the night.
- Are fatigued. (If you are fatigued, you become exhausted.)
- Must attempt a DC 5 Fortitude save or become addicted.
- Must attempt a second, DC 10 Fortitude save or take 1 Con damage.
If you go straight to bed without staying up to do other things, the fatigued condition and Con damage are healed.
Thren makes sure she eats as she drinks her ration; she's not at her best after the past day's exertions. "If we're short on crew, bad as a thief is, was killing a man really a good idea? She asks, looking at her friends. The bard takes another drink.
"Anyway, anyone learn anything useful for staying alive while we're on this ship?" Thren asks quietly of Lark and Lehland."Or better yet, getting off of it? The tiefling finishes softly, taking in the other sailors as well.
"Scab like Plugg doesn't give a flying f$%# about what's a good idea. Just what makes him happy." Cusswell puts in.
Lehland tentatively sips at his rum...
..."Whaaa!" <cough> <cough> "I have no idea what that's good for but it is undoubtedly effective." Not wanting to attract more attention, Lehland sips again, trying to time his breathing to run counter to putting his cup up to his face. Lehland's food looks more interesting as a way to dilute and mask his beverage. As such he digs in.
Muffin thinks fish heads are delicious.
Truth be told, the stew's not too terrible. Even in spite of the inexplicable chicken feathers in it.
"Even if the current circumstances don't inspire you to loyalty... the only way a good crew survives is working together. Do you get me?"
Lark replies to Quinn, "I do get you and I'm all in favor of working with a good crew and doing good work."
Lark will consume the rum ration.
Looking around at the group, Lark says, "This has been one of the hardest days I can remember. I think we should all get some rest. I feel like I've only scratched the surface of the things we'll need to learn in order to better our situation"
Thren yawns as soon as Lark mentions rest. "You're right. I'm not exactly at my best just now. I doubt I could carry a tune right now with a bucket. We need more information before we can act."
Quinn nods at Lark's reply and excuses herself. She leans against a wall watching a card game, pulling a slender clay pipe from inside her coat. Tamping down her tobacco, she lights it and appears to relax slightly.
After drinking to Magpie's life in the hereafter, Cog goes to watch the arm wrestling. Shortstone, Tilly Brackett, and Giffer Tibbs join the game of cards, which Cusswell almost joins, but when Shortstone starts complimenting her "wide-eyed beauty" and asking if he can throw his heart into the kitty, she rolls her eyes and goes over to the arm wrestling as well.
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Thren thinks about things for a minute and then decides, "why not?" Once people have started to relax, she stands up (on a table if she can) and calls out, "Who's up for a song?"
Without waiting, Thren begins a drinking song.
We only part to meet again:
Change as ye list, ye winds, my heart shall be
The faithful compass, the faithful compass
That still points to thee.
'Oh, believe not what the landsmen say
Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind,
They'll tell thee sailors when away,
In every port a mistress find:
Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so,
For thou art present, for thou art present
Wheresoe'er I go.
If to fair Andoran's coast we sail,
Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright:
Thy breath is Gozreh's spicy gale,
Thy skin as ivory so white:
Thus every beauteous object that I view
Wakes in my soul, wakes in my soul
Some charm of lovely Sue.'
Though battle call me from thy arms
Let not my pretty Susan mourn:
Though dragon roar, yet safe from harms
William shall to his dear return:
Love turns aside the balls that round me fly
Lest precious tears, lest precious tears
Should drop from Susan's eye.
The boatswain gave the dreadful word,
Her sails their swelling bosom spread:
No longer can she stay on board -
They kissed, she sighed, he hung his head:
Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land,
'Farewell,' she cries, 'Farewell,' she cries
And waved her lily hand.
Finished, Thren finishes her rum ration and plops back down in her seat.
Some of the pirates nod and tap their foot to Threnody's song, although others remain absorbed in their own activities. They're making enough noise on their own getting everyone's attention is a challenge. The fact no one is actively throwing anything is probably a good sign, however.
Cusswell drifts back from the arm wrestling to watch as Threnody sings. For a moment it almost looks as if she is upset, and stares at her fingers clenching them and opening them again, but she applauds at the end.
She is staring specifically at her left hand, and you realize she is not twitching her fingers in anger but rather in a string instrument fingering pattern, as if she is--wistfully--imagining playing along with you.
Thren notices Cusswell's reaction. "What? I know I'm tired, but was I that bad?"]/b] Thren asks Cusswell mildly. The bard is doing her best to invite Cusswell to open up a bit. [b]"Or is there another song you'd like to hear? Maybe join me on?"
Lee hangs around to enjoy the show. After a not-so-good day at sea, thís looks like a good way to let his fish stew and hard liquor dinner settle.
While Thren is singing and negotiating for a 2nd song, she'll obviously attract attention. But does it look like she's attracting any "unwholesome" attention?
Lee: You see no one actively menacing the party. You do see Fipps Chumlett and Slippery Syl eye your group from time to time, but they are preoccupied with the arm wrestling. Slippery Syl laughs every time someone gets their arm slammed into a pile of rusty nails.
You alsonotice the conversation Thren and Cusswell are having may have something to do with your interaction with Cusswell in the hold.
Thren: Rosie sighs. "I f%##ing can't ," she says, "But bloody good song." She wanders away to get herself more rum.
I'll wait till Rosie's got her next rum and had some time to get it into her belly before continuing on with her. "Why can't you play? I mean, besides not having an instrument?" I avoid looking at her hands; if her hands are damaged, I haven't noticed and I'm not looking now. "If it's just because you don't know how, I'm sure we can fix that at some point. I don't play either, maybe we can find someone to teach us."
Having no smooth way to interject into Thren and Rosie's conversation, Lee will continue to rest and observe.
If he can get some water or something less lethal than rum, he'll do so.
Feeling the effects of the rum, Lee will time his wandering off to bed to coincide with about 50% of the crew doing the same. If his companions stop him, he will wait for them.
"I f+~&ing well know how!" Rosie snaps. Realizing she said that rather loudly, she looks around at the crew with some embarrassment, trying to be sure no one's watching. "Just leave me alone, horns, I'm not in the mood for talking."
”I think we should get some rest.”
Muttering to himself Lark says, “Well, good advice isn’t meant to be followed”
Lark sidles up to Lehland for a private conversation: ”Cog expressed interest in Grok, the quartermaster, and Mr. Plugg seems to have some loyalty issues. Those two might be good places to dig deeper. Did anything catch your eye today?”
Leaning in to speak quietly and obscuring the motion of his lips with a cup, Lehland responds.
"Perhaps something I learned has a certain bearing on the outburst we just witnessed..."
"...and hopefully can gracefully drop. Cusswell also displayed some interest in Grok, saying that if I was wanted to locate anything valuable on the ship that it would be found in the quartermaster's stores. Cusswell either doesn't have the best poker face or she decided to drop her defenses and confide in me because as she told me about Grok's stores it was obvious that there is something in there she wants badly."
Lehland takes a sip.
"We still need to figure out what to do about Muffin. At this point I have no idea how to handle his situation. I don't want him to end up in Grok's stores or put off the ship or worse. Until we have enough info to make an educated decision I think he should just keep hiding. Thoughts?"