With a groan, Atsadi pushes himself into a seated position. He looks around, taking in his surroundings before turning with narrowed eyes to look at the armed and muscled strangers. His fingers twitch, his first instinct to spring into a fight but he pauses at the odds. Opportunity arises with patience, he recalled a piece of sage advise given by his former captain.
The skinwalker stands, grimacing at the pounding headache and the thick, dry feeling between his lips. "Water. If you want me..." he pauses, taking a moment to look at the other unfortunates to end up in the hold before looking back to the whip-master. "If you want good work after a night like that."
The journey back to consciousness is slow and torturous. The first thing that penetrates Ambrose's slumber is the sound of waves on the ocean. No, not another day. Please, let it end... Voices like whispers, assaulting his soul, taunting him, ushering him into the everlasting darkness. No more... He squeezes his eyes, trying to will himself into the dull blackness of oblivion. He tries not to breathe, tries not to feel, to hear - CRACK! He relents, returning to the world of the living, retreating back from the darkness. He realizes that he isn't soaked to the bone, and that he's lying in a hammock instead of upon a raft. He hears voices, real voices, not the whispered blasphemies of a thousand devils. Slowly, he opens his eyes.
Ambrose looks around, shielding his eyes from the lance of light. How did I get on this ship? There are seven unfriendly-looking people standing huddled together, and more swaying in hammocks like his own. One of the others stands up, and Ambrose shifts his weight, trying to get up without spilling out of the hammock. Once he's sure his legs will hold his weight, he rolls his shoulders and stretches, wincing. He shifts slightly, flexing his limp tail, coaxing the feeling back into it. He looks down at his body, not yet convinced that he still has one. He does. Sighing deeply, he begins to live again.
He makes no move to be the first up-decks, instead dragging along behind as he tries to remember how he got here. The memories come back to him in disjointed scraps, piecing themselves back together.
Land, spotted in the distance. Beaching, crawling onto the sand. Hunger and thirst driving him into a town, into a tavern. Food and water! A man, a smile, a drink.
He opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is an unintelligible groan. Licking his parched lips, he tries again. "Where are we?"
Consciousness seeps back into Lucas slowly, and as it does, he takes stock of his situation.
Wow, I feel terrible.
Dammit, Lucas, aren't you smarter than this?
No, I guess not.
At the yells from the fellow with the whip, the tiefling thinks about a retort, If this Captain was so damned concerned about my oversleeping, maybe he shouldn't have had me drugged, hmm? then chokes it back. Among the pirates of his Riddleport home, snatching sailors off the streets wasn't terribly common, but he knew that when it occurred, they'd be eager to take the measure of the men they'd picked up, and more than ready to make an example of someone...
Which makes it a bit surprising when the big guy next to him chimes in. This tall fellow's just begging for it. Not that Lucas was keen on this as a start to his endeavors. But, you came to the Shackles to work your way into a crew. It's not how you thought it'd go, but here you are.
Doing his level best to work through the aftereffects of his capture, Lucas stands up, giving each man in turn his snake-eyed stare. With any luck, this ship'll be as good as any other, and the best thing to do will be to earn a spot as a regular crewman, the sooner the better.
"Reportin' for duty," he replies.
As Lucas heads up to the main deck, he notices the taste in his mouth, which he subsequently recognizes as residue from oil of taggit, something he'd seen used once or twice. Miss Pamodae was never above makin' a guest 'comfortable' if there was something to be gained from it. Now that I've been on the other end of this stuff, can't say I'm a fan.
He listened to the captain go on. 'Don't talk to me,' sounds like a real charmer, this one.
"This is a ship, and we ain't got time to waist. You three - climb to the crow's nest. Now."
Ah, so this is a ship. Good, I'm glad we cleared that up. Lucas sets himself to climbing, figuring speed is the best way to put this part of things behind him.
The tiefling heads straight up the rigging, only pausing for a moment when in his haste, he gets his arm tangled. As he climbs, a dispiriting thought occurs to him. We were in Port Peril. Freaking pirate capital of Avistan, even moreso than home. Exactly how big an a!$*$#+ does this Captain Harrigan have to be if he can't get a willing crew there?
That thought takes away a little of Lucas' enthusiasm for reaching the crow's nest so quickly. Good view. Wish I had my bow. If Lucas gets there ahead of either of the others, he'll offer them a hand climbing in.
"Hey. Good climb. Name's Lucas."
Ambrose runs his tongue along the inside of his mouth as he discovers the oily coating. The implications dawn on him as he arrives on deck. Out of the frying pan, as the saying goes.
He stands impassively as the captain gives his speech, his eyes scanning over the rest of the crew. His eyes snap back to the captain at the word 'pirates'. That would explain the where... His posture stiffens up and he clenches his jaw in response. Hasty action could get him killed in a place like this. This is not the time. Keep a low profile and try not to get yourself killed, Jeggare. No matter how bad this situation may appear, it was better than floating on that raft.
At Mister Plugg's direction, Mister Jeggare turns his eyes to the crow's nest at the top of the rigging. Suddenly, his pulse races as he experiences palpitations. The crack of the whip sounds like lightning, and the deck of the Wormwood disappears.
KABOOM!
Another bolt of lightning splits the heavens, accompanied by a crack louder than any before it. Seconds later, another crash sounds and the ship shudders beneath Ambrose. He looks to the enemy ship, so much closer than it had been just minutes before. The black silhouette, cresting on every wave, is illuminated by a belch of fire and another crash, and before he knows it Ambrose finds the sea rising up to meet him as he plummets into the drink.
Frozen in fear by the sudden and unexpected memory, Ambrose makes no move to ascend the rigging. The best he can do is grit his teeth and try to get his breathing under control. Knowing that his survival hangs in the balance, Ambrose plays off his silent panic, attempting to hide his fear. He raises a trembling hand to his eyes to shield them from the sun (and the sight of the climbers). Praying to Asmodeus that his voice doesn't betray him, he feigns a casual comment to Mister Plugg. "They shall make fine riggers."
Perception:
Atsadi spits, tasting the oily flavor but not knowing what caused it. His eyes narrow at the Captain and he glances to the crow's nest where one of the others was already eagerly moving toward the mast. Not one to be outdone, the skinwalker takes it as a challenge and moves to beat the snake-eyed man to the top.
Atsadi starts out well, leaping aboard the mast and pulling himself through the rigging swiftly. Unfortunately, the water that was soaking him from the whip-wielding thug made his grip slippery. His hands slip around a piece of wood and he tumbles back to the deck, nursing a nasty set of bruises. With a scowl, he returns to the rigging and proceeds at a slower rate.
Moving slowly, the skinwalker climbs back up the post, scowling as he continues to stumble. With a sigh, he redoubles his efforts. Despite his focus, he finds himself tangled in a knot and tumbling back to the deck once again.
The barely conscious skinwalker lays sprawled where he fell for a few moments. His eyes blurry as they re-focus on a cursedly happy sunny sky. He eventually pushes himself up and stands, glaring daggers at Snake-Eyes on the crow's nest.
Ambrose's head whips to the side as he take the blow across his cheek. He touches a hand to his face, his fingers coming back bloodied. The cut stings and thin tendrils of dark smoke leak out from the corners of his eyes.
Ambrose can't help but give Mister Plugg a hateful glare before he turns his eyes back to the rigging. One wrong move and it is your life, Jeggare. What will it be? Dissent or descent? He breathes deeply as he steels himself, trying to will himself forward toward the mast.
Ambrose feels his knees weakening dangerously just looking up at the crow's nest. Opting for the better part of valor, he turns on his heel and marches to the sweatbox. As cramped as it may be, discomfort, no matter how extreme, was preferable to death. Squeezing into the claustrophobic chamber, he takes a deep breath, hoping he hadn't just sealed his fate.
Lucas is a little surprised to find himself the only one of the three to make it to the crow's nest. From up there, he can't quite catch all of what's happening down on deck, but he certainly gets the gist of it. The big guy (And where's he from, anyway? I don't think I've ever seen a set of tatts like that.) has a spot of trouble with the ropes, nothin' any of us haven't done, either.
But the other fellow, he just marched himself into the sweatbox like that was his own decision. It'll be interesting to find out what the hell went on there.
"You! You're a Rigger now, and work under me."
"Aye, Mister Plugg!" I look forward to helping you have an accident from a great height, you shanghai-ing scum. Lucas scans the rigging, trying to get a feel for the layout of the ship and anticipate what will need doing next.
The tattooed tribesman arches an eyebrow as Ambrose strides to the locker. He shakes his head of thick, shaggy brown hair. That boy is mad. He idly wondered how many of them would survive this harsh ship.
As Plugg asks about food, Atsadi smirks slightly. Cooking? A brief image of burnt fish and his now dead compatriot's laughter skims the surface of Atsadi's mind. He shakes his head again and grumbles out, "No cooking."
"Gah!" Ambrose recoils as the second lash of the whip takes him in the shoulder, ripping his shirt and drawing another thin line of blood. He slowly turns back to face Plugg again, struggling to maintain control of himself as his red-on-black eyes begin smoking furiously once more.
His nostrils flare as the question of cooking falls to him. He bites back a retort, knowing it would just get him lashed again, and quickly turns the question over in his mind. How difficult could it possibly be? Chopping vegetables and combining ingredients - it may as well be mundane alchemy. Hardly a challenge at all, made all the easier with careful application of a few rudimentary spells. And what would be the alternative? Swabbing the decks, most likely. Cooking is clearly the better option if I intend to survive this excursion.
His mind made up, Ambrose nods, volunteering himself for kitchen duty. "Certainly better than I climb. As long as you would allow a dung-munching maggot to prepare your supper."
Ambrose nods curtly, heading belowdecks to find the galley. He was eager to get away from Mister Plugg and his whip. Whoever this 'Fishguts' was, he was unlikely to be a harsher taskmaster than the deck officers. As he descends the stairs, it occurs to him that this might be a good opportunity to have a look around the ship. If anybody caught him, he could simply ask for directions to the galley.
That idea dies as quickly as it was born as the sting from the two lashes he'd already taken remind him of the stakes. He would get the lay of the land soon enough, and there was little to no advantage in exploring the ship earlier than was natural.
Lucas calls down from the rigging. "So, which one's Scourge?"
Atsadi glances at the six thugs Plugg had showed up with as Lucas calls his question down. He expects one of them to step up in response. He'll follow whatever orders the scoundrel gives, although reluctantly.
Atsadi glances over to the smoke-eyed one as he descends into the darkness. "Don't burn anything while you're down there," he calls out to the retreating back.
The already beat-up warrior looks at the other new recruits, trying to determine which of them would cause him trouble in the future.
Not wanting to end up in the locker, or with a few marks like Ambrose, Atsadi pushes himself to his tasks. He will use the opportunity to mark out who the various officers are and if any crew seem favored. He wants to make his way quickly into someone's good favors.
Lucas replies with an enthusiasm he doesn’t quite feel. “Aye, Mister Scourge!” Really? FISH-face? I’ll have to remember to never eat anything this guy catches. One more loud-mouthed idiot to watch out for, Lucas.
Still, Lucas does his best, as he recognizes it’s in his interests. Joining a crew was part of your plan all along, no need to balk at it now. If anyone tries to talk to him, he’ll reply if he’s got a second to spare, but not if it’s a choice between speaking and losing one’s concentration this high off the ground.
Ambrose gives the woman a suspicious once-over, taking her measure. If somebody on this boat intended to kill me, they have already had ample opportunity.. Looking around to make sure they were alone, he cautiously moves toward her. "What is it?" he asks in a low voice.
Ambrose's eyes go wide at seeing his spellbook in the woman's possession. He snatches it away, perhaps too quickly, and pages through to make sure that it is undamaged. "I had not even realized it was missing," he says, suddenly sheepish. Replacing his spell component pouch in his pocket, he looks back up at her. As he holds her gaze, a stream of questions cascades through Ambrose's mind. Who is this woman? Where did she find my spellbook? Did she take it herself to earn my favor? What is the Bloody Hour? But realizing that time is short, he merely nods and says, "Thank you, Ms. Quinn. I will find you later." As she retreats, he watches her go, trying to decide if she was to be trusted. A commotion abovedecks breaks him out of his thoughts and gets him moving again toward the galley. There would be time for deliberation later, assuming he survived the day.
Arriving at the galley, he is dismayed but not entirely surprised to find the cook soused to the gills. Rather than a proper introduction, Ambrose instead receives the incoherent ravings of a drunkard in welcome. "Straight to business, then," he says, taking his place in the kitchen. "One hopes you mince meat better than you mince words. If I might ask, what is the occasion? This Captain Harrigan does not seem the type to welcome his new crew with a feast in their honor." This Fishguts fellow seems none too fond of the captain. This posting may be more fortuitous than I thought. I must wonder, is he always this open or does drink merely loosen his tongue?
Lucas calls out, "On it, Mister Scourge." He doesn't manage a smile until, in his mind's eye, he's driven an arrow into the blowhard's throat.
He recalls the thought he'd had as he was first climbing the rigging. I'm gonna hate being right about these jerks.
Atsadi glares at Scourge's back as he shouts at Fish-face, for he had no idea of the man's name. "Fellow needs to take his rum ration and learn to relax a little," he grumbles quietly under his breath.
Moving messages back and forth across the deck, he's simply content that he didn't end up tripping and falling into a pile of ropes.
Tattoo's enhance the scowl on Atsadi's face as Magpie is strung up and thrown under the ship. "Not the most pleasant fate for a thief, but he wouldn't have been caught if he was better and had Besmara's Blessing."
He'll gladly take his rum ration, savoring the watered down burn while looking for someone not on a night shift. He'll pick a random face from the crew to go and talk to, trying to gather some information, preferably approaching someone off by themself.
"It's a lonely night. What'd you think of that mess with Magpie?"
Lucas scans the crowd, trying to find one of the other riggers, preferably one who at least looks open to talking to one of the new guys. Trying to be as noncommittal as possible, just give the other guy a chance to talk, Lucas says, "Mister Plugg certainly seems to enjoy his work. Tough break for the Magpie; what'd he swipe that was worth incurring that fate?"
Preparing the pig for supper proves a simple task, allowing Ambrose some measure of rest, almost lulling him into a false sense of security. Whatever comfort he was beginning to get acclimated to is quickly shattered as the Bloody Hour comes upon them.
Ambrose watches grimly as Jakes Magpie is convicted of theft and adequately punished. He was no stranger to maritime justice, but the way the pirates exult in the brutal execution of one of their own fills Ambrose with contempt. His eyes smolder like coals in their sockets, and thin tendrils of smoke wafting from his nostrils betray his silent disgust. Fishguts's words come back to him, and they chill him to the bone. Poison the Wormwood is, rotten to the core. He had been warned twice already. Mister Magpie would serve as a memorable third.
Looking away from the bloody mess, a flash of red catches his attention. Making eye contact with Ms. Quinn, he remembers her own admonition. As much as the majority of the crew seems to enjoy the 'entertainment', Ambrose realizes that he might not be the only one who disapproves, and that those others might be worth getting to know. He scans the rest of the crew, taking each one's measure in turn.
After the display, Ambrose has to bury his disgust and serve up supper. The rum was welcome, but he resented the jovial atmosphere it imparted on the assembled gang of reprobates. After his evening duties had been attended to, he stows his spellbook in the kitchen where it is unlikely to be disturbed and goes off to rendezvous with Sandara Quinn.
"So that was the Bloody Hour. Nasty business. I suppose that is what happens to those without the proper friends on this ship?" Not in the mood for pleasantries or small talk, he doesn't bother trying to mask the disdain in his tone.
During the course of the evening, Ambrose crosses paths with the new rigger. While he hadn't taken notice before, a closer look at the man reveals his vaguely reptilian features. He raises an eyebrow in mild surprise, more interested than frightened. "That was excellent climbing today," he says, complimenting the man. "But I suppose you come by it naturally." The corner of his mouth raises, the barest hint of a challenge appearing in his smirk as he gauges the other man's reaction.
Atsadi takes Lucas's hand and gives it a firm shake. "Atsadi. Your name is good. Fits far better than Fishface." He says the last with a small grin.
"You may have won the climb earlier. Next time I will win." He widens his eyes at this, giving a far too toothy, shark-like smile.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Atsadi sneers at the Rahadoumi. "I see why you are so lonely this night. Too long at sea without a good battle?"
He'll fold his arms, not looking for a fight, but not exactly willing to back away if that's what happened. If the Rahadoumi turns away, he'll stride off to the crew quarters.
Ambrose nods slowly, taking in Sandara's words. He almost flinches at seeing Besmara's holy symbol worn so openly, but the way she touches it makes him feel naked without his own Asmodean pentagram hanging around his neck. Perhaps a fear of the Pit could compel this Grok to hand it over?
Suddenly aware that his gaze was beginning to linger on the symbol hanging just above the swell of her breasts, Ambrose raises his eyes back up to meet Sandara's gaze, hoping to avoid a faux-pas. "Thank you for the return of my book," he says, recovering. Display gratitude. Now, deflect with humility. "I admit, I would not have expected such a gesture from a Besmaran. The day has been full of surprises." He smiles, gesturing at his surroundings. "I do not believe I have had the pleasure of a proper introduction." While a full bow might be in poor taste aboard a pirate ship, Ambrose at least makes an attempt to adhere to formal etiquette by inclining his head. "I am Ambrose Jeggare, of the Korvosan Jeggares. Well met."
Lucas ponders the brief conversation he has with Jack Scrimshaw, even putting in a bit of effort to blink in a human manner and not appear too intense. Of course he’s Jack. I swear, half the men who hear the call to this life are Jacks, and half of the remainder are Jakes. Contrast that to Mother’s calling, all she ever saw were Johns, Lucas smiles at the joke he’s sure as hell not ready to share with any of his crewmates just yet.
"Wouldn’t dream of it, Jack." At least until I’m a little higher on the pecking order, anyway. "We live by Her Code or we die by it, right?" He punctuates the point with a mouthful of his rum.
"Atsadi. Your name is good. Fits far better than Fishface."
Lucas smiles a small smile, happy to see that not everyone thinks Plugg’s bluster is all that great. "Thanks, I think so, too. Where do you hail from, Atsadi? I don’t recall ever seeing artwork quite like that," says Lucas, gesturing at the big guy’s tattoos.
"You may have won the climb earlier. Next time I will win."
"Ain’t that the way? Some days you're up, some down. Here’s hoping we never get so far down that the Black Queen feels we oughta share the Magpie’s fate," with a nod, Lucas gestures toward the spot where the other pirate went overboard earlier.
Later, if things between Atsadi and the Rahadoumi fellow look like they're heading toward a fight, Lucas chimes in, "I like my man Atsadi for this."
Later, Lucas finds himself approached by one of the other fellows that got crimped in Port Peril. He catches the smirk and the veiled comment, but decides, let’s not escalate this too far.
He nods and smiles a smile that doesn’t quite make it all the way up to his eyes, which he lets lock on the new fellow in all their unblinking serpentine glory. "It’s only natural in the sense that you could call this 'the family business.' My old man was in this life; first mate of a ship that vanished down here about fifteen years ago."
Pointedly staring at the cook’s eyes and vestigial horns, Lucas continues, "Besides, I think you and I have something in common, as far as otherworldly branches to our family trees." He switches to Infernal and asks, <"Isn’t that so?">
"My turn for a question. What happened to you this morning? You didn’t even try to go up the rigging, just took two lashes and headed below decks."
<"Be careful on this ship,"> he says, speaking in Infernal as he makes to move past the other man. <"They tell me it is poison.">
<"Thanks, I've started getting an inkling of that. I figure I'll start by just keeping low and getting the lay of things.">
When it looks like a fight isn't about to erupt with Maheem, Atsadi turns to Lucas and shrugs, walking away. "I hope the Captain finds us a ship to bring in soon. I do not like being stuck as a messenger."
(I believe its against a DC 14 for one extra action attempted?)
Ambrose retreats from the crowd into the kitchen, intending to use whatever free time he had available to recover his grimoire and prepare his spells in secret. Unfortunately, he find the kitchen occupied by Fishguts. What an utter inconvenience. While such a development may have been unforeseen, Ambrose suppresses his annoyance and instead decides to turn it to his advantage.
"Good evening," he says. Pouring himself another drink, he pulls up a chair at the table in the kitchen. Fishguts liked to drink, and if Ambrose's first impression of the man was accurate, he could be very talkative. Taking a sip, he looks around at the kitchen where they had prepared the evening's feast. The roast pig had proved to be rather tasty, and Ambrose knew enough not to attribute that to himself. It was the first really decent meal he had had since being shipwrecked weeks before. "You are a far better cook than the crew gives you credit for," he says honestly. "Have you considered finding a ship that might better appreciate you? I might be able to arrange a place for you, assuming that I can get myself out of this mess to begin with."
Thinking about his current state of affairs elicits a sharp sigh from Ambrose. While he had begun the day in a poor state to be thinking properly, light work and plenty of food and drink at supper had done much to restore his mental faculties. With the information he had gathered over the course of the day, he was forming a clearer picture of just what that mess really was.
First, he was located deep in the Shackles, a day or so out from Port Peril. He was on the wrong side of the Eye of Abendego in unfriendly waters, and his best bet of making it back to Korvosa would be to somehow make his way to Bloodcove or Eleder and find passage on a ship traveling back north.
Second, his belongings (few that they were) had been stolen and would need recovering. Thanks to Ms. Quinn, he at least had the most important of those belongings, and that would go a long way toward getting the rest. Azrael had not made his presence known, but Ambrose's empathic link with his familiar was at least strong enough to confirm that the tiny bird was still alive and somewhat close by.
Third, the officers of the vessel were a cruel and bloodthirsty lot - typical pirates. However, there seemed to be an undercurrent of unrest amongst the crew. Exploiting whatever tensions existed would likely prove key to surviving long enough to make land at a port where an escape might be made. It could be months before they made landfall, so Ambrose would have to play the long game.
The tribesman wanders through the ship, asking a few questions here or there from more friendly looking faces until he's directed to where Grok is for the night.
He walks up to the quartermaster, leaning on the side of the ship and glancing over. "Evening. I 'ear you're Grok? The quartermaster on the ship? I figured' I'd come 'nd introduce myself and all. Always good ta know who you're serving with, right? I'm Atsadi..unfortunate new crew member."
He'll extend his hand, offering a shake.
When it looks like a fight isn't about to erupt with Maheem, Atsadi turns to Lucas and shrugs, walking away. "I hope the Captain finds us a ship to bring in soon. I do not like being stuck as a messenger."
As the two men walk off, Lucas emphatically agrees with his new comrade. "You're right at that, Atsadi. I'd love nothin' more than to be firing arrows onto the deck of a merchant ship. Start showing what I can do with myself, y'know?"
After Atsadi wanders off, Lucas does what he can to stir the crew's imagination about the wonders of Ghol-Gan. "Let me tell you a story of wondrous treasures, and the terrors that brave men must face to take it..."