You wake up to a pounding headache, perhaps the natural result of the fun you dimly remember having last night at the Formidably Maid in Port Peril, though the details of how the night ended don't come to mind so readily. You remember ringing laughter, fine-looking women in sweet perfume, and rich stewed meat, but little of what followed.
As you groggily come to your senses, you become aware of the sickly taste of cheap wine lingering in your mouth. Beneath you, the hard floor sways, as if you were still drunk. The stench of warm bodies, huddled too close especially as you seem to have your clothes on, penetrates the murk.
Before you can do much more than sit up, however, several pairs of heavy footsteps penetrate the rythmic creaking noise you hear, and the harsh light of a lantern painfully spears your eyes, which were all too happy for the dark room.
A tall, thin, sneering man with a braided beard and a mouth full of gold teeth is followed by a motley assortment of a half-dozen other men and women, each holding a sap, down a narrow staircase. 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:
“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!”
Looking about the room you’re in, you can see a rather spacious room with pillars supporting the roof above. Hammocks are strung between them, and between some larger, round columns … masts. Each of you is well-versed enough to recognize the construction when you see it ... and the tell-tale swaying of the floor speaks to its true identity. You realize you must be in the hold of a ship…and not a small one, by the looks of it. Worse, you realize that you have almost nothing of your possessions with you.
Offal looks down at his pants, missing his belt and knife, few of his few possessions in this world are gone. He cocks his head as he rises to his feet. He wears no shoes; he's never had much interesting paying money for them while working on the docks.
In dusting himself off, he looks around the room. He looks at the others on the ground in the same position as he.
“Still abed with the sun over the yardarm?”
"Sorry, capt'n, usually your mom nudges me out o'bed at first light," Cargas 'apologizes'. "But then again, your mum ain't known for her attentiveness on things that aren't shaped like a b'layin' pin."
Cargas hits the side of his head with his palm, trying to knock the cobwebs out of his mind.
A grim looking elf, his russet skinned head shaved smooth, looks up at the leering man and raises his hand to shield his eyes from the unkind lantern light. As the dwarf beside him makes his displeasure plainly known, the elf hauls himself to his feet.
His eyes narrow as he realizes they're on a boat. To answer the whip-cracker's order, he growls, "I was drugged." Though his statement is clear and terse, the unspoken question as to what happened and why he's in the hold of a sailing vessel chases his words through the air.
You realize you have the aftertaste of oily nutmeg on your tongue.
You realize the aftertaste is a clear sign of oil of taggit poisoning.
You think you remember seeing the whip-wielder last night at the tavern.
"Well, bully for you, pointy-ears. And you, you think you're funny, you puling little maggot? I said get up, and on the deck or you'll taste my whip! NOW!"
The elf's countenance darkens further as he regards the man barking orders. "I saw you last night." He glances at the others as he subtly slips into a bladed stance, his gaze then furtively casting about for a weapon of some sort. Seeing none apart from those worn by the ruffians in front of him, he presses, "What is this?"
The whip thin man with a pinched face and long hair tied up behind him levers himself to his elbows before the sudden blow of nausea hits him. He rolls to the side, dry heaving, the contents of his stomach clearly already expended. "Stars above. This is a thrice damned press ganging, isn't it? You're too ugly to be Chels, so you must be pirates, is that it?" He coughs and rakes his arm across his mouth. "Let the record show that I was not drugged, I was struck by one of those hoodlums over there with a sap, when I stopped to help a woman who had fallen." He staggers to his feet, his bare feet matching the roll and pitch of the ship better than his nausea should allow.
He looks at the elf and the dwarf, shaking his head. "If a halfling and a priest of Pharasma show up, we've got the makings of a joke."
A large half orc staggers to his feet and leans toward the sneering man. His lips pull back from massive teeth set in a brutish jaw and it appears for a moment that he'll lunge forward and bite the insolent man. Instead he stands beside the elf and echoes the simple words. "Aye, I was drugged as well." Then his belly rumbles and priorities take charge. "You say the Cap'n does the cooking and he's frying fishguts for breakfast? Right, outta me way skinny, food's a getting cold." Bud pushes his way past the whip wielding man and his entourage as he drives towards the deck and grub.
Being roughly shoved aside by the half-orc, the human shakes his head. "Yes, I'm in a joke. This is a joke and I'm the punchline." He straightens up, brushes his dirty clothes off and follows the half-orc onto the deck.
Other than the gross taste in his mouth, Bud notices little to nothing.
Cargas looks around for his axe, the only other possession that he might have cared about. His search is cut short by the crimson elf.
"I was drugged."
Cargas makes with a look of being impressed.
"Oh, you're a smart one, ain't ye? We should make you capt'n," Cargas bites, fawning over the elf who could figure things out so quickly. Then, he stops, his mirth made. "We would, but I doubt you can whip as hard as ol' chappie would like it," Cargas points his thumb over at the whip-wielder. "No doubt that one like his rump good and rare before he's satisfied and I doubt you have the brawn to do it just right."
Cargas makes a second look at the elf, re-evaluating.
"Maybe I'm wrong. You look like you could fight, but ain't seen an elf as as ugly as you in a long time. And I thought your kind was ugly went they weren't red. You add an entire another palette and dimension of ugly to the elves."
"Enough talk, stubby! You and long-ears can cuddle up some other time, but you got to the count 0' three to get on the deck or you'll taste my lash," the man snarls, stepping aside for the pair going up the stairs. "1 ... 2 ..."
The elf turns his eyes to the dwarf as the half-orc lumbers his way to the deck, followed by a twiggy human. He turns an angry and critical eye over the obnoxious dwarf, silently sizing him up. After a long moment of quiet regard, he ignores the dwarf's bilious words and turns his attention and scowl back to the whip-cracker.
"Are you Harrigan, then?"
The man growls and gestures, and two of the men with him -- a fat, pushy human with a shaved head, and a half-orc with a definite yellowish tint to his skin -- move toward you, with saps raised.
"You're even dumber than you look! I didn't say run your mouth and ask stupid questions," the whip-wielder growls. "I said get on the f&~~ing deck!"
His scowl still firmly in place, the elf presses through the two muscled thugs beside the gold-toothed man and makes for the deck. As he moves past the half-orc, he considers slipping around behind the brute, trapping him in a headlock then breaking his neck, but he thinks better of it.
Silently, he ascends up to the deck, his bright eyes darting around as he observes and bides his time.
Blinking at the sudden light, the human stops, letting his eyes adjust to the bright lights of the deck. He murmurs back to the elf behind him, "Nice to meet you. I'm Gezza. I do believe we might be f**ked."
Cargas follows the thin man and the half-human. He glares at the whip-wielder still, but with a bit of grudging respect in his eyes.
I gave him the rough side of m'tongue and he took it. I'd not have his restraint if when I hold that whip.
"Nice to meet you. I'm Gezza. I do believe we might be freaked."
"M'name's Offal," Cargas chimes in as if the human were talking to him. "Gezza, huh? I once knew a whore with that name. Charming lass, but she gave me the itches down below something fierce."
Cargas scratches his scraggly beard as he follows the pair up on deck.
"I don't mind working on ship, but dammit, they could have just asked. I don't need the whips or the shouting or the pushing around. Ain't no one who pushes me around for long."
"I don't mind working on ship, but dammit, they could have just asked..."
"They don't seem none good at asking around here. And I don't smell anything frying, fish guts or not."
the big man shouts to the sailors on the deck.
"Can't say I ever had that particular problem, Offal. Well, my name's Gezza, but they called me Redfingers on my last berth." He holds up his hands to show them slightly reddened by years of varnish and other fluids.
Shooting the dwarf a sideways glance as his words bounce around like senseless waves in the sea, the elf turns back to the human and nods, acknowledging and accepting the introduction. A scowl still on his face, though this time turned to the ship and their surroundings, he replies, "Most just call me Brood." He scans the area briefly, unsurprised to find no untended weapons, then turns his eyes back to meet Gezza's. "And yes, we are."
Turning then to the shouting half-orc, he says simply "It was a name." When the figure turns back to him with a quizzical look on his tusked face, Brood shrugs. "Fishguts. It's the cook's name, not breakfast."
A toothy frown stretches across the half orc's face as the reality dawns upon him. "His name is Fishguts? There's No breakfast? No gear? Aarrgg, we have been press ganged!"
"'Fraid so, friend. Pilfered by pirates. Kidnapped by killers. Taken by thieves. Et cetera, et cetera. It would seem my days of law-abiding are coming to an end. Let us meet the cast and crew of this special little drama, shall we?"
Whoa... there are a lot of 'em...
A rather lanky half-orc rubs the left side of his jaw, unsure whether he hit a table travelling to the floor, or said something indiscreet to one of those Formidable Maids...
As his eyes focus, he counts the saps, and references the whip, and decides that the day has started off much more poorly than he'd anticipated. Below deck, not above. Stripped bare, and not in the good way. The smell alone down here, it's worse than a monkey's cage...
Nimrod bolts upright, immediately sober.
Nimrod almost as suddenly quiets himself down, slowly realizing he's in no position to start barking out continued demands and questions.
He stifles himself, and wipes his hair back, before continuing.
"Sir, Master Lash, Sir, I'm sorry, I don't know your name, and I didn't mean to raise my voice..." The half-orc talks and walks towards wherever he's meant to be corraled. "It's just that I'm his keeper, and he'll have one hell of a time if he's left to his own devices... Could you just tell me if he's somewhere on this ship, at least?" He can feel the dagger in his boot, but ignores the impulse to produce it and threaten the lasher for answers.
He turns away from Gold Teeth, and looks back on the others, seeing them for the first time. He waves politely, then clasps his hands together in a beseeching manner, and turns back to the lasher.
The stairs lead up to a large room that looks to be a cargo hold, though it seems to be currently empty, save for a dozen or so caged pigs that squeal and snort about in excitement at your appearance; also -- perhaps germane to the half-orc's question -- a large gorilla that shakes the bars of its cage as you pass. You head up another set of steps, and emerge into the light, the sun all but blinding after the darkness below.
You find yourselves on the main deck of a ship, which runs between the foredeck and the poop deck. The mainmast rises from the center of the deck, extending probably 60 feet in to the air to a crow's nest.
You notice, now, that you're 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. They look up to the higher deck on the stern, where two figures stand. One of them is a broad, muscular man with a shaven head, a long beard bound with gold rings, and an eye patch, while 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.
A dozen or so pirates, clearly existing members of the crew, stand about on the deck or in the ship's rigging.
The large man with the eye patch, however, gives you no time to get settled or do more than glance around your new circumstances, which reveal you're well out to sea, a small smudge on the horizon behind you all you can see of Port Peril and the Shackles where you last were on solid ground
"Glad you could join us at last!" he calls out. "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 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."
His piece said, the captain walks away, leaving behind the man with the cat-o'-nine-tails ... apparently Mister Plugg. He looks down at you and smiles unpleasantly, as he follows the steps down to the main deck.
"Alright, first spot to fill! I need another rigger; you lot look less than worthless, but yer the choices given to me. Get on up to that crow's next...now! The fastest one up is my rigger," he yells out.
Brood watches the captain, his scowl deepening even further somehow as he regards the man he means to later kill. The scowl lessens some as Plugg addresses the group, and with little more than a quiet "Tch", the elf walks over to the rigging, his steps graceful beneath him as he moves across the rocking vessel.
Gezza shakes his head, staring at the retreating Captain and then up at the ropes. "Yo ho, yo ho..." He mutters as he begins to climb.
Edit:
Cargas looks at Mr. Plugg and his cat, then at the rigging. He bites back an insult towards Mr. Plugg and tries to play nice.
Riggin' always been a good job. As good as any...at least you get to see where you are, where you've been, & where you're going.
Cargas pauses briefly before attacking the rigging with his (somewhat) experienced feet. His short legs don't move as fast as some others, but he moves slow and steady up the rigging.
Climb
Climb
Climb
Climb
Climb
Climb
Bonus: Climb - climb above the 'nest, if possible.
Rigging was no trouble for Bud, he'd grown up dockside and knew his way around a ship.
Brood shakes his head at the silly test, then ascends the rigging with ease, though he makes no show of hustling.
Four of you scramble up the mast with ease, though one of the half-orcs struggles to get going. You all race to the top, Cargas getting left behind by the taller, faster trio. Gezza falters right before the top, looking up as Budos barely grazes the crow's nest moments before Sicarius.
"All right, you. Ugly one. You're my new rigger. You'll be working directly for me," Plugg tells you with an evil-looking grin -- maybe more of a snarl, in fact -- as you all reach the deck again.
"As for the rest of you sad wastes of space, anyone of you able to cook a decent meal?"
Gezza shakes his head. "I can burn water."
As Nim lays eyes on Magilla, he exerts his influence over his companion, infusing him with a robustness that will linger for the duration of his imprisonment.
He gestures towards the animal, his hands coming together at the wrist. The animal gestures back, cup hand to mouth, his hand ending up pointing at his rear.
Can't help... Drink Stupid Ass
Getting down from the rigging, half-orc speaks to faster half-orc. "Well done. Didn't catch your name. Mine's Nim. What's yours?" His voice gets quieter the further down the rigging they get.
"As for the rest of you sad wastes of space, anyone of you able to cook a decent meal?"
Nim keeps really, really quiet. Ain't no way I'm givin' anyone the chance to complain about my cooking. They'll have all the reason to do so... He looks at the others, expecting someone to be stupid enough to volunteer themselves.
"All right, you. Ugly one. You're my new rigger. You'll be working directly for me," Plugg tells you...
Offal claps the ugly one soundly on the back.
"Well done, Ugly. As a bonus, your face will scare away seagulls from nesting in the sails. You'll be known all over the Abendego as the ScareSeaCrow."
"As for the rest of you sad wastes of space, anyone of you able to cook a decent meal?"
Cargas opens his mouth, then shuts it, considering. Then opens it again with a shrug. A dwarf has to know his limits.
Cargas smiles helpfully.
"Nah...cooking ain't my style. Shoulda brought your mum on board. She liked a good plump morning blood sausage, she did."
"Well done. Didn't catch your name. Mine's Nim. What's yours?"
Following the discretion of Nim, Bud also keeps his voice low as they climb back down the rigging. "Budos Kaloz, call me 'Bud'. We best watch each other's back, my green friend, this tub looks none too friendly."
The climb finished and job assigned, Bud is startled when the dwarf reaches up to clap his lower back.
"Well done, Ugly. As a bonus, your face will scare away seagulls from nesting in the sails. You'll be known all over the Abendego as the ScareSeaCrow."
"Nah, I'll never get a chance, the gulls will be nesting in that untamed shrubbery you call a beard and they'll be leaving my sails well alone."
Brood looks up at Plugg as he asks his next question. The elf replies with a simple shrug, "Nope."
"We best watch each other's back, my green friend, this tub looks none too friendly."
Nim nods firmly, and deftly makes his way back down. Alright, the big one is less likely to kill me if he sees value in my watching his back. This is good. He's one less I need to worry about... now who...
As the dwarf rolls up on Bud, Nim looks him over, and gladdens when it sounds like they know each other. He readies to introduce himself as Plugg speaks up, hunting for a cook.
"Nah...cooking ain't my style. Shoulda brought your mum on board. She liked a good plump morning blood sausage, she did."
The half-orc takes a step back, imagining the length of the cat-o'-nine-tails and the possible collateral damage. Alright, the short one is more likely to get killed in my place. This is good. He's one less I need to worry about... now who else...
Gezza overhears the two half-orcs speaking and nods to them. He nearly chokes as he coughs down a laugh at the dwarf's rather earthy sense of humor.
Nimrod, you hear laughter at your outburst about your gorilla and one of the sailors mutters.
"That ain't your monkey anymore, boy. That's the captain's now."
--
The man's whips snaps out with a crack, lashing across Cargas' face and raising a bright red welt.
"Let's see you laugh at that. You look fat enough that you clearly spent time around food. And if I don't see you as much, maybe I'll be less tempted to kill you. You're the cook's mate. You deal with Fishguts, and if the food ain't good enough, we'll all know it's yer fault.
He jerks a thumb toward the stairs below the poop deck, clearly indicating that's where you're intended to go.
"You, ugly," he says to Budos, "start making yerself useful. Yer on the mainsail today. Make sure you don't fall off and whatever you do, don't foul up our rigging!"
"The rest o' you, congratulations. Yer swabs now. Good Master Scourge will let you know what yer to do!" he says, pointing to the man who roused you from the hold earlier.
He gives another look that you think is intended to be a smile and calls out chores.
You, he yells, pointing to Gezza. "Get the ropes shipshape.
"Monkeyboy, you're in the bilges. Probably nothing new for you, so you should be good at it."
"And you, long ears, you probably listen good. You can be on message duty today."
"Aye aye, sir. Ropes it is. But for the record, sir, I am a carpenter by training. In case it matters." Gezza salutes with a sloppy flick of his wrist and trots off toward the ropes to begin his knotting duties. and
Sicarius maintains his perpetual scowl as Plugg assigns him his duty, and he carries both his deep frown and angry countenance throughout the rest of day. He makes it a point to never rush or hurry while performing his task, always moving at the same deliberate pace, but he gracefully slips around others on the ship that may inadvertently bar his path.
At one point, a pair of swabs, likely also pressganged by the look of them, struggle to carry a heavy, capped barrel between them down a tight corridor. Rather than wait for them to back up or to backtrack himself, Sicarius simply jolts forward a half step then falls smoothly into a slide beneath the barrel. Rising on the other side and without losing his stride, he presses on without glancing back.
At the end of the day, and after a few bruises earned by his terse and unapologetic delivery of various messages, the elf is inwardly grateful for the training he received at Irori's temple earlier in his life. Without it, he's not sure he'd have handled the day as well as he did, both in body and mind.
Bud's eyes widen as the dwarf has his nose turned into the blood sausage the short man referenced just moments ago. When the whip man turns to him with a job shortly after that Bud offers no complaint.
Practice makes perfect, and lack of practice makes for perfect failure, which is exactly what occurs on Budos first attempt at rigging. It's a tough day at sea, nothing like the easy trips he's experienced before, and the labor drains his energy.
Fatigue dragging him towards slumber, the half orc finishes his first shift on the Wormwood.
Cargas touches the bruise on his cheek, nodding up and down.
He don't hit that hard. I'll show him how to use properly that eventually...he ain't one that I need to worry about.
"...and if the food ain't good enough, we'll know it's yer fault."
Cargas snaps off a quick, sarcastic salute.
"I'll be aye t' make t' food reflect t' quality o' t' inspiration you & ye leadership hast given me," Cargas chuffs before going to find the mess hall and kitchen.
* * *
"Fishguts? FISHGUTS!!?" Cargas carps as he enters the mess hall/kitchen. "Where are you? I'm supposed to be workin' in the kitch!"
Cargas rolls up his sleeves.
"What was we butcherin' first?"
You descend down to the middle hold, Cargas, where the gorilla you passed earlier rattles his cage as you pass. You also notice now that you're more coherent than you felt on your way up a hulking man with shaved head and goatee chained to the foremast. You at first think he's sleeping on a pile of feathers on the deck but quickly realize that the feathers seem to be stuck to him with tar.
As you go through the hold into the galley, you're greeted by a fat man in blood-stained white apron, obviously the cook.
He sways a bit -- in opposite motion from the shop -- as he turns to your entrance. "Eh? Wheure you?" he slurs.
Gezza struggles as he takes to the unaccustomed tasks, his mention of his carpentry skills bringing no more than a sour grunt from Master Scourge. The morning continues as it began, miserably, though shortly after lunch he's interrupted by an attractive red-haired woman in a low-cut cotton blouse.
"Psst, hey, handsome" she whispers. "I got something for you."
He can see in her tattooed arms a pair of books, one of which he recognizes as his own spellbook.
"I know it's not much, but it's all Cut-throat would give me of the stuff they brought on with you. Keep 'em hidden if you know what's good for you."
Sicarius, sent all over much the ship, is able to explore a bit as he runs messages.
His missives take him from the main deck to the foredeck and poopdeck , where you see the gruesome sight of a decomposing body in a cage hanging from the mizzenmast, a parrot perched on top of the cage.
You're also sent below to the middle hold , where he also sees the man chained to the mast; the galley ; the quartermaster's store ; and the lower hold and crew berths .
Gezza looks around briefly before accepting the spellbook from the beautiful red-head. "My lady, you are a light in a dark place! I'm Gezza. My last berth called me Redfingers, because I served as ship's carpenter and surgeon. You have my gratitude and adoration both!" Gezza quickly tucks the book away and smiles broadly at the woman.
Offal sizes up the cook and his swaying.
"Ah, I'm right here," Cargas says, moving closer. He takes a sniff of the man, hoping his idea of the man's sobriety is correct. "M'name is Offal. And as long as you don't threaten to beat me or whip me, we'll get along fine. I'll work good for those that pay well and keep their threats to a minimum."
"They tells me that I can drink as much as I like as long as I help out. We got food to cook or what?" Cargas surveys the kitchen area, eager to get to peeling meat or basting potatoes.
"Redfingers it is, then. Sandara Quinn, at your service," she replies, flashing a smile.
"Be careful here, Redfingers," she warns before moving away from Gezza. "I don't know what your last berth was like, but on a pirate ship, it’s not what you know but who you know that helps you get by. Friends help each other out, enemies cause trouble. On a ship like this, remembering that is essential if you just want to survive."
---
Belowdecks, the cook gives a toothy grin at the dwarf.
"I'm Ambrose Kroop. I make the food. You'll be helping me, I guess. Sometimes cutting, sometimes getting the food, so I hope you're good with a line. Here, have a drink," he adds, thrusting a bottle toward you after he takes a swig.
Grabbing a sharp knife, he starts cutting into a haunch of something. He chats as he works: "So, you want to be a pirate, eh? It's a life. I been plying my trade on ships for years, since I got started on a little pleasure boat called the Sea Wyvern. Spent a few years on that, but eventually moved on. Spent some time on this pleasure cruiser -- some legitimate work -- after that, outta Eleder, but the family got themselves killed and that was the end of the Blue Nixie. Decided I was in some bad luck down south so headed out to the Shackles. ..."
He rambles on as he cooks, fishing out another jug of alcohol that he happily downs, seemingly uncaring what you do, other than the occasional check to see you're still drinking what turns out to be astonishingly strong rum.
Ambrose continues to discuss his colorful career over the course of the day, eventually leading to the Wormwood.
“It’s poison, this ship, but don’t let anyone hear you say it aloud. The hull listens, see, and the cap’n hears it all. Poison the Wormwood is, though, rotten to the core. You’ll not meet a more nasty, sour piece of work than Cap’n Harrigan in all your days at sea, and his crew’s the same, ’specially the first mate, Mr. Plugg. Vicious little sod, he is. He’d take his own mother’s liver to the butcher to make pies with, he would. But they leave me alone, mostly. They know I can’t ’arm ’em.”
Sicarius slows his pace on his return trip through the middle hold, though his focus on looking for any possible weapon stashes outside of the quartermaster's room narrows his focus to the exclusion of most else.
Still, he cannot miss the strange man, tarred and feathered within the hold. Stalling near to the man, he gruffly asks, "Who're you then?" To his credit, the elf's expression softens from a hard scowl to a shallow frown.