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The Razor Coast has drawn men to madness and slaughter since the world was young. Tulita natives, born from the same fire as this jagged coast, claim the Razor existed long before the world’s other lands. It is a crucible of flame cooled by the ocean’s caress and its mountains, reefs, and lightless depths teem with as many terrors as lustrous spoils. The Razor bucks the trappings of civilization in much the same manner the storm-tossed sea spurns the men who dare mount her. This is no place for the weak-willed. Untested souls are food for its storms, its fickle gods, its ancient spirits, and the evil predations of
unfathomable creatures. No less dangerous are the men who make the coast their home and whose dark desires put most horrors to shame.
Every year another colony of hopeful settlers springs up, only to be silenced by the unforgiving landscape or butchered by fearsome tribes of monsters lurking just beyond the tree line. Yet still the colonists come in their hundreds, lured to the coast’s riches: its kava, its jocas fruit and koa wood, to name but a few. All treasures worth twice their weight in gold and all ripe for the picking along the Razor. Mossy placards emblazoned with the bold names of these colonies’ founders are the only testament left to their brief, prideful xistence. The last chapter of their story is now told in dust and ash.
Port Shaw is the only survivor. The town clings to the coast like the sea’s most stubborn barnacle, impossible to scrape from the Razor’s edge. At times it limps along,vexed by demons, angry gods, cannibal tribes, dread pirate armadas and worse; but at present the city thrives as foreign vessels flock to its harbor, their holds hungry for whale
oil and other treasures.
Port Shaw menaces and delights in equal extremes. Treasures and pleasures abound in this whaling boomtown, but evil and abandon take almost every soul who comes her way. This playground of pirates is ruled by the crushing fist of the Municipal Dragoons and filled with both the ancient curses of the coast’s Tulita natives and dark secrets of its own. It is an easy place to die, and a town where countless legends are born.
- Reiker Glassgrinder, accredited naturalist of
the Guild of Cartographers and Explorers
Picture it: you stand on the docks of Port Shaw. The smell of the salt sea rides the breeze, while dark rolling waves lap rhythmically at the pier. Inland, the Dreadsmoke Mountains rise high into the clouds. An ominous sulfur haze clings to their jagged peaks and the black behemoths loom, almost ready to swallow the city in fire. Nearby an egret prances from plank to plank, snatching morsels of corn scattered by a careless dock worker. The lilting calls of the gulls echo overhead. Further south, the dark and sturdy koa wood piers give way to hastily built pine additions, recently erected to deal with a whaling boom.
All manner of vessels moor here. Tulita war canoes rock in the water next to local fishing schooners. Foreign longboats rub gunwales with freighter brigs sunk low with heavy cargo. Enormous whaling barges dwarf the others — save the colossal five-masted naval frigate moored at the southernmost pier below the volcanic rock walls of Fort Stormshield. The forty-eight guns and 146 souls of Bonedeuce’s Pride are the power in the harbor and the only reason various motley bands of pirates, privateers, smugglers, whalers and fishermen have not torn Port Shaw to flinders long ago.
Even in the shadow of the Pride, and despite Commandant Gregory Bonedeuce’s swift sense of justice, the dockside taverns of Port Shaw remain notorious for vicious brawls. Incautious patrons regularly end up with cut purse strings or a blade between their ribs. The city breeds thieves and cutthroats like lice on an unwashed beggar.
On the docks as well as throughout Port Shaw, characters may purchase numerous products from overseas: exotic fruits and vegetables, strange alcoholic spirits from island kingdoms thousands of leagues away, supplies for whaling, fishing and any other nautical pursuits, the latest fashions from the East and West, and any and all daily amenities. Nearly every storefront faces west toward the street that runs the north-south length of Tide district, while the back of each building faces the docks.
The docks are teaming with people of all shapes and sizes. Merchant are peddling wares, dock workers are unloading ships from all over the known world. Dragoons patrol the docks, but do not seem to be too terribly interested in keeping order. You will see that they are armed with long barreled muskets as well as rapiers. The sergeants bear long swords. Their blue uniforms are a somewhat ominous sight to the unwary.
Sapele stands in awe of the grandeur of the port before im. Prior to now, growing up on Kakeou, the largest building he had seen was the chieftan's hut... which is easily dwarfed by the smallest of the wood and stone structures he is faced with. Awestruck face replaced with a genial grin he maneuvers his six foot frame delicately through the press of people belying his barrel chest and clear strength.
To those that look upon him, he must look like stereotype made flesh. Banded wristlets inset with jagged coral, a wide belt of tanned whale hide, leather thong around his neck with a colorful piece of shell upon the string, woven palm leaves forming a headband and a sharkskin sack slung over one shoulder as he walks. Upon his thick and muscled chest is a black tattoo of Old Angry Face, and his shoulders and arms bear similar black tattoos of Tulitan design.
The sight has left him dumbstruck for the moment, as he breathes in his first impression of the dockside.
The big native sat on the porch of a rather lively tavern that sat directly in front of the docks. His chair was up on two legs and his feet crossed at the ankles kicked up onto a barrel that had been left outside for far too long to ever be useful again.
His bare foot bounced in time to the music from inside and he happily smoked a pleasant smelling herb concoction from an impressively large wooden pipe. Cloying smoke wafted off of him in thick clouds as he watched the dock business with a lazy-eyed grin.
He was enormous. A head and a half taller than most men, and thick and broad as one of the rare short and bearded folk who came through from time to time. His barrel chest was bare and dark and covered in strange swirling ridges. They were scars, ritually cut into his skin in surprisingly artistic patterns.
Resting in his lap was a wooden mask that shimmered with green iridescence and scowled fierce and angry up at the sky.
A guy comes up to and says, You look like a world traveler sir looking for adventure! Wanna buy a map to Garr BloodBane's Gold? Just for you I offer you a special price of 250 GP.
"For the last time, I did not steal my way into port! I was simply asked to observe the buoyant properties of the captain's rum stock for future reference. Why...no, now that you mention it...I don't know where the rest of the rum went...You mean to say..I LOST THE RUM?!?!?!"
A very strangely dressed man has just been pulled out of what one would hope would be an EMPTY rum barrel. Obadiah is dressed in an impeccably tailored doublet, containing the colors of an ocean sunrise, an equal mix of thread containing reds, golds, and oranges, running through a field of purple brocade. Underneath is a flowy, billowing shirt that seems slightly tattered at the hem of an even brighter red, the color of freshly spilled blood. His pants seem to be equal measure weathered, sea leather and either a silk or brocade under-layer. His hair is a wild nest, which is truly indicative of the dreaded "hat hair".
And the source of said hat hair, an equally weather-beaten tricorn, seems to be in the hands of a dock worker, who also appears to have the lid of a large barrel under his arm. It is only after a few more meandering moments that the strange man, who many have come to know as Crazy Obi, Mad Man Read, or Nutcase, grabs the hat roughly from his "assailant" and shoves it back on his head as he walks away.
He seems to be talking to himself as he walks away. "Ungrateful whelp. I'll be sure to take it up with his superiors, who I should be meeting for tea, just about any moment now...Or was it next week, on the other side of the Port, in the brothel bar..."
It is during this internal monologue that the brown haired, light skinned fellow almost runs smack dab into Sapele. Broken from his conversation (which Sapele can easily hear), the man stops just inches from running into the native. He stares at him for just a moment and screams, as though he had just been run over by a wagon and a team of large horse that pulled said analogical wagon. Of course, nobody pays attention to the crazy man, after the exchange before.
The tavern you are sitting in front of is known as the Run Aground Tavern. This ramshackle little cabin of a tavern, right on Pier 22 in Tide District, is a haven for the many downtrodden, good-hearted folk of Port Shaw.
A guy comes up to and says, You look like a world traveler sir looking for adventure! Wanna buy a map to Garr BloodBane's Gold? Just for you I offer you a special price of 250 GP.
Overhearing the exchange, the big man raises an incredulous eyebrow.
A guy comes up to and says, You look like a world traveler sir looking for adventure! Wanna buy a map to Garr BloodBane's Gold? Just for you I offer you a special price of 250 GP.
Sapele crouches slightly to get eye to eye with the man, replying "Not need gold... but why sell? Why not you go find gold?"
The calm and centered tulita does not pay much mind to the antics of the strange one behind him, focused upon the map salesman as he is.
Its my bumb leg you see, I can't be travelling on any ships no more. Besides I have to take care of my dear old mum. But if the price is too much, I can offer it for 100 GP up front and a 25% stake in whatever you find.
.
Sapele smiles and gives the man a hearty clap on the shoulder "Not for me... good luck with leg" before straightening and walking on past him.
You overhear a comment as you walk by
They found the map to Garr Bloodbane’s gold! The real map. No joke. Hargrove found it, of course. The rich always make out, don’t they? And you know how I know its true? Word is they’re equipping an expedition. Those’re expensive. They don’t send something like that out unless the map is real, I tell you.
And on that note it is late and I need to get some shut eye. I will be back in the AM
A figure passes between Sandman and the sun. A deeply tanned and heavily tattooed Tulita stands before him. Dressed in colonial style boots and simple pants but bare-armed and without a hat on his partly shaved head the handsome Tulita seems to straddle two worlds. Around his neck a necklace of shark teeth is adorned with a strange idol, resembling a humanoid whale, with greenstone eyes and whalebone teeth.
Though wandering the streets, the Tulita appears caparisoned for war, his beautifully carved Tulita Ieku (war oar) and long barreled musket strapped to his back, a vicious steel harpoon incised with Tulita whale motifs in his hand. He places his other hand on Sandman's shoulder.
"Brother! It has been too long! I had not thought to see you again. How are you - still smoking that strange weed I see!"
He laughs lightly before becoming serious once more.
"Has our sister Vaina married yet?"
Strange that this Tulita speaks to another Tulita in a Colonial tongue, or with such facility, stranger still that these two should by any stretch of the imagination be brothers.
Slouching a little Silas stands off to one side, observing the goings on. His hood down, but his scarf covering a little of his face, he keeps the cloak about him trying to blend in as much as he can. His ears prick up at the salesman, but buried treasure seems like it'd only add to that bad luck that came with the serpent.
He looks about, taking in the docks of Port Shaw, trying to get back the familiarity. It is then that he notices the man clambering out the barrel, who wanders over to one Tulita, then the pair of Tulita just near them. Silas ambles closer, trying to give the impression he's a lot less dextrous and older than he really is.
"Well, it looks liverly here.", says a woman clothed in the colors of Quell and setting foot on the docks from a canoe. In her you recognize the cleric that helped Minerva's joy on your way in.
Small and wiry, she seems ill a ease here on the busy docks while she looked certain of herself when she was sure of herself at sea.
"I need to find the chapterhouse of Quell here and then I'm my own woman. Do you know where it is or we could ask these ones"
"Looks like a usual day of these docks." Silas smiles, paying honest respect to the lady dressed to honour Quell.
"They might have moved it, but I think I know where it used to be. I should pay thanks for getting back here safely.
Mallory gazed longingly at the sea as she walked the length of the dock, and back again, a ritual that she followed at least once per week. Months had passed since she'd been on a ship. In truth, this may have been the longest she'd been confined the land in close to ten years. Keeping track wasn't something she bothered with.
As the time passed, she grew more and more restless. Coming out onto the dock and staring at ships coming and going had contented her for a short while. She told herself that she was just being picky, trying to find the right one. But now? Maybe she was finding something wrong with every ship she looked at. Maybe the truth was that she was done sailing. After yet another shipwreck where the angry sea claimed so many lives, she had to at least consider it. Piracy wasn't exactly a career path that lead to growing old.
'Could say, "Jus' one more score",' she told herself, 'But we both know I'd be lyin'.'
Shaking her head, she turned from the sea and looked inwards, wondering if she could really adjust to a life doing something like farming. She shook her head, uncertain of everything.
To Beth and her inqury: There’s a new High Priest of Quell in town, who came to replace Archibald Noeliss. His name is Zalen Trafalgar, and some folks wonder if he is related to the famed Wave Rider Solomon Trafalgar. Whoever he’s related to, he’s healing the sick and the poor – even Tulita. He should be healin’ them thar’s that pays, instead!
Silas raises himself a little. "Well it's good he's healing the sick. Not much use healing the healthy."
Beth make a Knowledge (Local) or Diplomacy (DC 10)
Silas, you notice that the person who spoke is a well dressed aristocratic colonial.
Silas slouches back down a bit.
A dark-skinned Tulita stands like a statue shadowed by lopsided crates of clay flasks stacked carelessly on a pallet. Between his feet lies a clutch of broken eggs, the yolk running down to the mud below, another fragile dream smashed by the city and stirred into its filth. The
viscous, yellow egg juice pools around the Tulitas’ boots like thick urine. His eyes, hazed by some potent narcotic,stare towards his ancestral home a few miles inland, where foreign-owned plantations roll towards the mountains. Tears roll down his face and wet his filthy tunic, the first cleaning his sorrowful garment has seen in weeks.
(untrained as DC is 10)
Beth you learn that the chapter house is near the north end of the docks.
Already moving past the man with the desire to sell the map to treasure, Sapele moves to the forlorn and egg tainted Tulita. Drawing near he places a hand upon his shoulder and speaks in the Tulitan tongue "Brother... are you at ease? The bounty of the heihei stains your feet, but it is not reason for tears." looking upon him with a concerned eye and comforting voice.
The crazy man continues to wander along until he hears about someone offering cures. "Cures? Oh I love a good cure! The last curative I experienced was nearly 2 years ago when I ate that batch of rotten egg. Awful smelling stuff but two gold was a fairly good wager and an easy way to earn money then." The strange man struts, the polished steel and silver of his rapier and dagger glistening in the sunlight.
Seeing the drugged native, he tilts his head, almost laying it on his shoulder, his body beginning to tilt as he looks at the man. "Sir, did you place a bet with the egg man too?"
The narcotic is
Sapele, the Tulita barely recognizes that you are there. He seems somewhat confused and completely distraught. He is without question addicted.
You seem to be drawing a small crowd around you and the unfortunate Tulita and you hear one of them speak, Dragonsmoke smugglers pollute the local people with their deadly drugs. Young colonials as
well as Tulita swell the ranks of local addicts. Despite their best efforts, the Dragoons have accomplished nothing.
A few eyes look somewhat suspiciously at Silas.
The crazy man looks at the dazed Tulita, then to the one who approached him. "He's breathing dragonsmoke, friend. He should have stuck with the egg bets. Not much we can do...ooh! There's a healer around here somewhere! That'll do it."
He ponders a moment, measuring the Tulita from a distance with his hands. "I think he'll need to be moved like a sack of potatoes. Got a wagon anyone? Or a wherlbarrow?"
That's curious, I was told to expect someone else as head priest. I wonder what happened to him?"
In answer to Silas's comment, Beth nods once and starts to turn towards the indicated direction. "Lead the way, I'm curious about the new head priest. I was told Archibal Noeliss was the head of the faith here."
but before she makes five steps, she is stopped by Obadiah's call for a healer. Turning on her heals, she approaches the group surrounding the dragonsmoker.
"You were calling for a healer?", she asks first in colonial, repeating in heavily accented Tulita.
The big Man's eyes narrow to focus at the figure in front of him, staring for a moment as if he is trying to decide if what he is seeing is real. "Hoeroa?"
Then his eyes widened and his grin split even wider as he lept up and swept the other man into an enormous bearhug.
"I though I had dreamed you, Little Brother!"
He released the smaller man and held him by the shoulders to get a good look at him. "Perhaps I did, for else why would you be in this place, ah? Why do you come to Port Shaw? This is a bad place Little Brother, very bad."
"What brings you? How can I help?"
A quick examination finds the Tulita weak, sick and confused. Go ahead and make a heal check
Hearing mention of healer, the big Tulita thumps his brother on the shoulder. "You see? This is a place of broken dreams. My work here is never done. Come, I show you."
Making his way to the small group by the drug-addled man standing in the wreckage of his eggs, the massive, scar-covered Tulita's shadow announced his presence to the others.
"Dragonsmoke, eh? More, also. Heartbreak. Far more painful and destructive. Excuse me, I may help."
Without preamble, the big man reached out and gently grabbed the drug-addled man by the head and stared into his eyes for a moment. Then he licked his thumb, dipped his hand into a large pouch that hung behind the mask at his belt and brought it out again covered in a greenish-white powder. He smeared it on the man's forehead and beneath both eyes.
"For vision."
Then he pressed a hand against the man's chest and left a powdery handprint there.
"For heart."
And finally he poured a small vial into a hollow gourd full of water and shook it up before holding it to the man's mouth. Them man drank happily.
"For clarity."
The big man smiles at the group. "He will come around and may find the strength he needs to reclaim his life, but heartbreak stems from broken dreams and is not so easily mended. Your friend will need much help and support. Be well."
And without so much as an introduction or goodbye, the huge tulita turned to go back to his chair.
"You see little brother? There is much work to be done here. Much work. Now tell me what brings you."
After being released form his brother's gigantic affection, Morgan nods graciously to the assembled folk and watches in undisguised wonder at the big Tulita's magic and pride in his manner. After making a formal greeting to Sapele, Morgan shadows Sandman back to the tavern front.
Once Sandman is seated again, Morgan pulls up an empty upturned barrel, crouches on it and produces his own long stemmed colonial style pipe and commences to fill it with a regular, if fragrant tobacco. He slips into Tulita to converse with his brother.
Morgan spits this last out followed by an unrepeatable epithet. He eyes the colonials lately assembled, keenly noting Obadiah's manner, Beth's bearing and raiment. He focuses on Silas, squinting as if something occurs to him before watching the woman striding forlornly on the dock (Mallory). He taps his pipe against the rail before refilling it.
He calls to Sapele, a big Tulita grin on his face:
Morgan turns back to Sandman: