"The men who drive the carts from town," he replies. "Scavengers. Take what they want and bring the refuse to me. Which makes a scavenger of scavengers, I guess," he laughs with a bark. "I keep what they've already rejected, of what was left as worthless on the streets of Riddleport."
"Then to refine my question, have you seen any ladies, of substantive nature or lesser repute pass through?" Tendal questions, poking at a bit of coiled rope with his cane.
Krooge snorts. "Ziphras and his boys are always wanting women. You should hear them go on about it. I reckon they must get themselves one now and again. They never bring them calling, though. Ziphras, you see, runs all that's down there," he jabs a gnarled finger over the cliff at the swamp stretching to the bay, "and I run what's up here by the bonfire. You wouldn't call us 'neighborly,' like." His wide mouth twists into an amused grin that shows too many sharp teeth. "Me and the rat catchers and Captain Cullie, we live and let live, we do. There's room for us all in the Boneyard."
Gristav turns from his undiscovering toward the hermit. "Some in the Boneyard I'd see quit of it. I must apologize", he says, "I had thought you, and your demense, the resting place of what we seek. Who we seek. I don't expect we're welcome to remove them, nor to search. So the question arises: If it's live and let live, how are you with our searching them, and retrieving those we've lost? And if that comes to blows? Live, and let die?"
Looking to Gristav incredulously, "In Common, Gristav, in Common. Remember who we're talking to, bub."
Looking to Gristav incredulously, "In Common, Gristav, in Common. Remember who we're talking to, bub."
"We're speaking to a cleverman, more than capable of understanding.", Gristav says after a glance to acknowledge Snake. "But for whoever's benefit, I'll rephrase. We've had two of us taken, and signs they are here. Or perhaps, there-", he gestures toward the drop with his staff, and the servant shifts a tarp as if in an invisible wind. "-over the drop. We expect this to come to blows - some wish that more, some less - Is it a battle that begins here? I think not, Cullie speaks well of you."
"Oh, does he?" Krooge chuckles. "He's a good man, is Cullie. Never had any argument with him. He runs the road, you know, at night at any rate. You stay off the road, he'll not bother you."
"You can take what you want from here, thanks to your friend's generous purse. But I doubt Ziphras will agree to the same deal. Those he takes, he keeps."
With the immediate threat of danger and dismemberment passing, Phil eases out from his lurk to move round the corner where he can take a clear line of view to the huts entrance as well as what he can see of the rest of the yard. He leaves the discussion within to the others, seeing them well about it, instead focusing on the view without... and any sign of disruption or threat.
Phil edges casually around the side of the shed, his attention less on the detritus piled under it and more on the ridge above and swamp below.
There seems to be nothing in the hermit's hoard other than trash, some scattered randomly around the pavilion, other things, like the colored bottles and a somewhat disturbing collection of discarded toys in various states of undress and disassembly, eyes all staring glassily out at the harbor.
As the others speak to the crazy half-orc/orc/whatever he might be, Snake helps himself to looking around. As his mongoose friend pokes its head out from within his pack, "You don't wanna come out here, Luck. Odds are you might get eaten by... I don't know... something."
"Gentlemen." Tendal says, addressing his comrades. "Now that we have a better lay of the land, we need to decide if our best path forward lies in examination of this portion of the environs, or if we need to fully stick our hand into the bleak waters below and see what bites at our fingers."
Even a half-hearted search turns up a box of metal hooks, whether for a butcher shop, grappling, or pirates; a single drawer without its chest containing a mishmash of utensils, including some gnawed-on wooden spoons, an assortment of skewers, and a toasting fork; a chest full of rusty chains of various sizes and lengths; a collection of wire and wooden cages, many with missing doors or broken slats; a collection of broken spectacles, monocles, and pince-nez; a set of false teeth; a bag of damp confetti; a cracked wooden flute; an assortment of pipes, both wooden and clay; a sack of what appears to be rotting hay; a cowbell; an assortment of tarnished hoop earrings in a battered tin box; and a taxidermied crow with a missing eye. It seems clear that the group could easily spend more than an hour here performing a thorough search; what is less clear is if it would be worth their while.
Apart from sea gulls, Phillip sees nothing which could be watching their personal shopping on the cliff ... though their presence on the overlook could be easily perceived by anyone or anything holed up in some of the abandoned hulks below.
As for the abandoned shipwrecks, many look eminently habitable by those who don't have high standards of personal luxury. If, in fact, Riddleport's rat catchers live down there as reported, they must almost certainly be living among the wrecks; there are no visible structures otherwise.
As a means of settling himself, Phillip puts his blade back away and retrieves a copper from his purse. Settling it a flutter betwixt his digits he purses his lips and exhales slowly.
He takes some comfort in the fact that the tall grass and scrub hiding the details of the slope down to the swamp should provide him with a measure of cover for his further travels.
Shaking his head in annoyance, "Nothing. There is nothing here, bubs. If one of our 'missing persons' are here, then I'm thinking, we're probably not gonna find them. It's a needle in a haystack. At least if they were dead, maybe we could smell them. But even that might be a tall order in this dump," he says as he looks around and decides to conclude with, "and that ain't figuratively speaking either."
"No, let us speak more plainly. We're going down there. How clever do we want to be? Do we stuff that confetti bag into that bell to muffle it while it's ours, and then hang it down there to annoy and draw out targets? Do we work the hooks into the chains, and make tools for climbing or searching or war? The mouldering hay, is it to become a smouldering second bell? Perhaps one of those lenses carries a curve enough for the sun? No, that wouldn't be used at an eye..."
"And you, our hermit host, must you seem to have been beaten by us, for your future safety, if we invade your neighbours from here? Or do you favor our odds so far as you might weight them?"
"And after, I do favor the tarnished and rusted, and the worn crow seems all but meant for Cullie's crew..."
"And you, our hermit host, must you seem to have been beaten by us, for your future safety, if we invade your neighbours from here? Or do you favor our odds so far as you might weight them?"
"Invade?" Krooge lets out his strange barking laugh again. "Is that what you're doing? I told you, Ziphras runs what's down there, and I run what's up here. We live and let live, we do, me and Ziphras's boys and Captain Cullie. There's room for us all in the Boneyard. Is there room for you?"
Gristav busies his hands and magicks with the plundering of trash as he'd outlined, which sadly left his mind and mouth mostly unbusy,
at which they both of course rebelled, and returned to habit.
The confettied bell, Gris set in reach of Phillip.
"There is no room, for those of ours, we think they have, to remain here. Is there room for us to retrieve them? Is 'Live and Let Live', you telling us where they might be, that we're out more cleanly? Are your interests preserved better in guiding us, or in watching us break on their gates like the first wave to ever sweep that foetid beach?"
The chains lifted from their chest by measures, rust falling from them at Gristav's gesture, his brow furrowed at the waste of good alchemy. Ah, well, maybe later.
"Or would you rather we sweep it clean? I don't know enough to weigh our chances, but care too much to let that lack of math dissuade. I wish to you no ill fortune, nor, for that matter, to Cullie. Nor to no man. But we'll have our missing back in hand, the knowing of why not, or the release of battle and the peace at battle's end."
"The near future is clay, and fate puts it in your hand at the moment. How would you shape it, before passing it on?"
"I think that Snake is correct, if we are to find what we are searching for, we must either partake of other means, or search elsewhere." Tendal says pointedly, a frown crossing his face.
"Where is the hound and his master? We may not be able to find the exact location of what we seek, but perhaps by circumlocution we can determine the area in which our prey resides."
"You got your money's worth," Krooge replies to Gristav's questioning. "That doesn't include my advice. Or interest." The hermit returns to his makeshift room in the shed.
Over his shoulder Phillip calls "Done?"
"Do we have our people?" Gristav rejoins. "Then no. Is there a path that offers advantage, either by stealth or ease?"
"Let's collect Greatreave and see if we can suss out the other road." Tendal says, then starts making his way out of the hut and back toward the road.
"Sir hermit, I bid you good day, and successful pickings." he says to the open doorway as he walks away.
"Yeah I'm with Suit. Maybe the pancake guy and his dog will have better luck." The tall man also heads out as well, heading toward the direction the gnome and his dog went.
The four men go back down the deeply-rutted slope to the main road and look up and down it. There is no sign of either gnome or dog. If you had to guess, you would assume that they would have headed back through the cut in the ridge to Riddleport rather than out into the open countryside. Braddon might be able to find footprints.... What ever happened to Braddon anyway?
Snake looking around at the four of them, sighs. "I think we forgot Braddon. Probably should go back and get him. Don't suppose any of you saw which way he went?"
A small stone flies from down the road and falls short, clattering thinly on the ground before coming to a halt. A hand gestures from some bushes, followed by a bedraggled man sized creature. If you thought Braddon was mess before, the dirt and branches, twigs and grass make it clear that he is able to look worse. It appears he has been, if not rolling around in the bushes, then at least climbing through them.
He combs some vegetation from his hair and continues watching the shipwrecks as the others approach.
"There's no more hiding places past here. We're exposed and in full view all the way down to anyone, or anything, waiting for us."
"Then to continue would need to walk in plain sight... either furtive or forthright." resting a hand on hilt of blade as he retracts from leading any planning to follow.
"We're not going to wait for dark, we've not enough of us as can walk in it. But there's another discrete path, for some of us. For Snake, and Phillip? Perhaps Tendal? A bit devoid of dignity, but if Snake can fall in his featherlike fashion, with aught of any burden in his arms... No? Then there's little hope for a discrete approach in this day's light..."
"Braddon, Phillip, you've the minds to have seen: Was there, back in the ridge-fallen range, a place where a rope with Snake's belay at the bottom might have us all down swiftly? Or perhaps all but one, who walks the road boldly, to draw attention away. I might be that fool."
The only safe route down to the Boneyard is by the grassy slope at the east end of the road. Once there, the tall grass and scrub at that end of the road will provide some cover for those descending to the swamp, but their approach across the cliff to get to that area would be easily discerned by anyone watching from the wrecked ships.
Because of the exposed nature of the cliff above the swamp, there is no cover for anyone either jumping down or climbing down a rope; there may, however, be some solace in the thought that any watch posted might well focus on the obvious route down the slope and not be looking at the ridge on the western end of the road. Braddon knows from recent experience, however, that any approach over the rough ridge rather than taking the road is strenuous and dangerous for those unskilled in wilderness skulkery.
A third option may be to go back into Riddleport, out through Lubbertown, and around by the long loop that joins into the road to Roderic's Cove just past the Boneyard. By turning back west toward Riddleport there, one could attempt a stealthy approach to the swamp down the slope without parading across the road in full view of the ships first. It would, however, take at least an hour of daylight to go the long way around.
"We're all going to be that fool," Braddon sulks. "From the bottom of a bowl, you can see all the edges. At least, all the Riddleport edges. And I don't wanna take the road to Roderic's Cove again and double back. It'd take hours. And you'd all sink in the swamp. So I guess it's not all bad."
Braddon shakes his head. "I'm hot and tired and angry. Let's just go down there and start killing people."
"Good enough then. I think that there may be advantages to taking the direct approach, on occasion. It keeps the opponent off guard when they are expecting something less...bold." Tendal says, following Braddon down the long slope.
Shrugging, "Sounds like we got ourselves a plan." Drawing out his morningstar, "Besides, if we get surrounded and we don't make it out alive, probably fair. I've cheated death once already so I'm guessing twice is probably asking a bit much," he states as a matter of fact, his visage stone-like as always. "As long as we take a few with us... that'll at least make it worth my while."
Phil sighs, considering the descent into the muck and what would likely prove far less pleasant for one closer to the ground such as he than for those of longer limbs. By way of preparation he ensures his pouches are well sealed and tightens the cinches at the base of his trousers. Running a final hand through his hair while it remains clean, he moves his crossbow from hip to secured over the shoulder to hopefully save its string from damp.
"Well... lets be about it then."
The five men take the road east. They feel uncomfortably exposed walking along the cliff above the swamp, though they see and hear nothing more threatening than seagulls among the wrecks below. The road descends from the gap through the ridge toward the rolling plains that separate Riddleport from Roderic's Cove. Just before the junction with the loop to Lubbertown, short and scrubby trees have enough soil atop the bedrock to thrive, despite the salty air, and just before reaching the trees, a grassy slope just gradual enough to descend without an overwhelming chance of tumbling headlong extends down to sea-level.
Once off the road, the probability of going unseen increases dramatically. The grasses alone are tall enough to provide cover for the halfling, and the group is soon down at the keels of the broken ships rather than up on the veritable proscenium of the cliff. The flipside is that the swamp itself, rather than being spread out for their view as it was from the road, has become a labyrinth of broken hulls, decks and spars either far above their heads or tilted so that decks are sloping walls and barriers. Even the smudge of smoke from Krooge's bonfire is indiscernible from this end of the swamp, with so many massive obstacles interposed. It is clear that the base of his cliff can be reached by following the edge of the road back to the west; alternatively, the coastline must be to the south, though there is no telling how deep the mud may be near the shore.
Braddon casts his keen eyes about the muck, searching not only for solid ground but for signs of passage or disturbance. He listens for sounds beyond the creaking of galleys and croaking of gulls.
He turns to the others and whispers loudly, "This is a great place for an ambush, so shut up and look out. With Desna's blessing they have a human's patience and are slacking off. But since it's only a few minutes since we passed that ridge, I wouldn't bet my life on it."
Braddon slides his magical shortsword from its sheath and with a regretful glance down at his new boots stalks forward among the ruined hulks.
The tall man keeps a wary eye out as they move along as Lucky retreats to the confines of the backpack although he keep his head out the top so as not to miss anything.
Braddon's glance finds Phillip already practicing what he was about to preach. Picking his footing carefully the halfling is wary and sending furtive but intent filled glances around them. Trusting that at least Magnimar will shine like a beacon light and shelter him in his glow... he doesn't spend much effort at stealth.
Gristav gathers Phillip's eye with a point of his staff, before pointing an empty hand first at Phillip and then at the breadth of the half-elf's shoulders. A poor mime (improved by a practical experience) of the staff testing the ground ahead as Gristav walks completes the offer, if not the exchange.
Braddon casts his keen eyes about the muck, searching not only for solid ground but for signs of passage or disturbance. He listens for sounds beyond the creaking of galleys and croaking of gulls.
The terrain is uncongenial for tracking. Here near the slope, the grasses are long and concealing; further into the swamp, the ground is wet enough that any footprints will fill in again before too much time has passed. Add to that the daily ebb and flow of the tide, and the most that Braddon can say is that they seem to be the first group to have used the slope to enter or exit the Boneyard today; the vegetation appears unbroken and unbruised.
In addition to the gulls and the sounds of the hulks settling and shifting, there is an occasional distant splash, as of something falling into the murky water. It is difficult to tell how far away or in what direction any particular noise is coming from, due to the intervening obstacles and the labyrinthine passages through which the sounds must echo to reach the listening ear.
As Braddon heads out into the heart of the marsh, the mud quickly becomes thicker and deeper, its suction threatening to pull his new boots from his legs as he tries to raise his feet; Phillip before long would be past his waist. And yet the men have been led to believe not only that people have come and gone through here but that the rat catchers live out here. There must be a safe path somewhere which leads through the morass.
Snake is the first to notice the chalk marks on the planks of the ships. They are low down, just over the stains that show the mark of high tide on the hulks, but there is one on the tip of the nearest bow and another visible on the next ship over. It is possible that they blaze a trail ... though to what is unclear.
Stopping as he notices something among the ships, he narrows his eyes to focus. "Hold a moment, bubs. What do you make of those chalk marks?" he asks, pointing them out to the others.
”Perhaps they are boards marking the way into the swamp. Solid footing? Though I would not put it past any to have some pattern of defenses woven into the walkway.” Tendal mulishly muses over the muddy markings.
Braddon looks down at his boots and scowls. "No one saw them before I sank in the mud?!"
He shlucks his way over to the path and looks back to the others. "Lucky for you guys, I'm good friends with the ratties."
He then leads on, muttering quietly to himself. "I so need a bath after this. And I know just the place. Hey, I wonder if both Lexy and Anya are working tonight?"
The group begins cautiously to follow the chalk marks on the ships' keels. While it would be stretching the truth to call it a dry or solid path, the blazed trail does seem to avoid the deepest and stickiest mud. Still, it's not a quick route. At times, the next chalk mark isn't immediately visible, and Braddon has to crouch down and gaze all around until he sees the next sign.
The path is circuitous but leads essentially southward. Eventually, as the men wade between a pair of signposts, the hermit's promontory is briefly visible again far above their heads to the west. The shed itself can't be seen so far from so far below, but the bonfire is crackling on the edge of the cliff.
Braddon pauses. There are two marks on the latest keel, one in red and one in blue. The red mark points to the southeast, and the blue, to the southwest.
"Red for danger," Braddon nods sagely.
"We should go this way." Braddon points at the blue chalk mark but looks to the others for confirmation.
Braddon looks down at his boots and scowls. "No one saw them before I sank in the mud?!"
He shlucks his way over to the path and looks back to the others. "Lucky for you guys, I'm good friends with the ratties."
He then leads on, muttering quietly to himself. "I so need a bath after this. And I know just the place. Hey, I wonder if both Lexy and Anya are working tonight?"
The tall man simply stares at the complaining ranger a moment. We're probably about to be gutted by some of the worse scum this side of the world has ever seen... and he's worried about mud, he thinks to himself, shaking his head at the absurdity of it all.
"Red for danger," Braddon nods sagely.
"We should go this way." Braddon points at the blue chalk mark but looks to the others for confirmation.
"Blue works for me. Let's move."
