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There's those that say all life began in the sea, and perhaps it is so. The oldest things of life still dwell in the deeps, and even among those of us born and bred on land, there's some that feel drawn to the endless waters. What that call is, none can say, especially those that feel it; the sea keeps her secrets, safe beneath fathom after fathom of rolling waves. There is a darkness in the heart of the sea, and perhaps that is what calls out to those she claims - for all that sailors call the sea a woman, the truth is that darkness lies in all of us, man and woman alike, and some few who stare into those uncaring depths go mad from it. The sea, of course, is unconcerned. She is simply content to know she has claimed one more of her own.
For some, however, the sea is not willing to passively call out to them. Instead, seeing something special in these poor bastards, she stretches out her hand to seize those she has claimed...
...no matter the price.
You are first aware of the movement - an endless, ceaseless rocking. Your stomach rebels at the motion, and that surge of sensation brings with it other sensations too: splintered wood against your cheek, throbbing pain in your skull, stiffness in your joints. Next comes sound, a steady creaking of shifting timbers, then smell: tar, salt, sweat. Finally, painfully, you manage to open your eyes, only to have a bright light stab into them, cast from a lantern held right before you.
"Still abed with the sun over the yardarm?" snaps a rough voice, much too loud. A vicious whipcrack punctuates the sentence, sending a new wave of pain through your head. "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!"
As your eyes adjust to the brightness, you can make out the speaker: a scar-faced man, of average height but above-average ugliness, snarls an expression that might be one of pain, but you eventually determine is an attempt at a smile. With him are half a dozen rough-looking sailors, carrying saps and nasty glares, and you realize you are lying on the deck of ship's hold as these men glower over you.
"Still abed with the sun over the yardarm?" snaps a rough voice, much too loud. A vicious whipcrack punctuates the sentence, sending a new wave of pain through your head. "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!"
Slowly rising to my feet and assuming a determined, if somewhat shakey, stance, I look the the man squarely in what I hope are his eyes.
"I will do no such thing. You will return my belongings and set me back in Port Peril this insta.."
The man lashes out with his whip, interrupting you with a blow across the face that draws both blood and pain. "That's enough out of you, ye scurvy bellyacher! Secure yer hatch and fall into line!"
My head pounded and my stomach pitched mightily. I definitely heard shouting somewhere in the haze. Where was I? I pondered while I heard the crack of a whip. Suddenly, images of last night -- Port Peril, a tavern, a number of rough characters -- came to mind through the fog. Ah! Of course! I pieced what must have happened rather quickly, I might add.
I stood up, and brought my hand up in a salute. Artavious de Poisson, ready for duty, captain!
I blinked at his swarthy appearance, and sought my memory for his name and the details of our arrangement. Nothing cut through the fog. Oh, dear.
I'm terribly sorry to admit this, but, you see, I fear that I must have overindulged during last night's revelry on account of me joining your crew. I now seem to have forgotten your name and the name of this vessel -- OOOF!!
I deserved that...
Chum, having always been small for his apparent age (and in fact being older than that, anyway), had learned early that bearing the abuse of bullies quietly and without complaint generally took the fun out of it for them.
Standing slowly to give his sea legs a chance to catch the roll of the boat, he stands, glances at the man's face for a moment as he nods. "On deck. Yessir."
He will look for the ladder and hatch and, if not accosted by the gang of toughs, make his way to the deck. I hope those others that they took with me don't make this more difficult than it needs to be. And what happened to Doc and Patch?
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[ooc]Because I forgot to include it in the original post
I shake my head to stop the ringing, and spit the aftertaste of last night's toxic revelry mixed with blood at the feet of my captor. "Do you have any idea who you are dealing with?!" I screech, voice cracking with desperation. "When the Venture Captains hear..."
Perception:
Knowledge (nature):
The first thing Eleuterio is aware of is the pain - the dull, throbbing pain in his head. He felt like he was paying for a prolonged bout of drinking at a nameless alehouse, but without the benefit of the ale. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes in a vain attempt to stave away the light and deaden the pain.
He is slow to awaken, and his legs feel weak and uncertain - much like the first time he stepped onto a boat. When he takes in his surroundings, he sees the rest of the people in the room. The scent, the tone of voice, the surroundings, it all added up - he had been pressganged.
"Bloody pirates," he says as he finds his sealegs again, an edge to his voice. "You'll regret taking me aboard this ship." He moves towards the other defiant man, nodding to him as he settles into a fighting position. He kept the knife in his sheathe for now - they wanted him alive, and he might be able to use that against them, if things went poorly here.
The whip-carrying man barks a laugh. "Ah, looks like they're looking fer some pain, these two! Best we give it to 'em quick; y'know the captain don't like t'be kept waitin'!" He signals the other pirates forward, while sending his whip cracking toward Evril. The would-be Pathfinder snatches for the whip's tip, but - not surprisingly - misses; the razor-like leather continues toward him unabated. The rest of the pirates crowd forward, saps in their hands; three each move toward Eleuterio and Evril, swinging widly.
Chum stands back from the melee and watches, lips drawn in a line. You have to wait. Find out who's ship you are on. Look for your opportunities. Not be beaten within an inch of your life every time you awaken. I've no interest to become 'chum'. Not without more to fight for.
Punch-out! Uppercut!
Attack:
Damage:
Confirmation
Damage:
Eleuterio launches a haymaker at one of the pirates as he steps toward Evril, but he drops his guard in the process, and the pirates take ruthless advantage. Under the onslaught, the world spins and flickers, but the warrior of Iomedae manages to find the strength to finish the swing, knocking one of the pirates back, bleeding profusely from a split lip.
That, however, is all the victory Eleuterio and Evril can enjoy. The pirates swarm over them, hammering with their saps.
Chum sighs and points at the closer of the two, "Check their injuries? Or on deck? Sir?"
These lads don't seem to want to be here. Odd. Why'd they sign up, then? I thought while recovering from the gut shot I so richly deserved. Forgetting the captain's name and the ship I'm on! How mortifying. Wait. Did he say the captain's waiting? Then this fellow isn't the captain! What a relief.
Right, then! Nothing like a bit of brawling to get the blood flowing in the morning! But I dare say you've overdone it a bit with these lads. What say we prop them up and get them on deck so we can make sail and shove off and all that?
The quiet half-elf glances at what appears to be the fourth fellow press-ganged last night, eyebrow raised. I wonder if he hit his head. He seems to think he's supposed to be here.
He waits for the whip-wielder to indicate whether he should help pick up the foolish, check to see if their coconuts got cracked, or just climb the ladder.
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The man points with his whip at Artevious and Chum and snaps, "You! You! On deck now, ye worthless barnacles! The rest a'ye, gather up these landlubbers and haul 'em up on deck while I decide whether to throw 'em to the sharks!"
The pirates scoop up Evril and Eleuterio - the one with the split lip handling Eleuterio pehaps more roughly than is strictly necessary - and drag them up the ladder, while the man with the whip prods Chum and Artevious up the steps behind them. Once you reach the main deck, you discover you are on a large ship, well out to sea; the mainland and the docks of Port Peril are just an ochre smudge on the horizon, many miles astern. Pirates of all shapes and sizes work the deck and clamber through the rigging above and around you, and the salt air and seagulls' cries drift around it all.
Once you have all climbed up onto the deck, the man with the whip points at the mainmast, telling the sailors, "Tie these two to the bloody post. I'll have no repeats a' their disobedience." The sailors proceed to strip the two unconscious men to their waists and tie them to the mainmast with thick ropes; the dark stains on the ropes suggest this will be far from the first time they have been used for this purpose, and indeed they seem to have no other reason to be looped around the mast the way they are. A few other sailors glance with idle curiosity at Evril and Eleuterio as they are bound, still unconscious, to the mast, but it is somewhat chilling how uninterested most of the crew seem to be.
While the pirates are busy tying up Evril and Eleuterio, the man with the whip points across the deck at one of the other sailors, a human woman in her early 20s with dark red hair under a jaunty tricorne hat. Her arms are covered in swirls of pirate-themed tattoos and a long-stemmed clay pipe hangs from her teeth, and she glares back at the man with the whip in a way that makes no attempt to hide her evident loathing. "Besmaran b&&~+!" the man with the whip roars, indicating Evril and Eleuterio. "See ta these two! I need 'em awake fer their next lesson!"
The woman glares back for a moment, but she quickly crosses over to the two unconscious men, kneeling down and looking them over with pursed lips. From beneath her blouse the woman pulls a necklace - a skull and crossbones, the holy symbol of Besmara, carved from ebony and hanging on a leather thong - and holds it up. There is a burst of light, a green flash, and the two unconscious men awaken with pained gasps.
Chum takes a deep breath of the sea air. While the whip-wielder is concerned with getting his new laborers fit for duty again, the druid furtively takes stock of the ship he finds himself on and her crew.
Perception
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The ship is a three-masted vessel, about a 100 ft from stem to stern and 30 ft across the beam. The nameplate, on a brass plaque near the ladder that leads belowdecks, reads Wormwood. Raised decks fore and aft hang over the main deck of the Wormwood; the poop deck, to the stern, holds the ship's bridge and the ship's wheel, and above them both is a cage hanging from the mizzenmast, holding the decaying body of a recently-slain sailor. The crew looks to number perhaps 20 in all (not counting the ship's officers, but including the recent... "acquisitions"), which strikes Chum as just barely enough to keep a ship this size functioning properly. Most are human, but Chum spots a couple of gnomes, as well as at least one half-elf, half-orc, halfling and dwarf each among the crew as well.
A few members of the crew in particular catch Chum's eye: the Besmaran cleric, the halfling (a shockingly-muscled woman with a tight scowl and a sharp-looking axe), one of the gnomes (a foppish-looking fellow with a keenly-waxed mustache and an entirely ridiculous hat), and one of the humans (an angry-seeming, skinny man with a blue Varisian scarf over his head). All four lack the salt-bitten look of sailors who have been long at sea; whether they might also be fellow victims of the pressgang or just recently hired on, Chum suspects all four are almost as new to the Wormwood as he is.
Overlooking the scene from the bridge are two men: a massive Garundi man with a shaved head, a long beard bound in gold rings, and an eyepatch, and a younger man, bald save for a long black ponytail, absently swishing a well-used cat-o'-nine-tails in his hand. Chum immediately pegs the two as captain and first mate, respectively.
For the second time today, Eleuterio comes to, and his first sensation is that of pain. This time, however, the pain is from countless blows from saps rather than the general malaise of poison. Also, he was tied to the mast and stripped to the waist. That was new.
He glances at the woman wearing the tricorn - his tricorn, he might add - and her pale complexion and scarlet locks were marred by the ebony skull and crossbones she wore around her neck. "Nice hat," was all he said to her as he regained his wits.
He glanced around and saw the situation - he was far from land, on a pirate ship and at the mercy of her crew. At least there was this other man tied to the mast with him, possibly a Pathfinder, if what he said about the Venture Captains was true. "Steel yourself, lad," he said to him, sotto voce. "Scream too early, and they'll prolong the lashings. Scream too late, and the bosun may not stop until he's cleaved the flesh from your back." He tested the strength of the ropes. "My name is Eleuterio. Whom do I have the honor of sharing a whipping post with?"
his tricorn, he might add
Eleuterio finds the ropes quite sturdy - good hemp, as thick as his wrist - and almost certainly beyond his ability to break. Given enough time, he might be able to work his way free of them... but he's well aware the pirates aren't likely to give him that time.
Whom do I have the honor of sharing a whipping post with?
I scan the deck, looking for each of the men who set hands on me below, committing each scar, each wart to memory. Someone may need to identify them later... Ropes are solid.. What's this? No surprise a servant of the Pirate Queen would be a-board... Can't see who the captain of this floating cesspit may be...
The man's question shakes me from my observation, and I respond with a grunt. "Evril Cooper, Junior Midshipsman at the Andoran Naval Acad.ahh!"
The sharp sting of the man's whip once more traces a path across my shoulder blades, interrupting any further detail.
The man with the whip - the bosun, as Eleuterio has correctly assumed - sends a lash at each of the two men. The bosun surveys the damage, then nods and sends a second lash at Eleuterio . "That's enough fer now," he rumbles, gesturing for the pirates to untie the two sagging men, as the blood cascades freely down their backs. "These two're still fresh, and the cap'n'll want 'em awake to hear what he's got ta say. You'll fall in line, though, laddies, or I'll carve your spines for toothpicks meself!" He steps forward, and rancid breath pours over Eleuterio and Evril as he whispers, "But I still owe you, laddies. There's two more waiting fer ye, boyo," and he prods Evril, "and another for ye as well," shoving Eleuterio, "tonight at the Bloody Hour, after we deal with Jakes Magpie. If you want that to be all I owe ye, ye'd best step lively now... the cap'n's not a soft touch like I am." He steps away as the ropes are loosened from the two captives, and turns his attention to the bridge, where the captain himself is stepping up to speak.
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That's a rather rough treatment of new recruits, I thought during the lashings. They're going to jump ship at the next port. I simply must have a word with the captain. That might be him, up there. He certainly looks the part.
Artevious looks about him, the reality of being on a real pirate ship starting to sink in, and an excited grin starts to spread on his face.
Eleuterio doesn't cry out from the first lash, but the second brings a gutteral cry from the large man. It takes all the willpower the paladin can muster to refrain from grabbing the bosun and striking him down - but all that would get is another beating, and this time perhaps a swift end to his life. No, he'd have to be more patient, and wait for a time to turn the tables on his captors.
Best to be thankful for small favors, he thought. At least they didn't give us a Besmaran bath to wash away our blood.
and turns his attention to the bridge, where the captain himself is stepping up to speak.
If the look of absolute loathing in my eyes as I stare at the retreating man's back could be harnessed, the energy captured would dwarf that released by a thousand volcanoes.
Looking up at the big man I assume is the captain, I await any sign that this situation could get any worse.
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The massive Garundi man steps toward the railing at the fore of the bridge and looks down at his most recent recruits. “Glad you could join us at last! 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 all 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.” With that, the captain turns back to the wheel, leaving you staring up at the first mate.
Mr. Plugg climbs down the ladder to the main deck, looking over the four of you with a disgusted expression. "Pfeh. This is what I've got to work with? We'll all be lucky if you manage the first hour." He cracks the cato'-nine-tails in his hand with practiced ease. "My name is Mr. Plugg, but to you, it's simple: I'm sir. My job is to find you places in this crew, and try to make it so you're not going to send us all to the bottom in the process. So first off: I want you to climb to the crow's nest. Now! Go!" He cracks the cat again as he points at the crow's nest, 60 feet up the mainmast.
Right away, sir! Artevious says with barely-contained excitement. He turns to the rigging, spits in his hands and rubs them while looking at his new mates.
He'll whisper to the two who were flogged and beaten. I'll talk to the captain when I get the chance. That's no way to treat recruits.
The slight half-elf moves over to the rigging and starts climbing, slow but steady, without comment or watching the other three.
Just get to the top. Just get to the top. Just get to the top.
Climb
Climb
Climb
Climb
Climb
Climb
Climb
Climb
Climb
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Chum has reached a dizzying 45 feet in the air, when "dizzying" becomes more literal than expected - his grip on the rigging slips, and suddenly there is nothing beneath him but air and the deck far below. There is a rush, and then he slams into the deck with bone-shattering force. Mr. Plugg calls out, "QUINN!" and the same Besmaran cleric who treated Evril and Eleuterio before rushes over, her holy symbol already out, and with a few murmured words she sends healing energy through the druid's broken body. Plugg stands over Chum and places his cat on the half-elf's chest. "Don't bother," he says when Chum tries to rise. "I've seen what I need to. Pfeh."
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Knocked unconscious by the impace and just as suddenly re-awakened, the stunned half-elf says, "Yes, sir. I can do it, sir."
Standing slowly, feeling his way through the suddenly-aching muscles, he nods to the Besmaran cleric. "My thanks, miss."
Having failed his first test, he stands on the deck watching the others and hoping they fare better.
Eleuterio looks askance at the eager pressganged sailor as he darts ahead of him up the rigging. Is this man mad? Sounds like he's been out on the open ocean too long without a hat to protect his brains from baking. Still, he had no choice in the matter, and began to climb up the ropes.
Climb checks, full-round actions. Should need four successes to make it to the top, fall on 1-2, no progress on 3-6, progress on 7+.
The dice, they hate me and Chum!
I begin climbing without delay or comment, and not taking any chances by hurrying.
Eleuterio also manages to lose his grip on the way up to the crow's nest, but he does it enough sooner that he only suffers a fairly minor scrape ; by the time he recovers and starts making his way up again, Artevious is far, far ahead. Similarly, although he does not fall, Evril's progress beyond the first few feet is slow and troublesome, and he lags well behind the chipper would-be pirate. With a disgusted snort, Mr. Pluggs scowls at the lot of you and snarls, "I've seen better climbing from wet kelp! Pathetic, all of you. You!" He points at Artevious. "Your name, sailor!" Once it is given, Plugg shakes his head. "You're a rigger now, Mr. Pwassen! You'll be working for me directly, may the gods grant me patience to stand it. The rest of you! Tell me quick: which of you can cook?"
Chum doesn't raise his eyes from the deck.
Ho-ho! Quite the demonstration! I beamed proudly, as I returned to the main deck, but the first mate seemed to be a hard fellow to impress. I'm sure he'll come around, I thought.
Ah! my name! I'm sure his eyes will simply bulge when he hears. Artevious de Poisson! You may have heard...
"You're a rigger now, Mr. Pwassen! You'll be working for me directly, may the gods grant me patience to stand it. The rest of you! Tell me quick: which of you can cook?"
It's Poi - ssan. Ahem. Perhaps he's not much of a reader, then.
Eleuterio shrugs. "I've no particular skill in it. Then again, you lot don't strike me as the type to enjoy gourmet Taldoran cuisine."
Quietly, the small man offers, "Sir, I helped the navigator and the helmsman on my last boat."
Chum's starting to think something like this must have happened since neither of them are in the new crew. Whether that's what happened or not is up to you and likely immaterial.
"The rest of you! Tell me quick: which of you can cook?"
"I believe the last thing you want is me preparing food for your... men."
"The rest of you! Tell me quick: which of you can cook?""I believe the last thing you want is me preparing food for your... men."
Oh, come now. You can't be that bad of a cook, can you?
Oh, come now. You can't be that bad of a cook, can you?
I was taken off the Mess duty rotation as a plebe because half of the Firsties got sick every time I worked KP... I'm fairly certain you don't want me in the galley.
It's Poi - ssan. Ahem. Perhaps he's not much of a reader, then.
Plugg scowls. "I don't give a drop of Besmara's piss what your name is, Mr. Pussyfoot. All I care about is that you move when I tell you to. Fail in that, and we'll see if a taste of the cat doesn't change your mind."
The first mate seems largely to ignore the side conversation between Artevious and Evril as he ponders the three unassigned men. After a few moments' consideration, he points the cat-o'-nine-tails at Eleuterio. "You! Take your 'Taldoran cuisine' down to Fishguts in the galley. You're the new cook's-mate. You two!" He points at Evril and Chum (whose reply seems to have had no impact on him whatsoever). "Congratulations! You're our newest swabbies. Report to Mr. Scourge for your duties. Now go! All of you!" He cracks the cat to punctuate the order.
Eleuterio heads belowdecks in search of the galley, while Artevious remains above with Mr. Plugg and Evril and Chum find themselves the subject of Mr. Scourge's attention.
Plugg cracks the cat in his hand once more, pointing it up at a set of small tears in the mainsail and fore topsail. "Get up there and see to't that those tears are sewn shut. Move, Pussyfoot, or I'll see you sewn into the tears instead!"
Across the deck, Scourge glowers at Chum and Evril, the long whip in his hand coiling and uncoiling as he trails it over the wood. "Listen close, now, ye sorry lubbers; I've no time fer yer attitude, and I'll see ye five fathoms down before ye blink if'n ye try to give me trouble again. You!" He stabs a gnarled finger at Chum. "There's ropes I need spliced over yonder; get ta work, and I'll have more fer ye by noon, so ye'd best have it done by then. You, boy," and now he points at Evril, "yer mouth's already done ye good once, so it's best I see that yer too tired ta have it happen again. Grab a mop, swabbie, and get to workin' the deck. Now!"