"Yes, Malgrim, I find I would agree," Arimar shakes his head though, "Except for that pearl-plated bimbo who shot out of the water. It seems this is a perfectly natural occurrence. I'm thinking maybe we should try to make contact again somehow... though I doubt they'll be happy that I've raised one of their precious sea creatures to aid us from beyond its watery grave."
The necromancer sighs as he mops up the last of his purified stew. He is glad, and not for the first time, that he has long ago lost the ability to taste. "Still, the textures are most foul," he mutters to himself.
"What choice have we but to keep doing what we are doing?" Arimar asks, "With luck, those men will be mended on the morrow and can return to work. I will tend them so that their bodies may recover also once the disease leaves them."
Caerador nods to the Captain and ducks out of the room. He stays just far enough where he can barely still eavesdrop yet does not overtly appear to be doing so.
Just as he thinks he is at the right distance, an unexpected sneeze erupts from his face, startling him nearly as much as it must have startled the hushed voices inside the Captain's quarters. Caerador decides it best to hurry along so as to not incur the wrath of the Mistress and heads above decks.
"There is something else on the air, too. Something Mistress Lanvi is not telling us. Some specific reason she decided to hire a full contingent of successful former Pathfinders for this voyage. An overt attempt was already made on her life in port, now this is beginning to seem like another covert attempt." Caerador pauses for a moment to nod and wave to a small group of sailors crossing the deck; once out of earshot he continues. "As we speak, she is conversing secretly to Barbosa about 'the other matter', that is, between her bloody coughing fits. But when I mentioned that a disease broke out amongst the crew, she gave no hint of concern for her current state of health, even before knowing what that disease entailed. Maybe we should press Lanvi for some more information; there has got to be more to this than we know."
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"I noticed her coughing fits earlier too." Benaiah mentions, adding credence to Caerador's statements, if it even needed to be added to.
"I tried to say something but she blew me off, and called for her handmaiden. We might be able to find more out of we talk to the handmaiden about what is going on first."
Benaiah rocks his weight back and forth on his feet, not comfortable standing still and subconsciously willing the ship to begin bobbing again on waves instead of the unnatural calm.
"With the mats, this disease, and whatever the boss is dealing with, there is too much going on to feel like a random coincidence. Perhaps this is another subtle attempt on her life."
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The calm seas and the monotonous work at the hands of the crew to cut the miles of Sargasso mats mixed with the calming salt air makes Caerador nappish. Although he has little physical need for sleep, he has always found the time to be peaceful and a nice break from the constant company of his own thoughts while in reverie.
"I'm going to head belowdecks and take a break for an hour or two" he claps the Aasimar's shoulder for emphasis. "Let me know if something pressing comes up."
It is only a few minutes after Caerador curls up in the bunk before his mind is peacefully quiet...
...quiet still...
...then out of the nothingness an image arises. One that he could never forget, as much as he would like to.
Almost always his visions and memories come to him from the setting of the cold, candlelit library in his father's keep. On this day, his endless study was interrupted by a tall, imposing figure. Caeradwyn always had an air of authority, and his flowing black and purple robes accented this effect. Today was different though. He stood before his son for a long moment. No commands issued forth; no reproaching words. Instead, a sinister grin commanded his visage. Caerador knew that something was truly amiss. He had never seen his father smile, never knew him to feel joy. The only thing that made him happy was power.
"I have news for you, child. As you refuse to properly focus on your studies this should come as some relief to you. You will NOT be inheriting this keep upon my death as I have planned. You do not deserve the honor." The dark wizards grin grows to comic proportions as Caerador stands from the large table piled with books. "No, there is only one individual who could possibly deserve the right to the prestigious and noble Grimualt Manor; only one who can properly manage Grimualt Keep once I am dead."
Caerador hesitated to ask. The stillness in the dimly lit, stuffy room was even more oppressive than usual. Even the ghasts under Caeradwyn's command who tirelessly and constantly workded in the library stopped their endless tasking and stared towards their master with rapt attention.
"Who is this person who more deserves this keep once you are dead?"
"Why, ME, of course!!" Sinister laughter echoed though the vaulted ceilings, cold ice-blue eyes never leaving their locked stare towards the budding arcanist.
"Your studies are complete. Or they are not, I care not anymore. I will not need to cultivate a noble heir to my house, as I have attained both nobility and everlasting life. My loyalty to Geb has seen me rewarded. I need perform only one task, and my victim has been found. The corruption has already begun."
Caeradwyn's visage softens uncomfortably and he places a hand on his son's shoulder.
"I was not always this way. I once had a heart for freedom and good. My better sense tells me to kill you now." Caerador tenses, yet his father's hand remains reassuringly on his shoulder. "I rarely succumb to my old self, but I will make this exception. Tomorrow I leave for Mechitar. I will be gone for three weeks. When I return, if you are yet here, I will remove your soul from your weak, frail body and add it to the library staff."
Caeradwyn gives another unsettling grin to his son. "Good day, my son. Enjoy your studies."
A sharp intake of breath echoes through the ship's hold. A sailor who happens to be retrieving provisions nearby is startled at the sight of the elf as he sits upright in his bed.
"Ye alrigh' Master Elf?" he says with feigned concern.
"Yes, yes. Fine." Caerador wipes cold sweat from his forehead on the sleeves of his robes. "Tell Arimar that I am on my way back to assist him in aiding the crew."
Seems as if I am not at peace from my thoughts even asleep...
As Caerador exits the captain’s cabin, he lingers a bit longer than he should. From behind the door he can plainly hear both the masculine voice of the captain, and the much higher voice of Mistress Lanvi.
”....bad id . ….. could be weeks … course ….” says the captain.
”.... Displeased ...worse…..” he hears Mistress Lanvi say.
As he moves to overhears more, he bumps into a swinging lantern. Rather than stay to see if he is found out, the elf makes his way quickly above deck.
The day progess much the same as the others. Mealgrim stoically throws brine stone after brine stone onto the mats, while Beneiah and the others, both living and dead, row row row the boat.
Arimar, and Caerador emerge from below decks much later, successfully tending to the infirm crew.
Even lunchtime is quiet except for One-Footed Dave’s bastardly smile as he hands Malgrim his bowl of stew.
”This one I made special for you. To make up for the mean way ol’ Dave’s been treating you, hob gob.” He chuckles softly as he departs.
With the sun on its rapid descent to the horizon, the crew is returns to the ship to turn in for the night. The Captain approaches the group. ”Slight change of plan. Tomorrow we change course. Mistress Lanvi wants to me to take a detour. I am not going to mince words, it will be very risky. We should be out of the mats by now, like I mentioned earlier. So I wanted to stay the course. But there is something nearby that Mistress Lanvi believe is worth the risk.
“She didn’t tell me not to tell you, but one never knows with her. Rest up. Big day tomorrow.”
"Purify food and drink," Arimar chants cautiously over Malgrim's meal, much as he has been doing for everyone's meal. The difference this time, however, that he did it as an individual portion after it was served up. Poison can be added at any time, and it wouldn't do to take risks about such things. "Hopefully, One-Footed Dave just spat in it," Arimar adds by way of explanation, "This will clear it of his mouth germs also. Best if you don't eat anything that I haven't dealt with first."
Shrugging, Arimar quickly cleanses everyone else's meal, too. Best I get used to doing this, he sighs to himself.
After that, and the warning from the captain, about the change of course Arimar finds a private moment with his companions.
"I think we should confront Lanvi about the course change," the dull-grey, emaciated aasimar confides, "It would be best if we were prepared for whatever possibilities are out there. I may be better off with one spell or other in my repertoire... and who knows, if it's an obviously suicidal direction maybe we can talk her out of it. Personally, I'm up for a change. I do, however, want to do so with my eyes open."
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Malgrim nods appreciatively at Arimar. "I would prefer drink seawater than that swill, knowing that you can purify it first. His actions are... trying. Yet if the petty outbursts give him an outlet to act out, I will persevere."
Malgrim takes the word of the potential course change with typical aplomb. When its just the party around he finally speaks his mind. "This detour... I wonder if that is the reason for the Mistress to come this way in the first place?" He considers a moment more. "I would risk fighting the Avatar of Rovagug itself if it meant we were on dry land once more."
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Benaiah nods along with Arimar and Malgrim. He scoops a spoonful of slop into his mouth, grateful for the purification process it has gone through.
The irony of a seemingly tainted aasimar purifying food so it may be eaten is not lost on the hulking alchemist. Rather than bother him though, Benaiah finds it amusing. From their time in the society, he had grown quite fond of his eclectic friends, including all of their shady pasts.
Everyone has skeletons in their closet. It just so happens that Arimar's are both real and figurative.
Benaiah interrupts Malgrim with a coughing fit when he begins to laugh at his own internal joke and accidentally sucks a slimy chunk of... whatever it was they were eating down his windpipe. A few hacks later and a flushed red face, he clears his throat and pats the air to indicate he is fine.
"If the boss wanted a mindless, unthinking bodyguard, she would have just kept Raim around instead of sending him to his death at our hands. We should definitely talk to her about the detour and what her plan is."
Benaiah sops up the last of the oh-so-insufficient meal with his scrap of bread and pops it in his mouth before continuing without finishing chewing. "'hhee did hhay tha' 'hhee coul' get*" the man mercifully swallows a bit of the food, "*us off the boat, leaving everyone here to their fate." One last swallow to clean the bits of food that were flying out of his mouth. "If the crew is splitting because of the hobgoblin aboard, and they believe that his presence is causing this, maybe we should think about just leaving them then. That either solves their problem, or shows those stubborn f&$^ers that they are just a bunch of idiotic blowhards."
Benaiah shrugs his shoulders, knowing that the group won't likely just leave, but throwing it out there as food for thought nonetheless.
Don't want to leave Plank and the rowing boys to die though. We've come so far...
Caerador considers closely the parts of Benaiah's statement he could understand through the full mouth and the distracting bits of spittle and bread flying from the Chelaxian's mouth.
"I hate to say it, but they may be right. If there is indeed an attack focused on the Mistress' life that is causing this unnatural Sargasso, then leaving with the Mistress might cause the focus to shift to wherever she is, thereby freeing the ship from its current malady."
After seeing the glassy look in Benaiah's eyes after his statement, he remembers who exactly he is talking to and rephrases slowly so the brute can understand.
"If we take Mistress Lanvi away, the bad stuff might follow, and no more seaweeds."
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Benaiah furrows his brow at Caerador's patronizing additional comment.
"I get it elf. That's what I just said..."
Shifting his weight and hunching his shoulders, he looks down at his empty bowl for a moment before tossing it across the room.
"There is no guarantee that will work though, and if it doesn't then we leave the allies we have made to their deaths."
"We wouldn't be dead though..." he mumbles in addition.
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With the sun still below the horizon, the dark blue of the dawn light has not yet reached the companions nestled in their hammocks. Mistress Lanvi’s handmaiden moves silently through the berth. Gently shaking their shoulders, she wakes the men and motions for them to follow her up the stairs and onto the deck.
Wearily swinging themselves down, they shake the sleep from their eyes, and follow the demure woman.
When they get to Mistresses Lanvi’s door, the handmaiden gently turns the knob and waves the Companions in.
Seated once again in their cramped quarters, they notice that Mistress Lanvi’s has lost weight, something that they did not previously notice. Though still a striking beauty, her eyes seem framed by dark circles, and the faintest hint of crow feet by her eyes.
”Welcome gentlemen, and thank you for coming. I have been in talks with Captain Barbosa and we can both agree that these mats, the attacks of the bunyips, the feeling of animosity of the crew, the spoiled food, all lead us to believe that something more might be occurring. Something, unnatural.
“Just as you are in my employment, I also have clients, employers is not really the right word. Sometimes these clients’ motives are aligned, sometimes they are in direct opposition, or blessedly their motives fall somewhere in between.
“I can only guess that we seemed to have drawn the ire of one of my past client. Who I cannot say. But I believe there is one nearby that can.
“The sage, Idmon, who I wish to consult, is but a two day row away. The plan is to take the shallop. WIth Arimar’s undead minions, plus Malgrim’s abilities, with Benaiah and Caerador, we should make better time clearing the mats. Not to mention the shallow draft from the shallop will make our travels easier. We shall commanderie a week's worth of supplies. After meeting with Idom, we shall try and rendezvous with The Audacious.
“Obviously, Barbosa thinks this a poor choice for a multitude of reasons. He loses some of the best crew, and many of his supplies. Yet this is a chance I think we need to take. What say you?”
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Benaiah leans against the wall in a casual way, refraining from picking at his teeth. "You da boss. We can do whatever you want us to, and we will make sure you stay safe. If you think that one of your past clients might be behind this, and we can find the information we need to take care of the problem, then I say we go for it. A week's time spent eliminating the problem is better than a month trying to slog through it. I may be big and strong and like to do things with brute force, but I still prefer to work smarter, not harder." He grins and shifts his weight to the other foot.
"But I think you need to come clean with us about more information. It's a hell of a lot harder to protect you when we don't know where the shot is going to come from. Or what kind of shot your enemies are going to take. You are sick. We are stuck. Food is poisoned. It's all too much to be a coincidence. The more we know, the better we can do our job. You traded Raim in for us for a reason. Give us a chance to show you why that was a good decision."
"He 'loses some of his best crew'?" Arimar cannot help but put a wry smile on his face at this, "But we are not his crew, we are your bodyguards." Before Lanvi can admonish him, Arimar raises a hand, "Sarcastic tone aside, that last statement was true. I agree with Benaiah. We will follow you across the mats."
The necromancer debates internally whether to raise an additional point. At length, he decides he will, "If we are away for a week or more, the crew will make little to no progress. While that may be a worthy gamble if our side mission bears fruit, they will be a week behind on rations and no farther through the sargassum if we return empty handed. Come to think of it, so will we. What makes you think this gambit is worth it?"
"At least tell us the nature of your ailment. Your health is fading at an alarming rate, and you seem not to be overly concerned. What else can you tell us? Arimar is (...despite his other desires...) an accomplished healer. He may be able to help you." Caerador takes another moment to evaluate the sunken eyes of the Mistress. "What good are we to you if you do not survive the trip to Idmon?"
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"Alas my bodyguards, though I have come to admire you, you must know that many secrets do I keep. Your concern is touching, truly. Yet I am wasting away, and I know not why. As I alluded to earlier, there are many that wish me ill. It is my sincere hope that Idom can give me some insight to this unseen world that is attacking me.
"Arimar, and any of you with any healing ability, are more than welcome to try and heal me. Though I sought out men and women who have been healing longer than all your lives put together." she glances at Caerador with a knowing look, "Nothing seems to work. They have assured me that I have years before my time comes.
"All the same, before we departed Absalom, I made contact with someone who claims he can help. His is simply referred to as the Collector. I have never met him, only his emissary. He promised me a cure, if I could deliver .... well you."
"As for the matter of abandoning The Audacious, mayhaps One-Footed Dave is correct. Without us, maybe The Audacious is lifted form this so called curse and they will make great progress to Magmanir." She sighs audibly and shakes her head.
"It seems once again I have shared too much. But you speak wisely. This is a gambit Arimar. But a risk I feel is worth it to take. Should we find who is causing this ill luck, well as you say, a know enemy is better than an unseen foe.
"Unless there are sound objections, or you feel this is too dangerous, we leave in half an hour. Barbosa has once again allowed us access to his store rooms, as well as the rations. I assume we shall purify it no matter."
"What a f~~~ing minute... deliver us?!?!" Arimar balks at the suggestion, "I may have agreed to look after you, but that falls well short of being given away to some arse wipe calling himself the 'Collector'. I've half a mind to have Fido simply swim me out of the Sargassum and leave you to it. Alas, this would risk exposure to the bunyips and worse - and leave my companions behind in the bargain.
"You have your journey in the shallop, harlot, but mark my words," the skinny aasimar fumes as he paces back and forth, "When we arrive on dry land, I will be taking my pay and my leave of your company. Regarding your malady, I could give two s$#*s about it. Once I'm paid, you can wither away into a sack of scrotal skin and brittle bones for all I care."
Mistress Lanvi shakes her head. "Arimar, you are a free man. True we have a contract. But you are free. The lowest whore in my employment has more freedom than you would believe.
"When I say deliver I mean bring. You will find that a talented group like you all will attract many offers from many different people. It was made know to me that the Collector is interested in you.
"A bit of advice my young friend, your pride, your swiftness to anger, these will not serve you well in the tangled web of intrigue outside the Society. Yet it is your life and you are free to choose to live it how you see fit.
"Come, the sooner we leave the sooner we can have some answers and the sooner I can find a cure and not wind up resembling a sack of scrotal skin and brittle bones."
"You, too, might want to rethink your mannerisms," Arimar grouses after his scalding, "Why deliver us in secret? Why not simply tell us you were helping us find work? Why not just f$!%ing ask us if we were interested before dragging us across the gods-be-damned ocean?"
The necromancer's veritably crackle with black energies as his anger does indeed rise swiftly. He takes Lanvi's point, however, and calms significantly.
"Either way, Collector's employment or not, I am done with you and your mind games once we get to dry land," he states unequivocally, "I would rather return to Riddleport and the tender embrace of the accursed priesthood of Pharasma than stomach your condescension - thinly disguised as 'mystique' - for any longer than I have to."
Malgrim remains impassive as the more passionate speakers in the party have their say, before speaking up in a quiet voice. "As you have said, for the moment we are in your employ. We can mine the depths of any concerns beyond getting away from this disastrous voyage once we've cleared the current doom we are in."
He looks to Lavni. "Do you have any further information in what we may expect, or need to prepare?"
”Do you really think life this simple? That people you meet will divulge all their secrets with a few honeyed words? What do you keep hidden, Arimar? From me? From your companions? From yourself?
“And your former Society. On your missions, were there ever objectives the Decemvirate or your Venture Captains hid from you? I am as transparent as I can be. But as I say, let your wrath cloud your judgement and guide your steps.
“As for why you are here, obviously because you are better than Raim, more capable. I needed you then and I need you now. You all are skilled. My bargain with the Collector is one of necessity, and not the primary reason I recruited you. I would have been a fool to pass on the opportunity to hire you.
“And I would caution patience. By all accounts the Collector is fair in his deadlings. You would be wise to listen to his offers, and the offers of others. And honestly, you work for me, and I have secret deals with the Collector, who knows who the Collector has dealings with what other deals I have in place. If you look for a straightforward bargain, you shall continue to live with disappointment.” she ends with a wracking cough.
Slowly her breathing resumes to normal, ”Malgrim, the only other information that I can share is that Idmon asks for a gift for services provided. Should you wish to converse with him, you might want to bring something. And I would be surprised if the sailing was smooth, so prepare for the worst. Whatever that is..”
She shakes her head and looks upon the Companions with sadness.
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"Calm down Arimar," Benaiah says, a touch unconvincingly. "A job's a job, and this is already a hell of a lot better than the society. Why, if we were still pathfinders, there would be a venture captain sneering condescendingly at us for asking questions when they could have just told us when they briefed us."
"If you haven't already, tell us everything you know about where we are headed. We can stock up and get moving. Whatever it is, its got to be more interesting than rowing this damn boat."
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"...What do you keep hidden, Arimar? From me? From your companions? From yourself?"
Caerador averts his eyes from Lanvi and the rest of his companions as the Mistress' words strike a nerve.
After the conversation ensues between the party and the Mistress, Caerador stops Arimar while they are provisioning for their short voyage to Idmon.
"Arimar, when we have a moment, I..."
Caerador tenses as Arimar's hollowed eyes search his for the meaning of this delay; cowardice and self-preservation overtakes him.
"...was hoping you could go over some ideas for some new spells to pick up when we get to civilization." More a defeated statement than a question, Caerador does not wait for a response and leaves Arimar to ponder the awkward exchange.
"A job's a job, Benaiah, and that is precisely my point," Arimar continues, simmering down somewhat and not caring if Mistress Lanvi hears him or not, "My issue is not with what she kept quiet - it seems fair and reasonable that someone would want our services and would pay her to arrange those services - I am more worried about why she kept it secret. If this Collector is a fair and reasonable employer and has interesting offers, wouldn't a crew of broke ex-Pathfinders be happy to listen to such an offer, especially if we are being paid on the way to hearing it?
"No, something more is going on here," he casts a baleful eye over Lanvi, "And she can say what she will about my secrets, but none of them concern me passing her off to one of my acquaintances without her permission.
"And don't tell me to accept it because that's what happened to us as Pathfinders," Arimar adds as an afterthought, "I f!~~ing hated being a Pathfinder."
Caerador makes his request and Arimar smiles. "I'd be happy to!" he replies, "Maybe your power will have grown by that time and we can have a very good look at the new heights that are available to you. I have to say, though, that I've always found your spell selection to be quite well considered and helpful. Being stranded at sea isn't exactly the sort of thing one usually prepares for. I'm only useful because divine magics favor the natural forces, such as the ocean, and my necromantic minions coincidentally consume no rations at a time when food is short, and are tireless at a time when fatigue is our greatest enemy. Your time will come."
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Benaiah approaches Plank and his other rower buddies, giving them a hearty clap on the shoulder.
"Boys, I've no doubt you will keep this ship moving forward. I think those bunyips spread the word that we aren't to be messed with too." he says with a wink.
Its mostly bluster, but he figured it would still help to shore up the moral of the men as the Lanvi contingent was about to leave.
"Boss says there might be a way to get us all out of this mess without having to row for days, or months. I'd just as soon be out there with you, but if I can save your salty hides by getting rid of the problem, its worth the risk to me."
Not sure what else to say, Benaiah hangs around for an awkward moment to long before heading down to the stores to make sure he has an ample supply of his reagents, and to pack up his alchemy kit.
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A pile of armor punctuated below by two familiar, spindly legs approaches Benaiah.
"Would you like this on or off for your seaward voyage, Mister Benaiah Sir?" comes an uncertain voice from somewhere beneath a breastplate, "I think I know how to do the straps now..." The lad's voice breaks, and Benaiah realizes that he's crying and trying to hide it.
Packs loaded with their personal gear, and items gleaned from The Audacious’ storerooms, the Companions load up the shallop.
Though all the companions have proven themselves invaluable to Captain Barbosa and the crew, only Benaiah has really formed anything closely resembling a friendship.
WIth George strapping on his armor haphazardly, The Plank, Fisheyes, and Chicken Gizzards give the Hellknight a curt goodbye.
The Colonel meanwhile gives each man a hearty embrace. Veteran of many wars, he knows the pain of goodbyes, and this sure feels like it will be an eternal parting. ”Thank you.” and ”Without, we’d be f+!@ed.” can be overheard as he thanks each man.
One-Footed Dave and his lackeys can be seen conversing in quiet voices, just watching the Companions load up.
Captain Barbosa and Mistress Lanvi, handmaiden in tow, are engrossed in their own conversations as a crewman loads her trunk in the shallop.
Captain turns to the assembled, ”You are all worse than a woman’s knitting circle. Get back to work.” The crowds slowly disperse as he moves towards them. ”Caverns of Neviim should be a two to three day row. Keep the, well now, any of your familiar with how to navigate? Benaiah, you said you sailed a bit before, right? Well keep the breast of The Newlyweds over your right shoulder, and you should be fine. Best of luck.” Captain ends with a handshake.
As the second day of rowing, as the sun dips towards the horizon, the mats end abruptly. The burden of rowing lessen considerably.
On their third day of rowing, the Caverns of Neviim can be seen on the horizon. A small rocky, outcropping can be seen jutting from the ocean. As they move closer to the natural C-shaped harbor from the west, they can see a storm gathering in the north east. They white, billowy clouds darken to a dull grey and dip lower in the sky. The smooth water begins churn with choppy waves a few feet tall.
Though no Companion is an expert in weather, they estimate that with a heavy row they can reach the Caverns before the storm washes across them.
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"Oh, I better wear it." Benaiah does his best to sound gruff and matter-of-fact. "You never know when those Bunyips will come for their revenge!"
He chuckles, trying to lighten the mood for the poor, attached cabin boy. He ruffles his hair again and begins the process of assembling the armor, double checking that he has another extract of touch of the sea, just in case.
"Row boys!" he grins, seeing the rising storm as a challenge and a race. His rowing muscles, while a bit tired from constant use, are strong and weathered from the time spent tugging a massive ship through the mats. He grunts and strains for a few minutes, pulling hard on the oar in the water before his companions realize there is a rhythm to his grunting and pulling.
"C'mon now, better to catch our breath on the shore than out here in the chop when that storm hits! Two days of boredom, its time for a little bit of fun!" he yells over the rising wind and spray.
Pictures are worth a 1000 words
Beating the storm onto the inlet, the Companions find a spacious alcove with a ceiling of about 35ft, and wooden pier bisecting the cavern. On the far side of the pier bobs an empty boat.
"My friends," Arimar begins, getting onto the pier, "Thank you for your efforts in rowing. Would any of you like to be reinvigorated? It is perhaps a waste of such a powerful spell, but a quick restoration and your feelings of fatigue will melt away."
"Raim, with me. Fido, guard the shallop. Do not let anyone onto it except us."
Raim gets uncomfortably close to Arimar. The necromancer wonders if he should not also have his nostrils burnt out in addition to his tongue.
Fido jumps limply onto the shallop, causing ripples to fan out from the vessel. He dutifully and tirelessly scans the water and surrounding area for signs of intruders.
Looking around, the Companions notice that the cavern walls are decorated with a trio of murals. The northern wall wall depicts a woman bursting with pregnancy, spread eagle, face contorted with pain. At the woman's feet is another woman, this one dressed in black robes with sash of iridescent blue in a spiral pattern. The obvious midwife's arms outstretched to catch the crowing child.
The easter wall is adorned with a man sitting cross-legged on the ground. Scattered around him are the spirals of bones with slips of parchment under the tips of each spiral. Above the man is an open book with verses sprawled across the pages. Upon closer inspection, the Companions can see the verses deal with proper techniques to deliver children and requirements to handle a dead body. Looking at the man’s face, the Companions can help but feel that they are looking in the eyes of a madman. The spiral tattooed between his eyes does little to detract from their assessment.
On the southern wall, interrupted by a naturally formed doorway, stands a tall figure of unknown race and gender as its face is obscured by a black hood with spirals on each side. She is seated upon a great throne, holding an hourglass with shifting red sand flowing through the purposeful bottleneck. Swirling around the figure are lines of ghostly figures riding a river in the heavens.
Arimar is all too familiar with the iconography, and silent curses to himself.
Mistress Lanvi steps off the shallop onto the wooden pier. She is impressed at the sturdiness of the construction of a pier in a seemingly abandoned cave. She places a hand upon Arimar’s arm. ”Is this a problem? Can you control yourself?”
"I can control myself while within this temple," notes Arimar, "But I rescind my offer to spontaneously cast one of those restorations. I'll need it to desecrate when we find the heart of this place.
"Should we encounter any, I will not suffer the priesthood lightly," Arimar feels as though he is about to vomit as he puts one foot in front of the other, "But they are not the same men that mutilated me in Riddleport. I will allow them to live if they are wise enough to avoid angering me."
Arimar grits his teeth. "Raim, stay here and help Fido guard the shallop."
I may hate them, but no sense angering them unnecessarily. Raim's presence would surely raise the ire of any of the priesthood.
"Oh, so you are ok as long as they don't anger you. Right. We should be fine then." Mistress Lanvi adds in sardonically.
"I would prefer if it my Handmaiden and I stayed with the shallop while you search the caverns for the Sage Idmon. Once you find his whereabouts you can return for us. Do you think Raim and Fido enough protection to guard us or should we accompany you?"
Malgrim looks at the iconography, then at Arimar, before he shrugs. "We cannot guarantee your safety should you accompany us. The inner sanctum of the Mistress of Graves can hold many dangers to intruders. Let us explore first, then return for you."
Malgrim slinks ahead a short ways, carefully surveying the path while clinging to the walls in the poor-light, his cavernborn eyes more than up to the task, while his slaveborn habits of quiet aiding his stealth.
"If you are comfortable staying with these two undead servants, then more power to you. However, you should seek some shelter, this storm is near and it will not do for you to be standing in the middle of it."
Caerador moves up to Arimar and places a hand on his shoulder. "Maybe Raim should focus more on protecting the ladies instead of the shallop if they are to stay." Under his breath, Caerador adds: Have Raim stare at her provocatively and smile every now and then, too. We don't want her to be too comfortable around the dead, do we?"
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"You're the boss, Boss." Benaiah gives a non-committal answer to the Mistress.
"Other than this storm, you should be pretty safe out here. Unless of course the clerics and cultists come out and assume those undead are yours." Benaiah offers thoughts that do nothing to help make the decision one way or another.
"Nah, they probably don't patrol the beaches, especially during a storm. You should be fine out here. We will be back as soon as we find this mystery guy."
Benaiah double checks a couple of the straps on his armor, pulls out his scythe and a torch. He scrunches up his face for a moment, contemplating something. With a resigned sigh, he pulls two vials from his bandolier, and quickly uncorks both of them.
The change washes over the big man's body immediately upon drinking from the small vial. A darkness races under his skin, like a malevolent spirit trapped in a bottle and swirling violently around. His muscles bulge and his fingers elongate, ending in heavy, ragged claws. As his hide finishes its full, darkened transformation, his lower jaw begins to protrude, and a set of small tusks appear. With a low growl that almost sounds like a chuckle, he starts marching along the shore with the rock face to his right. The cave opening is only a few steps away from the pier. The large man turns the corner and peers into the cave, aided by the flickering light from the torch in his left hand.
"Lesser restoration," chants the necromancer, laying his hand on the tired Benaiah. Renewed vigor returns to his aching muscles and before too long it is as though the hard rowing at sea never happened.
"Don't worry, Lanvi," Arimar assures her, "Anything that can survive in that storm would be able to easily defeat all of us anyway. Raim and Fido can handle anything that we miss. Just scream if you feel your life is in danger."
Arimar smirks at Caerador's suggestion and quickly turns to Raim. "Protect the women as well as the boat. Also, every time Lanvi rolls her eyes, stick out your tongue and cup your groin." Arimar does just that to show his zombie what he means. Raim copies as best he can. The parody of lasciviousness is far more disturbing than Arimar could possibly have hoped for. The necromancer chuckles and marches along with the elf in the rear of the party.
"Bull's strength," Arimar chants immediately prior to allowing Benaiah to lead the way.
A clap of thunder can be heard as the Companions finish their initial preparations and begin to move deeper into the cavern system. A solid sheet of water is pouring from the heavens obscuring their view to the seas beyond the cavern opening.
Mistress Lanvi uncoils a long whip. Multiple lashes flow from the handle of this deadly device with sharp bits of bone and metal studding the length of it. Though the men were no strangers to odd bedroom practices, all can see that this is a weapon meant to kill rather than inflict pain.
"Raim and Fido will do nicely. If enemies do appear, they will not find us easy prey." Be safe and try not to get yourselves killed. And Raim, though men often feel the urge to grab their manhood when near me, please try to limit it. She ends with an eye roll.
Her handmaiden behind her produces two wicked looking daggers from each sleeve in one smooth pull.
Walking into the the natural doorway in the southern wall, the Companions notice that there a numerous fish bones littered around. As they step into the room, their eyes adjusting to the dim light, they notice a serpentine shape curled in the corner. Not quite sea serpent or dragon, this vicious beast is covered with shiny blue-green scales. Its arms serve as both wings and flippers. Its rears back, and glares at the intruders.
Arimar and Caerador recognize this creature is a Sea Drake while Benaiah, the experienced sailor, yells for everyone to beware it's deadly electrical breath. This particular sea drake appears smaller than others he has encountered.
She ends with an eye roll.
Raim obediently sticks his tongue out. It lolls lifelessly from his putrid maw as he gropes inexpertly at the decaying flesh that passes for his man-parts.
"Spread out!" cries Arimar as soon as the drake appears. He is unable to comply himself, but hopes at least that Malgrim will take flight. He also secretly hopes that the hobgoblin will also draw the dragonkin's first breath.
Malgrim tenses as the heat of battle engulfs the party, though the feel of solid ground at his feet causes an echo of calm. He prepares to strike the serpent, but pauses as he senses his companions lack of readiness, instead opting to provide a momentary respite for the party by manipulating the cavern walls to form a thin barrier of stone across the chokepoint. He then shuffles forward a few steps to allow his party more room to move. "We have a moment's shelter..."
Seeing the opaque wall appear before it, the Drake takes to the air on its leathery wings.