That's a much better idea, Captain. Kreer's already been working hard, and I don't want to add to the man's workload.
James relaxes his arms and takes a slow, deliberate walk over to the red-haired man. He extends a hand and says: No hard feelings--good luck to you tomorrow.
Tipene nods once, sharply, then sits back down and applies himself once again to his interrupted dinner. So I shall have to participate in this barbaric ritual, to win my place. Three, guide me.
The red bearded man takes his half-full cup of rum, drains it, swirls it about in his mouth before leaning forward to squirt it out between his teeth unto Rackham's boots. His three companions chuckle in deep timbre as he adds "Feck off." to the gesture.
Drawing attention back to herself Captain Lanteri coughs "Unless you've any questions I'll keep the specifics to those that it's worth explaining them to..."
Quillin looks a bit peeved about the curtailed chaos. "I've a question, what the hells are you at? Some orc comes hinting of a hiring tonight and instead you're going on about attending local festivities. Am I to understand you're hiring crew based on their skill at knivies and checkers or whatever it is orcs do?"
Lanteri takes the gnome's words in her stride "Aye I'm for hiring... but I take it you've not lived through the Bloodgrog if you think it's all knivies, checkers and square dancing."
Shrugging she eases back to lean against the doorway "Up to you boys honestly... you make it so there's only a half-dozen left standing then my job's easy then innit?
But you make it through tomorrow and put in a showing that my officers take notice of then we're talking shares rather than wages savvy?"
The Tulita looks up at the last comment, interest clearly piqued. "Yes. That, I understand."
Quillin still looks sour, but reaches for his wine again and with a shrug commences drinking.
The quartet in the corner with redbeard seem to take the Captain at her word... or perhaps they're saving any bargaining for after taking the job.
The half-pair gets just a single question in, the half-orc asking "Hur, hope you not got nothing against drinking, hur." which gets a light chuckle from Lanteri and simple tip of the head.
Iscarel, sensing the sour mood at the table, attempts to make light of the situation. "... if you like, gnome, I can drug you and club you over the head for old times sake? No?"
The gnome chuckles at the elf's jest despite himself. "Best not mention the c-word," he whispers with a grin and a sideways glance over toward the crippled bartender.
Seeing that the room's fallen silent and that there's little point to further lingering Lanteri puts her hat back atop her locks and tips it "Gentlemen... I'll speak to at least the some of you tomorrow." turning with a flourish and exiting.
Soon after the half-pair order another bottle of rotgut, while the red-bearded man and his companions settle up with Kreer and sidle out of the inn without further words or challenge. The fiddler re-emerges from the back room and settles back onto the small stage, sipping at some wine and looking as though he's ready to play another set.
Quillin tugs at his beard. "Well, you lot seem much more fun than yonder dullards so we might as well band together. I must say Captain Lanteri is not the man that I expected. Of course, marriage will do that to you especially if you marry a conniving spider that takes your life and your ship I'll wager. This should be interesting."
Quillin tips his hats to the others causing Smudge to squawk in protest and then ambles over to the fiddler and drops a few of his remaining coins in cup. "Nicely done. You wouldn't be playing for the Bloodgrog square dance tomorrow would you? I'm not sure exactly what's supposed to go down there based on all the wild tales that I've heard."
The fiddler leans forward to set eyes on the coins that Quillin loosed before weighing them mentally, smiling slightly and easing back into a restful pose in his chair. Pursing his lips in the mien of a storyteller he begins to divulge some of what he knows "In a word.. no, I won't be playing tomorrow... and I'd wager there won't be too much dancing going on."
"The day kicks off at midday in the square, Cayden's priest will see the bloodgrog blessed... and from there it gets interesting. Anyone who wants to stay the course shuffles through for a quaff and colour... and everyone else either gets out to sea or battens down at home. There'll be orcish muscle to keep the lines from getting broken... but the borders of good behaviour bend a wee way.
The Drunk's man likes to run a few contests for tokens of favor along the way as well... Cayden's Gauntlet is a shot for shot walk through drink that gets saltier the further along you get. The Mad Dash is some bastards idea of a drunk's obstacle course and then theres the Piss1ng Pit where the flying fists are a bit more organised and guided.
All the same drenched in cheap ale and the orcish brew... don't know if you've had much bloodgrog yourself Master gnome but it stokes a hell of a fire in your gut. Even if you're not for the contests... trouble will have a way of finding you."
Iscarel exchanges introductions with the gathering once more before voicing his displeasure. "I shall never understand the fascination with orc-brew." he says, with a heavy sigh. "Nothing but pig-guts and wyvern droppings I'll wager... and what kind of a festival has no dancing, I might ask?"
"Still, if I'm half as quick as I think I am I should be able to outpace these clowns on the obstacle course."
Quillin snorts. "So a lot of drinking and fighting which we could have just gotten out of the way tonight and be sailing away tomorrow." Disgusted, Quillin shakes his head and wanders off to get what rest he can before the morrow's festivities.
Shrugging the fiddler puts his fiddle to shoulder and leaves Quillin with the thought "Could be the Captain wants to see if you can make it through by keeping clear of the worst of it... but I've never been a fine scholar of the female mind" beginning to saw away again.
The rest of the night in the Crusty Fiddler passes without any real incident. The half-pair keep to themselves, and unless you stay until closing when Kreer insistently gives you a shove-off you will have left before either the halfling or the half-orc moved from their cups. The night also is relatively quiet... except for the occasional screech of fighting cats in the distance.
Morning comes and sees you rising at your usual time. Breakfast is served in the usual manner as well, taverns and boarding houses putting on a typical spread... but soon after the energy of the town shifts from the standard and takes a more pensive and unrestful edge. People seem to be gradually receding from the city center, and there's as many ships bringing disreputable sailors and pirates into the city as there are ferrying those more urbane back out to safe haven at sea.
The fishermen are putting out to water with extended provisions, women and children withdrawing to the outskirts of town and behind solid oaken doors and window shutters... and those that remain are those either stout enough to take a drink, or too stupid to guess when they might have had too much.
The crowd is multicultural, with a smattering of all races and colours, creeds and degrees of shaved-ness in amongst. Some natives from the Razor, elvish iron-fops of Kepre-Dua, toothless navigators with dry lips, colonials of the Razor, Freeport colours and locals alike. The only ones that look like they don't quite belong are those of the drunkard's cloth - Caydenites or those who instead follow the innumerable and unnamable of Fool's Market. The religious bent to their eyes showing stark contrast to the veneer of lustful wrath that coats most of the others.
Activity is centered around Lilywhite's Founder's Square the southern point of this small island boots tracking over the hard-packed earthen paths. Over the heads of the intervening you pick out the fifteen-foot-tall wooden statue of a grinning man armed with a rapier, hoisting a mug into the air. At the foot of the Lucky Drunk's image is a large brass vessel that you can just pick out the top of. Next to it are half a dozen rough and ready looking orcs - well scarred and brutish with cudgels hanging from their belt-loops... and a Mwangi man you know to be Anyabwile Saabwa, the local Drunkard's prophet.
The position of the sun in the sky indicates that you've roughly a quarter of an hour before the peg gets kicked loose and the boulder starts to roll... but given the press of people unless you look to impose yourself you'll be stuck to watching from the rim of the crowd.
James will remain on the outskirts of the crowd, looking for any signs of the individuals he'd met the night before in the tavern.
Quillin slinks at the edges of the trampling crowd.
Rackham manages to catch a glimpse of the half-orc near to the wooden statue that's the central attraction... and can only assume the halfling's there also. The ginger and trio don't leap out to him though.
Rackham does spot Lanteri though, distant from the crowd and standing apart from those that are looking to involve themselves in the festivities. She appears to be alone.
Rackham approaches the half-orc with a wave.
Greetings--say, didn't catch your name at the Fiddler, but I'm James. Is your friend here with you? You planning on trying your luck at any of the festivities?
Rackham's thoughts of approaching the half-orc is forestalled by the field of rough and ready naval folk between him and his target... who were unlikely to cede le passage to a queue jumper lightly.
"My lords." Iscarel tugs his forelock in greeting as he encounters the others at the crowd's edge, bending his knee in a mock-curtsy. He rocks on his heels, exasperated, as he strains his neck trying to peer over the heads of the gathered masses.
"Vó huilen, I can't see a thing... how's the view down there, gnome?" he says, not staying to find out but slipping into the crowd, weaving his way to the prophet's side, stopping short of his orcish bodyguard. He grins. Front row seats. .
"Good morning, your besottedness. How does the day greet you?" the elf says, glibly, raising his voice above the crowd. "What say we get on with things and skip to the blessing?"
Tipene also keeps out of the scrum, watching for trouble and the competition. One hand is tight on his tewhatewha as he scans the crowd, always with an eye out for colonials with grudges. He'll yield right of way to anyone trying to push past him, with a wave, a friendly "Kia ora!", and a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
James frowns at the mob of people who all have better seats than he does and resolves to do something about it. He goes to the nearest tavern and purchases two bottles of booze .
He returns to the crowd and starts navigating through the press of people, bottles raised high.
To Cayden! Raise your glasses! Drink up boys!
The sailor begins pouring spirits for anyone who'll have it, winding his way towards the half-orc from The Fiddler.
Tipene, Quillin and Bek form a small knot at the outskirts as Rackham and Iscarel set their sights on separate destinations further to the depths of the crowd. Tipene doesn't find any reason for explicit caution yet... as those colonially inclined persons he sees show no double take at his appearance, instead focused towards the core of the crowd.
-----
Iscarel slips his way in and through to near the core... but his attempt to draw near to the priest of the drunkard is forestalled by a large orc putting a firm hand to his chest. With narrowed eyes and a sneer he delicately suggests not testing him by moving further forward. The Mwangi gent catches a sight of you and waves off any attempt at questions "In due course and at the right time lad... there's all day to follow."
Kepre Dua is an enclave of insular elves within the Shackles that worships Calistria, they're known to be xenophobic and most sailors steer clear of their waters.
-----
Rackham finds that his offers of spirits is looked down on with a "Why would I want that when tha 'grogs comin?" but a kind disposition and gentle query sings sweetly enough given that they see he's not forcing his way straight to the fore of the line. Once you get close you spy the halfling standing just in front of the half-orc, the larger ones bulk providing a bit of a free space to stop the smaller getting trampled. His query gives them a bit of confusion though "What are ye interested in the names for now when ye had all last night to ask for em?" but after a short pause he gets "Krathok an Bostarg's tha monikers anyway... an aye, we're fer the drinking."
Iscarel folds his arms, pleased with his new vantage point, and waits.
Seeing Iscarel and Rackham manage to make their way forward with a twist and a smile, the Bekyar decides to take his own decidedly more straightforward approach to move up to the others. With snarls, fierce glares, sharp elbows an a nasty screeching/grinding sound from a pair of black stones he forces his will over those weaker and more pleasant.
Quillin sighs at his bum's eye view of the proceedings and looks for an easily accessible perch.
Bloody Bek's approach is undoubtedly effective... but given some of the looks that follow his wake towards the foreground, time will tell whether it was worth antagonizing a crowd that's soon to be knee deep in Bloodgrog and likely itching for a fight.
Back upon the outskirts of the crowd Quillin easily finds himself raised onto the railing of a house and with a markedly improved view of the center of the presentation area.
Not long after, the Mwangi priest at the crowds core holds out his hands and is relatively soon after offered a quiescence large enough to bid him to speak through it. "Welcome all and one, to the Drunkard's Day. Here..." gesturing to the vessel behind him "is the bloodgrog, once gifted to Lilywhite in thanks to what this town offers... and beloved of Cayden for it washes down the barriers of society and lets the energy of life flow through us."
"So come, join me in taking a draught and show the Drunkard himself what desires burn within... let your passion writ large and free. Sate your thirst, whet your whistle, let fly your voice and see what comes. Trust in the lads to stop you going too far..." gesturing to the cudgel bearing orcs "but otherwise... To the Bloody Stump!" raising a mug and draining the contents in a single swallow. He then howls to the sky gestures the first to come forward and take the ceremonial draught...
The crowd begins to surge and flow as the orcish bouncers begin to let people come forward to take their slug. Many came pre-prepared with a mug of their own, but for those that didn't there is a small brass cup on a chain dangling... and getting less and less appealing as time goes by. The time honored tradition of sucking strait from a brass teat seemingly not yet making the cultural jump from Freeport to Lilywhite.
As you see peoples various draining their measure... you're struck by the fact that from tall to short, fat to broad and all shapes inbetween - they are all driven to some kind of reaction. A huffing, grimace, panting, sloppy grinned or howling all... the bloodgrog is speaking to them in many ways.
Those that cycle through either continue on... or in some cases linger and leer. It looks as though the 'grog will flow until there's no more remaining... but the orcs and priest are holding all to a single draught to start with, and decorum is being relatively well maintained. Those that depart are unfolding into song, horseplay and bravado... not unlike a graduating group of militia cadets. Larger than life, fearing none... and likely only a few skins from all sorts of trouble.
It strikes you, as you shuffle forward towards the fore... that after taking a drink you'll need to make a choice of either joining the malingerers... or seeking another place in Lilywhite.
Quillin frowns from his vantage. Surely, they don't require everyone to drink that orcish swill...
"Well, when in Cheliax..." Iscarel sighs, surrendering to the push of the masses, snatching up the communal cup and grimacing at the treacle-like substance before taking a long draught. The effects are almost immediate. The wine-sotted elf is quickly even more flushed than usual. He swaggers out into the square, undaunted by the rowdy, brawling masses, holding his head high and searching for whatever trouble he can get himself into.
"We'll rant and we'll roar, like true-blooded sailors!
We'll rant and we'll roar, across the salt-seas!"
The elf joins in a chorus of "Taldan Ladies", spectacularly butchering the melody as he struts onward to the Gauntlet.
James observes Krathok and Bostarg's reaction to the grog before reluctantly drinking his own cup. Puffing up, chest out and head high, he says to the mismatched companions.
So, we gonna go find the others from the Fiddler?
Regardless of their response, the sailor looks for the others while trying to make his way towards the games.
Quillin thinks it best to stick with the tall folk. They'll serve as cover anyway. He squeezes through the crowd for a scant cupful and 'accidently' spills most of that for a sip letting forth a vigorous pant and follows acting besotted by the drink.
Tipene stalks forward, stone-faced, and takes the proffered cup, drinking down the viscous liquid with a grimace. The warmth of it fills his belly and his mind, muting the roar of the sea and the dolphin cries that are always with him. A smile crosses his face and he goes looking for his chance-met companions of the previous night.
Iscarel's tuneless turn gets a few withering looks and spiteful chuckles, but not much beside that.
After Krathok and Bostarg take their quaffs manfully and with a wistful expression, Rackham finds their response a little cooling "We's off for the Gauntlet... and not for really caring what ye're doing." making it clear that they aren't really seeking alliance of any kind, but similarly not showing any great distaste if you choose to walk with them.
Tipene finds Quillin easily enough... considering they're both at the tail end of the crowd. Soon after Quillin successfully disposes of his 'grog without imbibition, those that'd been lingering queue up for a second helping of the brew - seemingly getting a token to hang round their neck for doing so.
Making your way following the crowds through Lilywhite you end up at the tavern come temple of the Drunkard, Cailean's Keg. The large building is well maintained and freshly painted. The doors of its broad doorway are held open with wooden pegs hammered into the ground inviting you into the interior.
The common room is set up a mite different to it's standard disposition, with all the chairs stacked against a wall and trestles set up in even rows. The balcony of the second floor is slowly filling up with observers while the trestles themselves are getting fewer people standing before the place settings there.
The place settings upon the trestles consist of a clay fired shot glass, sized for a double shot of liquor and space, and a sheet of parchment with ten circles on it. Any confusion over what's about to take place is eased by the server boy seated on the edge of the main bar...
"Take a place or take a view... Gauntlet kicks off when the Drunkard's man comes through the door. Ten shots is all it takes... ten shots of the best and worst... if any of ye make the end you'll get the drunkard's favor... but I warn ye, after last year Padre's made it a tad harder. A task to equal when the man himself" a quick gaze above the bar to where Cayden's mug is displayed "earned his night in the Whore Queen's arms. Step up if you're man enough... or take the balcony if you're just here for the show."
Keen eyes pick out that Krathok takes a spot among the trestles (Bostarg staying down on the bar floor to offer close moral support), but you've not seen hide nor hair of ginger or his lads yet.
Tipene glances down at Quillin, his bloodgrog-fueled ebullience fading. "That looks like a very good way to get into very much trouble. And I do not fancy anything more coming between me, Ocean, and Dolphin."
Rackham smiles at the server's description of what is to unfold and takes a seat in the balcony, sitting next to Iscarel and Bek
Seems easy enough, but I'll let someone else get the glory on this one.
Anyone taking bets? I got five gold says that half-orc there lasts longer than anyone, James says to whomever is seated near him, gesturing toward Bostarg.
Tipene glances down at Quillin, his bloodgrog-fueled ebullience fading. "That looks like a very good way to get into very much trouble..."
"Hmmmph!" the gnome opines. "Seems that there are three rings to this circus: drink, running and fighting. I don't see the sport in any of those. My only interest is getting out of this dump. What say we track down ginger balls? It wouldn't hurt to keep an eye on them and should anything happen to them, why the better our chances, eh?"
"Mae govannen, lads." the elf says, sweeping himself into a balcony seat. He frowns, shifting restlessly in his place and looking for a sight of the captain, or their competition, through the crowds.
"I'd rather test my speed than my stomach, least of all after two moons of Lilywhite grog." the elf says, bluntly, glancing to the towering Bekyar. "But we'd best do something to catch the good captain's eye. What say you get in there? I can't promise it won't be seawater in those troughs, however."
Rackham gets a few scoffs and waves and "Just here for the show mate" but there's a middle aged man who takes some interest "Feh, 5 gold ain't worth 'nuff to stoke the interest. Up it to 20 and I'll take the well dressed bloke against yer orc." indicating a severe looking man dressed in pants and a waistcoat over a cream shirt. He stands out a little as a well kept gent amongst the rabble, though he does have a few belt pouches and a scabbard hanging that rough up his facade a tad.
Also, as the man's eyes go out over the crowd he appears to pick out each of you - as well as the half-orc and halfling. It's hard to get much of a read on what he was thinking but he did seem to notice you.
"That gentleman is looking at us, and I'd wager it's not for our looks. An alchemist. I'd wager he's well prepared." the elf murmurs, placing a hand on Rackham's shoulder. "One of Lanteri's?"
He tosses his coinpurse to Rackham. "Five gold on our friend in the waistcoat. No hard feelings."