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They seized his entire expansive estate, including, to his great dismay, a full library filled with The Classics of modern romance, high adventure, and derring-do. The irony being all this talk of freedom with the left hand, then curtailing that of enterprise with the right. He had to admit, however, that the political sleight of hand was, as a matter of sheer skill, fundamentally impressive, even as he found himself, by deign of birth, on the "wrong side of history", as it probably would go down, seeing as it is always recorded by those who employ the scribes.
The handsome Taldan turned his neck around 135 degrees once more, to look up at the Final Blade now just within his peripheral vision, and feeling his hands firmly bound, swiveled back around, made his peace with Iomedae staring into the empty bloody basket below, and closed his eyes...
SSSHHHHHHNNNNKKK!!!
And there it was, his life flashing before him, his childhood spent in horse stables and countryside, his aging parents passing of sudden complications, his house staff kindly stepping in as surrogates, his home-schooling, endless books, his brief decent into a debaucherous young adulthood, "the one that got away", his developing alexithymia, his retreat back into literature, his not leaving the villa for weeks, turning months, turning years, his bout with malnourishment and anemia, his firing of his house staff, his manor falling into utter disrepair, the peasants knocking down his doors, being dragged to the townsquare, being tied up, jailed, the sound of the descending blade...
...Jamming a foot and a half above it's expected trajectory!?!
Don Jurri opened his eyes, but his ears, inner and outer, went a blur. Now they are untying him, now they are leading him back to the cell, now they are throwing him back into a batch of thirty-something other disheveled and disgraced nobles. Now him blacking out once more...
Waking up to overhear a guard (really: a farmer with a stolen military hand crossbow) explain to another how "they got it fixed now", Don Jurri sits up. He feels... different. He can feel his legs, his fingers, his face. He can hear himself think. Clearly. As if the fog has receeded, giving way to a breaking dawn. He looks up. They are debating, pointing their fingers, at him and a man next to him, "which was it?" one saying back to the other. By luck, they snatched "the other", screaming now, and kicking, crying, and pleading. Don Jurri thinks fast. With a deft hand he snatches the guard's key, and feigning a cough, slides it into his mouth. The guard almost catches him "Back away, dirty 'crat" but instead delivers a battering elbow, nearly causing Don Jurri to swallow the key. But he doesn't! Choking on it instead. And for the first time in a long time, Don Jurri begins to make a plan for Tomorrow. He bides his time, throwing off the guards further by writhing in 'pain' on the dirty floor. They leave with the other man. The other inmates resume looking at the floor. Perhaps they too are now taking stock of their lives.
Don Jurri rises. He walks to the iron door. He spits the key into his hand, inserts it into a lock, and with a Click!! unlocks the cell door. Immediately three things happen. First, his heart starts racing a mile a minute. Second, the other guard looks over. Third, the other inmates look up. Don Jurri seizes the moment!
Chaos ensued. The one guard signaled the others, the inmates stood up and rushed the door, bowling over and trampling poor Don Jurri, the cavalry arrived, a bloody brawl, blacking out once more...
...And waking up once more! Out of one eye - the other swollen shut - fifty or more men and women, nobles and peasants, inmates and guards, bodies strewn everywhere, either lifeless or consciousless, fallen in the Great Battle. Don Jurri rises once more, and spotting that guard from earlier, rolls him over his belly, takes his hand crossbow - out of ammunition - and he scurries away from the horrific scene, and off into the night, riots, flames, canons, piercing the cool air, covering his tracks, as he slinks to Freedom...
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The following week, Don Jurri arrives at the Pathfinder Lodge in Oppara, Taldor, and within a month, is on a ship sailing east across the Inner Sea and south through the Arcadian Ocean to The Shackles, with a group of strangers, and a new lease on life...
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Dr. Ripfang nods "Yes, Despite problems in Absalom with license Rip Fang do great here in Shackles. Thinking of moving here and opening new practice, maybe Tian. Not sure."
Eventually Dr. Ripfang Muk Muk settles down, his lab coat almost humorously large for his wiry goblin frame.
Dr. Ripfang takes a moment to introduce his medical assistant, a large hulking human with a surprising supply of shovels and other sturdy tools "Oh ya, meet Bob, he doesn't talk much, but is surprisingly handy..."
Bob nods, looking more like a grave digger than a medical assistant.
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Venture-Captain Calisro Benarry invites you to meet her at the helm of the Glorious Payoff, where she navigates the vessel down the Garundi coast. You have now had several days to get acquainted. Each of you chosen for a different reason , but mainly to help get Don Jurri miles away from the city.
As a splash of salt crashes over the bow of the Glorious Payoff, Calisro Benarry deftly steers her ship through a hidden channel, carefully navigating through the barely visible rock and coral that protrude slightly from the water’s surface. Behind the Payoff, a slightly smaller ship—the Sea Sparkle—follows, making every effort to follow Benarry’s course as closely as possible. Off the port hull, the deep green of the Garundi coast is illuminated by the late afternoon sun.
“See those gulls?” Benarry shouts over the flapping of the sails, “that’s the sandbar we’ll be dropping you off at. Barely sticks up over the waves, but the seabirds flock over it to feast on crab.”
“As I explained earlier, Vidrian—you might have known it as Sargava not that long ago—needs explorers to chart the trade routes to the south that they couldn’t use back when it was ruled by Cheliax. Simple enough bit of adventuring, but the new nation’s been having trouble with the Free Captains of late. Turns out when Vidrian broke free of Cheliax, the locals stopped paying the pirates protection money, and now they’re the number-one plunder target in the Shackles. What’s more, the pirates have set up a blockade preventing our ships from making it down to Vidrian to assist.”
“Thankfully, we’ve got someone on the inside. Stella Fane, a Free Captain with ties to the Firebrands and the Pirate Council, has been in contact with the Society. She and members of the Society’s leadership have put together a fairly clever plan to help the Society’s ships pass through the pirate blockades unharmed. The Wind and the Waves willing, the Payoff and the Sparkle can sail to Vidrian, no problem. While we’re doing that, I’ve arranged transport for you to Port Peril to meet with Fane and get her to sign this contract making the whole thing official—she may be a pirate, but she’s the kind that holds to her word. You’ll need to avoid drawing too much attention until after the deal is done. Once she’s signed the contract her friends in the Pirate Council will ratify it and there won’t be much the lesser captains can do. Be careful. Anyone looking to put a stop to this need only ensure that contract never gets signed.”
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Don Jurri spends much of the time at the very apex, hugging the Glorious Payoff's guilded figurehead to prevent falling into the sea, enjoying the wind and salt in his face. Though a grown man, for better or for worse, he shows a bit of developmental stunt, a life of privilege and recluse glossing over what might have been dynamic interesting intellectual and emotional maturity. At the same time, pannish, the sheer wonder with which he intakes new experiences, and the determinant application with which he assimilates new knowledge into his own Great Story, could in fact be pause for authentic praise: He is, in a word, ever of a childlike radiance.
In the weeks since his escape, he has been able to cloth and arm himself, having practiced a small amount of pickpocketry, careful to take only what he needed to catapult forward into his new life: Some fine clothing of comfortable fabric complimenting inch-and-a-half blackstrap heels that propel his height to above-average, a shiny new rapier with his name engraved on the hilt with lovely metallic calligraphy, ammo for his miniature crossbow (which he had refurbished twice over), and some "implements of purpose" (as he calls them).
Having lived a life inside - and inside books - the subtleties of the political stand-off is a little lost on him, unable to comprehend the power dynamic exercised by the paying, or withholding of payment, of Protection Money ("Why don't they just protect themselves?"), or the countermove of setting up a Blockade to cut off assistance ("Why don't they just go pick on someone their own size?"); an ignorance that will have surely come to light in the recent days as Don Jurri would prove completely unhesitant to put his foot right into his mouth, if only to bask in the attention, positive or negative, of his fellow adventurers, unable to distinguish being laughed "with" and "at", which, if he could discriminate between, in all honestly, probably wouldn't care to mind the line. After all, laughter is laughter, is it not?
He summarizes what he is able to understand: "So, we just need this Stella Fane to sign a few papers?!" Looking around the group "Easily done!" He declares.
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Throughout the journey, a wiry goblin with a mouth full of pointy teeth dressed in leathers, shield and twin bandoliers full of darts has been excitedly moving around to all parts of the ship asking questions of the crew about handling a ship and curious of the role of each member.
He comes forward when the Captain speaks up.
Aye, Aye, Capt'n! Who be da Firebrands? Chomper wanna know wha' Fane look like. Do we meet summit specific in Port Peril?
If'n ya drop us off at da sand bar, where we git da transport ta da Port?"
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Ceruelean is unutterably excited to be aboard a ship. He scampers about peering over one gunwhale and then the next, often hanging dangerously over the edge. When the wind kicks up he takes to opportunity to shout into it. Usually something about how "the Duke is pleased today" or "he's in his cups already this morning!" His medium length blue hair is not once combed during the voyage.
He frequently can be heard playing a battered flute. These performances are accompanied by the flapping wings and loud cries a seagull that is never far away from him. It is unclear if the seagull is attempting to assist or hinder these performances. Upon playing a wrong note he has more than once tossed the flute aside declaring it a cursed instrument only to retrieve it a moment later without a hint of shame.
Upon being briefed by Benarry he exclaims. "Aye! We'll not let those eh... survey dogs claim ownership o'er the seas! We'll fly smartly..." Frowning at his failure to assimilate nautical lingo Cerulean shrugs.
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A half-orc woman looks like she's sweltering in the humidity and heat. "It's funny, isn't it, I can spend all day in front of a forge and be fine, but this humidity sure gets to me! Hopefully, it'll be nicer in the city. My last mission was back in the Land of the Linnorm Kings and that was great! Well, this seems easy enough, just ask the captain to sign the contract." She fans herself with her hand.
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"Pirates! I love pirates! I very nearly landed the role of Stanley in Pirates of Pezzack, you know!" A voice calls out from up in the rigging. Looking up, you see a tan-skinned goblin hanging by a prehensile tail. He drops to the deck with a flourish, the effect ruined by the rope that catches his ankle, making his landing an awkward, crashing affair. He quickly gets to his feat and, doffing his tricorn hat, launches into song:
♫Ohhh, I am the very model of a modern Wizard-General,
I've information elemental, animal, and spiritual,
I know the kings of Taldor, and I quote the fights historical,
From Sothis to Nagisa, in order categorical;
I'm very well acquinted, too, with matters thaumaturgical,
I understand spellcraft both deific and arcanical,
About magical study I'm teeming with a lot o' news,
From halcyon to occult I really have a lot of views♫
With that he bows, nearly stumbling again, and dons his hat once more. "Hi! I'm Poob Theem, but my friends call me Spotlight."
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As others might take to a vice, Don Jurri takes to social interaction, discovering recently that speaking with other people - who don't work for him - bestows great pleasure, akin to a cerebral euphoria.
He decides which of his poor shipmates to foist himself upon:
1 > Dr. Ripfang Muk Muk
2 > Chomper of the Razortooth Tribe
3 > Cerulean Plimsoul
4 > Trildyn Kingslake
5 > Poob "Spotlight" Theem
Walking up to the half-orc "I'd offer you my kerchief, but it's Vidrian silk, and stains definitively and permanently at the slightest drop of sweat" Hoping "the thought" counts. "I'd be Don Jurri, former Taldane nobility, Revolutionary, and leader (in his time) of Philosophical Thought, and it is my pleasure to make your acquaintance" He bows with proper gentility "Is this your first voyage on a ship as marvelous as this, the Glorious Payoff?"
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Cerulean claps enthusiastically to the beat of Spotlight's song and as the tune finishes the seagull a lets out a cry that could be interpreted as enthusiasm or criticism. Either way the gnome seems pleased.
Hearing Trildyn speak he flaps his arms animatedly.
"I was in the Gravelands! Don't remember bumping into you there, but it was a busy time. Met a nice horse."
Then he looks expectantly at Chomper.
"Ok! What can you do?"
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If'n ya drop us off at da sand bar, where we git da transport ta da Port?"
"We can't just go into Port there. It is too dangerous, so I will drop you off on the Sandbar and another ship will show up to pick you up. one known to the area, shouldn't cause any trouble. May want to ask them where to find Stella."
"Can I see the contract?"
“It’s a long-term trade agreement; we tell her where we’ve had reports of slavers—she hates them and it’s no skin off Society members’ backs to let her know—and she approaches us first with any information she receives regarding archaeological sites and historical discoveries. Our obligation requires us to make the information exchange each time one of our ships passes through the Shackles, so attacking a Pathfinder ship is the same as attacking Stella and her allies on the Pirate Council. Smartest deal we’ve made, if you ask me."
"Careful with that contract, by the way. It’s all magicked shut, so only Fane can read and sign it.” Calisro Benarry cautions.
She turns back to all of you and points to a small sandbar in the distance. "Alright, this is as close as we can get without running aground. When you are ready jump overboard and swim over to the sandbar. Someone should be around shortly."
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Frowning at the cleaning expenses he's likely incur, yet also wanting to impress his new shipmates, in a word, torn, between two irreconcilable personality dispositions, he makes a mental calculation...
1 > wait
2 > jump
...And performs his best swan dive into the salt, veering his breast such that the angle with which he hits the water smoothly carries him horizontally, avoiding it's shallow bottom!
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Swimming, well mostly floundering, you make it to shore just in time to see the Payoff turning, leaving the only bit of land in sight. The goblins get a right fit of laughter in as they mimic Don Jurri's belly flop into the ocean. The man's skin blistering red from the impact.
All but Cerulean and Dr. Ripfang notice the corner of a small wooden crate protruding from the sand of the sandbar.
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Don Jurri sits down in the first semi-dry spot on the bar, face still stinging from the impact, and pulls off his booted heel, emptying the water in it - and oop, was that a crab? - onto the beach. He does the same with the other foot, and tying them together, stands up, and slings them over his shoulder, accidentally tangling on the protruding sheathe for his sword, causing it to fall out.
Feigning purpose, he sneaks his delicate foot under the hilt, toes digging into the cool sand, and with a leg lift, sends it nimbly flying up, into his hand to catch it, and with a flourish of two menacing slashes, draws an "X" in the air (actually an overlapping "DJ" with some imagination?), finishing the motion with a quick stow.
Before rolling up his sleeves, he grips them, each side, tweezed in thumb and knuckle, and with a whipping motion, arcs his arms down, generating a double tearing sound, and produces two pieces of torn fabric, one in each hand. He uses one to tie his long, wet hair back into a ponytail, and pockets the second.
Finally, he glances over at the crate, and marvels: "What's this?" Indicating it with his eyebrow.
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"I do surely hope, doctor, that that is not the case!" Jurri pauses to consider whether, having just said that out loud, he is inclined to believe it himself.
He continues making adjustments to his wardrobe. With both hands, he clutches either side of the collar of his fastened tunic, and with a quick wristjerk, sends a single button hurtling into the air, unluckily landing right into...
1 > Poob "Spotlight" Theem
2 > Chomper of the Razortooth Tribe
3 > Trildyn Kingslake
4 > Cerulean Plimsoul
5 > Dr. Ripfang Muk Muk
6 > himself
...the eye of Poob.
He apologizes "I do say I am so terribly sorry. It's just that, well, this is just not quite right yet! Wouldn't you think?" Looking down over the front of his body, he rocks back onto his bald heels, leaving two hemispherical depressions, counterlocking his knees awkwardly...
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Cerulean regards the vial in his hand speculatively when Jinx, the loud gull that always accompanies him, swoops down to snatch the vial from his hand and wing away with it.
"Hey, you filthy bird, bring that back!"
As he gives chase after the thieving gull he trips over a wooden crate.
"Hmm...what's this?
He investigates the crate more closely, tugging at the lid.
Forgotten, the bored gull drops the vial behind him with a soft thunk.
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Never one to miss an opportunity, Spotlight whips out his slide whistle and adds a little musical narration to his colleagues "graceful" entries into the water. With a flourish, he once again stows the whistle, gives an exaggerated shrug, then dramatically clutches his chest as if he'd just been stabbed and falls backward over the rail and into the water.
Upon reaching the sandbar, he gives a deep, soggy bow, the effect completely negated by Don Jurri's errant button. As he blinks away the swelling, he says "To rub, or not to rub? That is the question. Whether 'tis nobler on the sandbar to suffer the slings and buttons of outrageous allies, or to take arms against a sea of troubles," he gestures his arms widely at the rising tide around the party, "and by opposing end them: to blink, to see spots no more." As he delivers the final line, he smiles and bows once more, basking in a sea of applause that only he can hear.
When he notices his audience distracted by an accidentally-discovered crate, he wanders over to see what could be so interesting as to upstage a master thespian such as himself.
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Chomper comes running out of the water and races around the circumference of the sandbar. He looks up at the sun to gage what the time is and watches the others. At the mention of a crate, he goes over, dumps out his water logged backpack with a WHOOOSH of water and lifts up a crowbar.
"Gotsta have one na' these ta opens it!" He jambs the crowbar under a crack in the lid and puts all of his weight behind it which is not much.
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It wasn't just in his head - Don Jurri was clapping at the recitation of Poob. "Encore! Encore!!" his left hand gently poised up, fingers relaxed, his right hand applying a firm but controlled repeated force, producing the dimmed sound of polite applause.
When he realizes the show has been interrupted, he strolls over to see what all the commotion is about. Ah yes - the crate. Looking down at Chomper "Well that looks quite stuck" stating the obvious. With his hands tucked behind his back, he leans over 90 degrees to see if he can't get a better look at the security mechanism.
While he is leant, Jurri reaches for the ends of his pant legs, and begins rolling them up to just above his calves, and seeming pleased, winds his torso back into a full upright position, casting a look towards the party's eventual intended direction.
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Trildyn's muscles flex at the sand-jammed lid, but in the end she forces it open. Inside is a rare bottle of rum stamped with a stylized dragon turtle. The crate also holds a flask of lesser bravo’s brew and several dirty, cracked bottles.
Over time the tide comes in as you wait on the sandbar, eventually leaving you standing in a few inches of water in the middle of the ocean. About an hour later, a small boat appears, sailed by an elderly dwarven diver. She beckons you aboard, shifting around sacks of shellfish and crab traps to make room in the cramped vessel. "Looks like ey' got 'ere jest in time" She laughs. "Name's Hlar." She picks a small crab off her leg and tosses it back into the trap.
Over the next few hours, Hlar sails her boat in a meandering path to shore along the submerged rock formations, every now and then jumping overboard and freediving for several minutes before reemerging with an oyster, sea urchin, or squid.
When the wind dies down along the way, she rows the boat instead, passing Poob a spare oar. "Since Benarry made me come all ta way out 'ere, lest you can do is 'elp get us to shore."
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Chomper thanks Trildyn and peers inside the box. At the discovery he questioningly responds, "Pirate booty?"
As the small boat picks them up, Chomper will help load the crate of bottles on board. "Thought we'd hafta swim it, Hlar. Me's Chomper." He gives a broad pointy toothed smile to her.
Seeing the dwarf freedive, Chomper gives it a try and follows her to see what she does while underwater.
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While perhaps everyone else rows, Don Jurri raises his arms above his head, kicks his feet out, and relaxes, staring into the heavens, lost in thought.
When Hlar and Chomper go diving, he seizes the opportunity: Don Jurri rises to his feet, balancing in the dingy, which probably begins to shake this way and that at the disturbance, and begins adjusting his trousers to fit a little looser, hiking them down a bit, reducing the line from nearer to his stomach to just hanging around his hips, sagging much more than might be considered proper for such well-made clothes.
Looking around, supposing that all this movement had drawn him some spectation "Well? Wouldn't you say that works better?"
After twirling his torso a bit around his stationary base, to model one last look over, he is done with it, and bends his knees to strike a balance fore and aft, sticking both his head and his bottom clean out, before slowly rocking back, to finally crash into a U-shaped position, and from there nestling back into the nook he found himself in before, away from the oars.
And back to relaxing.
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Chomper instantly recognizes the bottle of rum as Southern Squall, a rather high-end liquor and quickly tucks it away before freediving with the dwarf and drinking lots of seawater.
Hlar’s boat arrives in Port Peril around sunset. As you drift into Crescent Harbor, sailors disembarking for shore leave remain clearly visible, singing rowdily as they work. Hlar soon lands at a smaller dock to unload her catch and gestures at Fane’s ship in one of the docks—the Risen Albatross. "Looks like Stella is here. She has a penchant for riotous nights on the town." She shrugs, "Though I don't know where the kids go these days." She nods over to the end of the dock. "The Harbormaster might have a better idea where she headed after unloading."
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"Oh I apologize Doctor - please let my elbow not deter your determined ardor" Squirming to reactively readjust his position but accidentally striking...
1 > Cerulean Plimsoul
2 > Poob "Spotlight" Theem
3 > Trildyn Kingslake
4 > Chomper of the Razortooth Tribe
1 > other elbow
2 > knee
3 > bare foot
4 > head
...Trildyn with his soggy hard head "Oh I do apologize - quite cramped in here, is it not?" with an "and by the way" look "I do suppose we are just on the verge of being pirates ourselves, as far as nearly looking the part goes." stirred with this thought a moment "So I'll ask you this: What it is, in terms of doing the part, do you think it is a pirate does?"
Don Jurri listens to Trildyn's response (if any) - or anyone's for that matter! - with careful and attentive consideration, deciding to take any reasonable advice given to heart.
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Upon docking, and being told about the "the kids" - and wondering whether he is, or could be, or ever would be, considered in this group - Don Jurri grabs the piece of torn fabric from his pocket, and looks into his bag of cosmetics, which are mostly wet, except for...
1 > eye-patch
2 > fake mustache
3 > fake gold necklace
4 > red blush
5 > black eye-liner
6 > tooth blackener
7 > prosthetic nose
...some tooth-blackinging agents and a fake mustache, which, while he is walking, he applies to his somewhat already neglected teeth, as well as his upper lip, using the wet fabric to smudge the agents just so, as well as dampen the mustache enough to give it a bit of shape, twisting off it's ends with his fingers. He puts the piece of fabric back into his pocket.
Before addressing the Harbormaster, we winks at his party, adding any affectation to which he was advised, and hoping his words will be upstaged by the sheer believability of his constructed character, asks "Ahoy there - we be but the lost six shipmates of The Gobble-kin Garrison, mustered as we are, together, and "what business to do here?" you ask? Well I'll answer thee! You see our ill-named Lady - The Downed Petrel - what we had thought served to describe her Lovely Exterior, turnabouted to describe her Tragic Fate - we being who what survived - And if you're wondering "how can I help?" Well I'll answer thee twice! You see, we are here to seek our better fortunes aboard that weller-named..." Pausing a breath before finally getting to it "Do you know where we can find the captain of that lovely ship?" Pointing to the Risen Albatross...
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Cerulean happily hops off the boat and surveys the scene in front of him with a broad smile.
Rietous nights you say? I reluctantly accept this mission! Shall we just try to create a competing ruckus and, oh my... He trails off as he observes Don Jurri approaching the harbormaster. Curious he ambles after, shifting his guaze from Don Jurri to the harbormaster and back again with an inquisitive expression.
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The bald bureaucrat is checking off tasks written in a ledger when the 'well' disguised Don Jurri approaches him. He slowly looks up and then turns his eyes to the Risen Albatross to see what Don Jurri is talking about. He clears his throat and you see his hand open up wide underneath the ledger, hidden from sight as if in search of some sort of offer for his information. He looks to be trying to not draw too much attention to his bribery.
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"And now, within thine own countree,
We stand on the firm land!
We have stepped forth from the boat,
And patiently we stand.
O tell us, tell us, harbor man!
With hand upon thine brow.
Say quick, ask we, I bid thee say--
What manner of man art thou?
What loud uproar bursts from that door!
The captain of the sea!
But in what seaside inn the Fane,
And crew-mates singing be?"
With a bow, Spotlight ends his poem, grinning at the harbormaster as he waits for the man's reply.