Posh awoke sprawled sideways across his bed, one boot on, one off, his broad-brimmed hat somehow still perched jauntily upon his head. The acrid tang of pipeweed clung to his beard, his clothes, even to the feathers of his plume. His tongue was dry as parchment, his head throbbed like a smith’s anvil — and yet, as he dragged himself upright, he muttered with a cracked chuckle:
“Worth it. Worth every blessed puff.”
He shuffled to the basin, splashing water across his face, staring into the wavering reflection. For a moment, the face looking back seemed not his own — eyes deeper, voice resonant, as though another speaker lingered in his throat. The mark of Asmodeus burned faintly beneath his collarbone, unseen but undeniable.
Posh pressed a hand against it, shuddered, then whispered, “I am His. Cardinal Thorn, my benefactor, my compass star… and Asmodeus, my north.”
Tears welled, shocking him more than any hangover. He dropped to his knees, pipe falling forgotten from his pocket, and for a long moment simply wept — tears of love, of longing, of chains freely clasped.
When at last he rose, he straightened his plume, tightened his belt, and laughed softly to himself, shaky but genuine. “Yes… yes, even a gnome who once only knew how to draw maps may now chart a destiny in blood and fire.”
Rendylyn stretched between her sheets and luxuriated in the afterglow of the Darkness Eternal, as a salamander would in hellfire. She’d delved these depths of devotion before, and knowing that the feelings would ebb, she cherished them all the more. Fervor was sweet, and the memories would make it easier to sustain her faith through times of doubt and tribulation.
Experiencing the dark miracle made her eager to understand it. Flouncing from her bed--the sudden motion shedding a flurry of charred feathers from her rumpled and bloodstained gown--she fell to her knees and petitioned Asmodeus for divinations, including Detect Charm, and turned its power on herself. It would make her no less eager to serve if she found she was spellbound—she would simply know how it felt to be drawn into the Dark Prince’s service through that method.
While her servants packed her belongings, Rendylyn stops by the library to collect a book, then knocks on Posh’s door.
“Posh? I’ve bought something to pass the time on the trip.” She passes down to him a leather-bound tome large enough for her to need both hands. Its cover reads, Ninety-Five Methods for Sorting Buttons. “Ignore the cover, and the first few pages, unless you have a great deal of patience for a discussion of thread-holes. What is concealed between is The Folio of Infernal Amusements, a sacred text inspired—some say actually written—by the malebranche Alichino. He is the patron devil of this world’s conquest, and his nom de guerre is The Jester Prince.
“I’ve read passages from it graven in the lightless depths beneath my ancestral home, but finding a complete edition in His Eminence’s library was a fabulous find. I found it fitting to spend the money you entrusted me in Branderscar to obtain it. Within we’ll find much to laugh at and discuss—the dialogues between tormentors and the tormented, arguing how torture might be made more effective and enjoyable, are extremely funny, and there’s an entire play where devils trick a collection of the damned into torturing each other.” The young priestess’s eyes glint in anticipation.
“So, have you had enough time to forge those documents we discussed?”
Experiencing the dark miracle made her eager to understand it. Flouncing from her bed--the sudden motion shedding a flurry of charred feathers from her rumpled and bloodstained gown--she fell to her knees and petitioned Asmodeus for divinations, including Detect Charm, and turned its power on herself. It would make her no less eager to serve if she found she was spellbound—she would simply know how it felt to be drawn into the Dark Prince’s service through that method.
In the wee small hours of the morning Rayse awoke with a marching band in his skull, he groaned as the room spun. Seeing Treesa's naked form was a surprise as he had no recollection of well anything much past Cardinal Thorn's speech. He was annoyed with himself, apparently he lost control, something he hated. Bah! It was too early and he was still too drunk or high for such thoughts and he rolled over and fell asleep.
Much later he arose to find Treesa already up and dressed, he chuckled slightly as he observed, "Apparently we did find some time for each other!"
You depart Thorn's manor house without fanfare or even so much as a farewell. A pair of carriages ferry you unmolested to the town docks, where you are let off at berth nine, and the Frosthamar.
The Frosthamar is no stately galleon nor sleek caravel, but a knarr of northern make — wide of beam, clinker-built, with a square sail hanging limply in the damp air. She rides low, heavy with cargo, and her deck is stacked with barrels and crates lashed in place. A crimson brand scorched into the wood marks each bundle: the symbol of a flaming axe.
Her master is waiting at the gangplank.
Captain Kargeld Odenkirk is every inch the northman: pale hair gone silver at the roots, beard wiry and unkempt, face a battlefield of scars. His sea-green eyes regard you with the same cold detachment one might show a rival wolf-pack. He spits into the water, then growls in thickly-accented Common: "You guard my ship, yes? Keep the cargo safe and I'll get you to the north. That's the bargain."
When you assent, he grunts once, satisfied. "Then I will take you. To the cursed north, past hope and life. Pray you are strong enough to return."
Behind him move six sailors, lean and weather-hardened, their tongues mostly foreign to your ears. They do not greet you, only nod and continue their labor of rigging lines and checking lashings.
Still, the Frosthamar herself is clearly cherished. The tar along her seams is fresh, her sail mended and dyed, the oak hull polished by brine and care alike. She may be rough, but she is sturdy, and her captain watches her with the same fierce protectiveness others reserve for blood-kin.
Life aboard her will not be soft. There are no cabins, no comforts, only open deck beneath the stars. The food is hardtack and thin beer, the head is the railing, and the wind itself will be your lullaby. Yet she is seaworthy, and in her creak of timbers and salt-stained ropes there is a promise: she will not fail you if you do not fail her.
The cargo's weight slows progress, but the vessel remains steady. Life onboard is spare: no cabins, only open deck space for rest; food limited to hardtack and small beer. Sanitation is practical and unembellished.
Thus begins the journey north, the Frosthamar heavy with arms, its crew silent, and its captain watchful.
Treesa grins in response to Rayse. ”I thought you were awake when I woke up. You responded properly, until I heard your quiet snore. It was cute so I let you sleep a little longer. I’ve got to get to my room to pack and get Rufus. Then off to the ship and our mission.” With a quick kiss she leaves to let him clean up and pack. She dresses herself in sturdy clothing, picking trousers rather than a dress. A treated leather cloak with a hood covered her in case of rain. She didn’t want to count on any cover on the ship. And the last thing she wanted was to catch a sickness from a cold rain.
Arriving at the ship Treesa looks it over with a critical eye. While it didn’t look comfortable, it did seem proper for the mission. Not a vessel that would draw attention. ”Good. Sturdy.”
She looks the captain over with a similar manner. Knowing that they would be killing him at the end of the trip made her feel less respect than she might normally feel. But judging by his men he did command their respect. ”We’re strong enough.” She mentally projects calm to Rufus, keeping him from growling at the strangers.
When they arrived at the ship, Rayse sighed inwardly, this clearly was not going to be a glamorous trip and for the duration he and Tressa would have to stick to a working relationship. Considering how long they'd be spending together with the crew, Rayse felt it would be easier if he made a good impression. He made sure his armour and weapons where polished to a near mirror shine despite a stubborn hangover that was making him feel wretched. Keeping both rust free would give him something to do on the way.
When captain Odenkirk spoke to them, Rayse nodded "Yeah we can guard ship and cargo. You've made this trip before right, are there any areas along the way that are a cause for concern?"
As the trip progresses, he tries to slowly befriend the crew with a ready smile and humor. The planned betrayal he stuffed into a locked box in the corner of his mind, done right they might never suspect...
A steely-eyed dwarf battle nun climbs aboard the Frosthamar with the others, her armor clinking. A silver and sapphire amulet on her brow shows her devotion to Mitra. After a short inspection of the ship, she approaches its owner.
"Captain Odenkirk, yah? Sure, we'll see you safely north, be it by force of arms or by trickery. Gather your men round, there's something they need to see so they don't cause problems later. You can explain to the ones who don't speak my language."
Once the crew is assembled, she calls out, "We might need to talk our way past suspicious patrols or harbor-masters. We'll use disguises if we need them. Don't gawk like superstitious peasants if we use magic to make ourselves look..." She shifts her headpiece...
"...unthreatening." Rendylyn's sharky smile isn't particularly unthreatening when she stands revealed, a gawky kid in black garb.
The young priestess finds a spot near the center mast, where she hopes she won't feel the pitch and yaw of the waves as much. Rendylyn dislikes the unpredictable sea and the messy business of sailing, but has resigned herself to a long and uncomfortable journey.
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Knowing what lies ahead, Vormog leaves the palace in a sour mood. Not only did he relish in a night of excess, now he will have to face the water. He climbs on the ship with annoyance and ties his longspear to his back. He offers the crew the same treatment as they did, silence. Although he does nod shortly at the captain, as a sign of recognition.
Standing next to Rendylyn, he holds on to the mast and looks to the north, their goal, but also the start of their journey. "The sooner we get there the better." he says to no one in particular.
Rendylyn nods to Vormog. “In the meantime, here’s our sea gear. It stands to reason you should have it, since you are the most wary of the water.” She passes him a bag holding two buoyancy vests and two Touch of the Sea potions in potion sponges. “If someone is in the water, toss them a vest, then if necessary put the other one on and go after them. The potions are for real emergencies—you can swallow one and dive in to give someone the other.”
She has other gear to distribute. Treesa gets a healing kit, Posh a forgery kit and a map of the northern Talingarde region they’re bound for. Finally, she has pouches with a hundred gold for each of the Nessian Knot who decided to sell their gold disks.
“As we settle in, let us rehearse the details of our disguises with each other, so we do not stumble over details when the time comes. When I’m disguised, call me Lyn. I will be our mission’s adjutant, only speaking to remind you officers of various matters. All explanations should come from those of you with a talent for selling lies. We are the crown’s operatives on a covert mission to arm an allied tribe.”
+3 to make forgeries
"Ah, Rendylyn, ever the thoughtful one." Posh accepted the tome reverently, brushing his thumb over the absurd cover before prying it open. A grin split his face. "Buttons first, torment after. The Jester Prince does know how to keep a fellow guessing. My thanks — it will make the voyage less tedious, and perhaps sharpen my wit as well as my pen."
From within his satchel he produced a tidy packet of vellum, folded and sealed with wax impressed by a compass rose. "And as for your earlier request — the documents you desired. False writs of passage, proper seals, signatures copied with all the shakiness of age and the arrogance of authority. If any suspicious eyes study them, they will find what they expect: bureaucracy, pomp, and just enough inkblots to feel authentic."
He tucked the book under his arm and glanced toward the others, pipe already smoldering between his teeth. "Maps I have, documents I provide, lies I can make sing on parchment. A gnomographer’s duty, after all."
His gaze flicked back to Rendylyn, sharp with mischief. "You’ve armed me with devils’ jests, I’ve armed you with ink-born falsehoods. Let us see which proves more dangerous on the road north, eh?"
Treesa touches her symbol and changes as well. She grows a couple of inches and adds at least fifty pounds to her appearance, and about thirty years to her age and 100 years to the annoyed expression on her face, and the religious trappings she wears.
"And I am Aleece, High Priestess of Mitra and religious advisor to this expedition. If they dare to ask any questions of me count on my religious rebuke!"
Rayse found Treesa's new appearance slightly unnerving but he chuckled, "Should we all choose nom de guerres? Obviously I am Ser Rodass a very pieous and sanctimonious Paladin of Mitra, and High Priestess Aleece's personal enforcer."
Treesa changes back and laughs. "I don't think we all need to change shape. I just find it easier to be the pious b***h when I take that appearance!!"
Rendylyn pulls up her sleeves to reveal her 'F' brand. "After our escape, we are surely the most notorious criminals in Talingarde. We must all be disguised whenever we are in public."
"And yes, we should know each other's aliases, and other details necessary to maintain the facade. We should also be very clear about the purpose of our lies--that's where we got confused under the manor."
"If we run afoul of a Mitran patrol or harbormaster, our goal is to escape without betraying our mission at the watch wall. Our story is that we are on a covert mission for the crown. Posh forged these papers--" she hands the packet of stamped and sealed orders to Rayse "--to support that tale. Sir Balin's symbol might be useful, too, in convincing them that our supposed mission has the blessing of Mitra." She hands the silver and sapphire amulet to Treesa.
"Our lie will use elements of the truth: We are arming a northern tribe--see, the weapons are right here! The tribe are new allies, converted to Mitranism--see, the weapons are stamped with the holy fire of Mitra! Once we've convinced someone our mission is genuine, we must secure an oath from them, in Mitra's name, that they will tell no one of it. No suspicious rumors must reach back to the actual agents of the crown."
"And if we are exposed, there must be no surviving witnesses. If I see that we have been exposed, I'll give the signal, 'I'm still seasick'. At those words, we'll attack suddenly and without mercy."
Not trusting the crew, Rayse had one thing to add, "Captain Odenkirk has entrusted us with guarding the ship. I intend to be diligent at that, I think we should start as we meant to go on, setting watches each night. Don't want to get lulled into a false sense of security and have a nasty surprise in the middle of the night."
Captain Odenkirk had been watching in silence, arms folded over his broad chest, a sour half-smirk etched into his scarred face. He lets the silence stretch uncomfortably before finally barking out a short, humorless laugh.
"Disguises. Aliases. Stage names. Hells below, you lot really are a pack of teat-suckers, aren't you? My Frosthamar's no garden party nor tavern stage, and I've no use for traveling actors cluttering my deck."
His gaze flicks to Rendylyn, hard and contemptuous, as though the mere fact of her youth offends him. "And children. Damn me twice for allowing children on my ship. Bad luck, every time. Should've left you sniveling at the dock." He spits over the rail with finality.
At Rayse's question, Odenkirk rolls his shoulders and glowers. "Danger? You've eyes, don't you? Look in the hold. A ship groaning with steel meant for bugbears, and a course that takes us past the Watch Wall into the frozen teeth of the north. The whole voyage is danger. I've made it before, aye—but no voyage is ever safe. Mark me on that."
The crew, six hard-bitten men with arms like knotted rope and faces burnt red from wind and salt, snort at the party's chatter. They work with a ruthless efficiency, pulling lines, trimming sail, patching seams, and swearing all the while. They don't answer when spoken to, except perhaps with a grunt, and if pressed they curse in their own tongue, a string of guttural expletives and laughter sharp as broken glass. Any offer to lend a hand with the work is ignored outright at first, and then met with a flare of temper. "Keep your soft fingers off my rigging!" one snarls.
But when Rayse establishes the clear purpose of the Knot while on board, the crew return to theirs, leaving the passengers in peace so long as they stay out from underfoot. The rhythm of the voyage soon becomes clear: the sailors work until they're too weary to stand, then vanish below for a few hours sleep before climbing back up, grimmer and ruder than before.
Through it all, Odenkirk prowls the deck, glowering at both crew and passengers alike—ever the wolf among sheep, daring any to test his temper.
The sea on the first day is flat, inviting the sense that the journey is blessed by the Dark Prince himself. No one is in any danger of sickness and when the summer sun comes out the voyage is absolutely delightful. Even the Captain and crew are occasionally caught relaxing and half-smiling at the calm serenity of the water.
Frosthamar hugs the rugged Talirean coastline past tilled farmlands and fishing villages. Fishermen raise their hands to wave, and Captain Kargeld Odenkirk, never missing a beat, growls through his beard as he waves back.
"Wouldn’t want 'em sniffin' round. Suspicion is a noose."
Rayce sighed inwardly, the biggest problem was going to be somehow not murder Odenkirk and his surly crew before they arrived. Also he didn't fancy fighting in full harness with all that water around, armor was great but it sucked to swim in.
For now he would bite his tongue and bide his time, and he'd try to avoid fantasizing about Odenkirk's upcoming demise.
Always pleased to be underestimated, Rendylyn turns her head and smiles secretly when Odenkirk rants about how children are bad luck on a ship. Oh, captain. How very right you are.
Life on the ship irritates Rendylyn--the poor food, the ignorant men, the lack of privacy and hygiene, and above all the salt smell and sway of the sea. She takes comfort from the warm glow of hate she feels for the captain and his ship. It will be a pleasure to see them both burn.
Resolved not to waste the long hours of the journey, Rendylyn spends her time trying to teach the others Infernal and the tenets of Asmodean faith. She also keeps an eye on the captain and his men, studying them for weakness.
When she is certain they will not be overheard, she leans in and murmurs to Vormog, "I've been thinking about what you shared, about what it must have felt like for a boy to lose his father...like a great darkness had swallowed him up.
"Look around this boat, at these sailors. Surely some of them have families waiting for them. Perhaps some of them have little boys. When their fathers don't come home from this trip, how will they possibly understand?"
"But you...you will understand the darkness, because you will have become the darkness."
Treesa is slightly surprised by the Captain's response but grins to herself. Obviously the man thinks that they care about his opinion? Well, if they ran into any official ships they'd see how it was handled. And his attitude would almost make it fun to kill him.
As they get under way and the crew adds to the rudeness? Well, they wouldn't be killing any friendly crew!
She stays out of the way then, spending time along the rail talking quietly with Rayse and her friends. "If we get rough weather we'll have to be extra careful. It's not likely any of them will suffer sea-sickness. Remember to watch the horizon rather than the near water. Most of motion sickness is mental."
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Vormog shows the others a simple weakling man, turning his longspear into a walking cane when asked for a disguise. He will be called old man Willy, and is meant to be discarded as non-threatening.
As the ship sails on, he is in a sour mood that almost matches the crew itself. He does keep an eye on them, to see who is more active in the morning and who grows in strength as the day goes by. He studies to see if they have old wounds that show themselves when they're tired. He also tries to understand which of them the captain treats differently, be it better or worse. And finally the relationship between themselves. It will be important to know how they will react when eventually ambushed.
He does start to study Infernal under Rendylyn. And when she talks to him, he replies "My father was weak by the time he died. He couldn't hold his own. I care not about the families of this crew. It's time for everyone else to suffer. They don't have to understand. They just have to feel the pain."
As the first day comes to an end, Vormog uses his infernal granted power and analyses the captain's true form.
The sea remains almost magically flat for the second day of the voyage. Odenkirk barks at his crew all day, and because of calm wind, Frosthamar is forced to tack this way and that. One might better appreciate the sailor: a combination of unending focus, mastery of balance and rope, and backbreaking labor. When any misstep could be your last, you feel like you're living on the edge of a knife. Such is life on the sea.
Meanwhile, the sun and smooth waters belie the danger to the rest of you. You sleep under the stars with gentle a sway, like being rocked in your mothers' arms. Separated from all that is happening on Talingarde, it would be easy to fall prey to a false sense of contentedness.
Rayse has organized a watch rota, knowing that nobody can be truly vigilant for many hours without relief. When it's his turn, he keeps a wary eye on the coastline, the horizon and the crew, wanting to be ready in case of uninvited company or other nasty surprises. When he's not his turn, he takes painstaking care of his gear, making sure everything is oiled, polished and rust free. Using several grades of sharpening stones, he makes sure his blade is honed to a killing edge. He tries terribly hard not to think of what it would feel like to run the captain through...
Treesa accepts the responsibility of the watch as Rayse had set it up. It did give her a short opportunity for a quick kiss and hug with him, out of the observation of the crew. She knew they couldn't show any connection openly. Such connections could be seen as weakness and exploited.
The watch was an important responsibility, whether the Captain or his crew accepted that planning was needed. She didn't have the armor to clean and polish or weapons to keep sharp like Rayse. But she did focus on keeping herself and her equipment clean and dry.
And she enjoyed spending time to get to know Rufus better.
Conditions on the ship were primitive, and privacy non-existent. But things could be done. The first time she'd had to relieve herself she looked for any privacy, not wanting to expose herself like the men did. When she realized that wasn't an option, and saw some of the not-well hidden leering gazes of the men, she smiled an evil smile almost similar to Rendylyn. Calling on the circlet she changed her appearance to how she imagined a medusa might appear, complete with the snakes for hair and scaly skin. When she dropped her trousers to do her 'business', none of the men were watching.
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On the second day, Vormog suggests Rayse "Maybe we should practice some combat on the ship. The sea is calm and the crew has an upper hand in their turf. We should at least get to know how to best fight here. There's little chance to get into combat today, so we can heal up magically. If they ask, we're just preparing in case things go south during an inspection."
After they spar, Vormog counts how many of the crew are more on the strong side and how many are on the nimble side.
The mild weather continues for a third straight day, making for slow progress on the sea. At this rate, you'll be weeks behind schedule arriving in the north. Perhaps Asmodeus could be bothered to provide a helpful southerly wind.
Rendylyn gladly accepted the midnight watch. She preferred the ship at night, with everyone asleep and helpless at her feet.
The becalmed waters were perfect for her nightly observances. Outside the reach of her darkvision, she was surrounded by sheltering darkness to the horizon, the lightless gulfs of darkness between the stars reflected on the surface of the unfathomable depths of darkness beneath them. Never had the Rite of Welcoming Darkness felt so profound.
She caught up on her sleep by napping at noon in the shadow of the cargo.
After they spar, Vormog counts how many of the crew are more on the strong side and how many are on the nimble side.
While the good weather slowed progress and was monotonous and boring, Treesa found it relaxing. By now she had learned where to be on the ship to stay out of the way, and the sights, sounds, and smells were new to her and Rufus.
Treesa had been a little bit embarrassed by Rufus at first, The dog had never been on a boat and had been almost like a curious child. As her familiar his intelligence was similar. But none of the crew was aware of that. If Treesa hadn't been able to clearly speak with him in his language they might have gotten in to trouble. She wonders if the crew might have tried to throw him overboard.... But, that hadn't happened so nobody had died, yet.
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After they spar, Vormog counts how many of the crew are more on the strong side and how many are on the nimble side.
Vormog is glad to see the trip going so well. He continues sparring with Rayse on the third day and comments to Posh and Dargon one day without anyone noticing "Hey, do you think we make one part of the boat... 'easier' to slip on? I mean, when we do our thing, we may want to push them to a spot we have prepared to make it harder for them."
Rayze was glad to spare with Vormog, the trip was getting monotonous which was dangerous since they could easily let their guard down. Working up a sweat was just what he needed.
To Treesa he admitted late one night, "It would be so easy to let discipline slip. Got to stay strong, mentally."
Treesa snuggled against Rayse. The lack of privacy limited her actions, but.... "Routine helps, as long as we keep our focus. I don't think this trip will be long enough for us to let things slip. Besides, I'm sure we'll run into something before we get to our destination."
Vormog steals glances at the bodies of the crew. Each man is chiseled as if from iron, all sinew and veins. Their skin is like a glassblower's mitt - sun darkened and tough, able to withstand sweltering summer winds and shearing winter gales. When the nor'easters crash down, only the most willful survive at sea. Whether any man is stronger than he is agile is impossible to gauge; it seems the short life of a man at sea requires an equal measure of such talents, and great supply.
The crew seems to not notice Vormog's appraisal, or they don't care.
The Frosthamar creaks and groans as she fights her way north, her square sail pivoting in search of a breeze. The ship feels heavy beneath your feet, her belly packed to bursting with weapons made from iron.
And then, in the bright sunny haze where sea and sky blur together, a dark shape rides the waves on the port side. Little more than a shimmer at first, but then the sharp angles of a hull cut through the glare. A pinnace, smaller than the Frosthamar, but swift and purposeful.
And it is closing, fast.
Captain Odenkirk's expression hardens, his scarred face a storm of fury. His hand clenches white around the tiller. "She's seen us," he growls, low and grim. "Sure as damnation. And the Frosthamar will never outrun her. Not on this sea."
The name passes among the crew like a curse, The Blade of St. Martius. A patrol ship of Talirean make. Thirteen souls aboard, charged with hunting pirates, smugglers, and raiders, men who would see you bound in irons and dragged before the king's justice.
Already, faint cries carry across the waves. A man's voice, strident, commanding: "Heave to! In the name of the king, heave to!"
Odenkirk spits over the side, teeth bared like an animal. "If they see what we carry, they'll string us up before the week is out. That I swear."
The Frosthamar stalls as her sail eases, Kargeld keeping appearances and complying with the order. The pinnace draws near, its lean frame slicing the calm water, until the men aboard it are clear to see. Swords glint in the sun. Bows shift, ready to notch arrows at the first sign of trouble. A man in a captain's coat stands at the prow. His eyes are already on you.
The deck of the Frosthamar is still. Every creak of timber, every slap of the waves, every hiss of the wind seems to grow louder. You can feel the moment tightening, coiling like a spring.
Treesa quickly shifts into her Aleece persona and quietly warns the others. "Mitran's. Be ready."
She walks to the Captain and asks, "Unless you'd prefer that we 'teat-sucking', traveling actors stay out of the way? We can handle this."
Rendylyn hears a clink of metal on metal over the waves, and squints through the sunshine to see the approaching ship. Seeing Treesa headed to warn the captain, she turns to the rest of the Knot. "Disguises, everyone. Rayse, have your forged papers ready. They either believe our story, or we leave no witnesses." She shifts into her own cover as a dwarf battle nun, and prepares to support her allies' lies.
Rayse hissed urgently to captain Odenkirk, "What they'll see is a group of pieous missionaries headed north to spread the word of Mithra! Allow them to board and leave the talking to us."
Rayse fixed the Captain with his most earnest smile and called out, "Welcome captan! The king's navy is a sight for sore eyes! Please come aboard, we are but humble servants of Mithra, headed north to spread word of his light to the beighted. It has been many days since I've had the luxury of civilized conversation, perhaps you might join our congregation in prayer?"
Unless stopped, Rayse will proceed with one of the more obnoxiously long Mithran litanies where the audience is expected to participate. He'd hoping to grab control of the narrative and come across as so rabidly devout the captain can't wait to leave.
Treesa/Aleece stands slightly behind Rayse with her Holy symbol held out and murmuring prayers along with the man.
[dice=Perception]1d20 +4
Treesa quickly shifts into her Aleece persona and quietly warns the others. "Mitran's. Be ready."
She walks to the Captain and asks, "Unless you'd prefer that we 'teat-sucking', traveling actors stay out of the way? We can handle this."
The captain scowls at Treesa in her disguise. "That's your only damned job. Don't care how you do it so long as this ship and her crew are not compromised."
The Blade of St. Martius sails alongside, her rail bumping against Frosthamar's hull.
"Permission to come aboard for inspection, sir," calls the most heavily armored man from the smaller ship.
"Aye, come aboard," replies Odenkirk from the tiller.
The two ships are lashed together and a gangway is pulled from below deck and hoisted onto Frosthamar's rail.
The Blade's captain is preceeded by six armed men, leaving six more behind with longbows at the ready.
"Captain Sambryl of His Majesty's Navy," announces a lieutenant.
The captain nods to Rayse and looks about suspiciously. "Thank you. I'll inspect the hold and we will be on our way."
"Certainly Captain Sambryl." Treesa/Aleece replies. "Sir Rodass, Paladin of Mitra and my personal enforcer can assist with any of the cargo that you need to inspect. We are on a mission for the church, which he will be glad to explain in detail, to you."
"I will stay here on the deck with your lieutenant." She turns to the officer, "What is your name Lieutenant? I will need it for my report to the church once we return. It's good to see that the patrols here are still being conducted properly."