The creak of treated wood and the sway of hammocks was familiar to most of you. However, it did not match the last memories you had. Flashes of the night before made your heads spin. The ringing laughter of a wild night, the heady joy of excess, the scents of rich stewed meat and perfume lingering in your nostrils. Now? A pounding in your skulls, the sickly taste of cheap rum and wine, and unease as your eyes adjust to the nigh darkness of the belly of a ship.
As you groan and attempt to rise from the hammocks you’re lying in, the heavy footfalls on the stairs announces a heavily bearded man and six thugs marching down the stairs. One carries a lantern, which spears light into your hungover eyes, and the thugs carry at least a club. An expression that might be mistaken for pain but which is clearly an attempt at a smile bruises the bearded man’s face as he cracks the whip in his hand and screams at you.
“Still abed with the sun over the yardarm? On your feet, ye filthy swabs! Get up on deck and report for duty before Cap’n Harrigan flays your flesh into sausage skins and has Fishguts fry ye up for breakfast!”
While most of your gear and clothing is on your persons, you do notice any weapons you might have had the night before are absent from your belongings. Kits and packs are at beneath your hammocks.
Lily stood up shakily at first but managed to get her feet under her. The back of her head was throbbing, like she was struck from behind, had she drunk that much? She was tall, almost six and a half feet. Her curly blond hair got in her eyes, someone had even robbed her of her hair tie. Her dark red eyes smoldered rage but she did her best to restrain herself. Lily would almost pass for human if it wasn't for the grey pallor to her skin and the large lower canines protruding from her mouth.
She smelled brimstone, she was where she needed to be for now. She smacked her lips, nut oil, she had been poisoned it dawned on her. She had tasted it before, these people must have used more. She began sizing up the other crew, to see who could possibly be her allies and her enemies. The captain and his officers, they didn't care for the rank and file. No offer of articles meant no pay and that they meant to keep discipline with fear and pain. The crew could be at their throats so if they could hold on to that power, they deserved it, but it was dangerous.
Not wanting to appear reluctant, she started to head for the deck. Injecting a bit of venom into her tone Lily says, "Aye, aye, Sir!”
Wincing as her eyes open, Jacquelyn groans softly. "Desna, forgive the dreams of drunken fools."
Twisting her feet underneath her, she feels the unmistakable feeling of planks beneath her bare feet, at the same moment she feels the rocking of a ship on swells. Eyes jolting open, she jumps to her feet, excitement coursing through her. The taste on her mouth puts a damper on the situation however, quickly added to by the jumbled memories of the night before. So she had been pressganged had she? She was finally on the water, but would it prove worth it?
The sound of the bearded man's voice cuts through her thoughts. Cautious, but excited, she follows the far taller woman towards the companionway.
Jacques blinks several times as he comes to, his hand going immediately to the rapier at his belt, and he is dismayed to discover that it is missing. He attempts to pull himself to his feet from the unsteady hammock, recognizing the taggit root aftertaste on his lips. "Ah, you 'ave poisoned me," he mutters in his deep voice tinged with shades of an exotic dialect. "You expect me to serve? Non, Jacques Lacrimoisi is never to be taken so easily." He shakes his head and spits, looking quickly about him for a weapon.
The vanara is slower to stir than the others. This wiry, middle-aged simian humanoid has streaks of gray running through the dark fur around his muzzle and crown. Dressed in rumpled, brightly colored, flowing robes, he hangs half-sideways in the hammock, limbs sprawled in an undignified heap. His tail dangles limp like a forgotten rope.
When the whip cracks and the lantern light stabs through the darkness, his eyelids flutter without fully rising. A thin line of drool clings to the corner of his mouth, dripping onto the hammock’s edge. He wipes it away sluggishly with the back of his arm, blinking as if each moment of wakefulness takes deliberate effort.
He tries to sit up first, and the motion nearly spills him out of the hammock. His tail twitches, then curls crookedly, offering none of the balance it normally grants him. The vanara catches himself against the ropes, shoulders sagging, his amber eyes unfocused and glassy.
When he finally gets his feet under him, he rises in a slow, wavering push. An unsteady lurch suggests his body is fighting both vertigo and lingering numbness. His tail drags behind him, dulled into a sluggish, trailing weight. He blinks several times at the bearded man barking orders, as though trying to piece together how he’s gone from a tavern table to the belly of a ship.
He simply stands there for a brief moment, swaying slightly, fur askew and eyes half-lidded. Then, with a faint grunt and a resigned exhale, he wipes the last of the drool from his cheek, squares his shoulders as best he can, and begins to stumble toward the indicated direction. He leans against the walls of the ship every few meters, still fighting to keep his balance as he moves. His groggy eyes and soft grunts still show frustration in this, indicating the state he finds himself in is quite out of the ordinary.
Izkaen's eyes flick open at the sharp crack of the whip, and he jolts to his feet, both hands flowing towards his daisho at his hip, only to find that there's no sign of either of his swords.
The half-statement slips out of his lips before he can fully stop it, then he pauses, taking in his surroundings as swiftly as he's able.
Drugged? Of all the... He shakes himself vigorously. Seems like I've been press-ganged. Lovely. Is this what you wanted of me, Desna? He remains quiet, fighting against the remnants of the exhaustion. Gods, I feel awful. As the women - an exotic group, but not unusual for the Shackles - head out, he takes a few steps to follow, then glances at Jacques as he speaks up. "Now's not the time-" He begins, then cuts himself off, feeling the uncomfortable absence of his swords at his hip. I've served on enough ships to know where this is going. Even the best of them wouldn't tolerate that kind of talk, and those don't abduct people to serve as sailors.
As Jacques casts his eye about for a weapon, he notices Izkaen meets his glance and hears his quiet caution. Jacques is angry but not beyond reason, and with a murderous glare at the bearded man with the whip, he spits again and slowly walks closer to the elf. He looks like he wants to say something, but struggles to put it into words. Then he turns and stalks to the exit, following the others.
"A bit of fight in ye, eh, Lacrimosa?" The whip wielder does not bother to pronounce Jacques name correctly, though a flash of recognition does flicker in his dark eyes. "Fair enough, consider yer opinion marked."
The whipper lashed his whip at Lacrimoisi, aiming for his leg but striking the floor instead. "Get ye up on deck, the lot of ye!"
The thugs jeer and snigger as the new crew mates ascend up from the lower to the main deck, making crude remarks about the old vanara and the exotic elf, leering at the women, asserting dominance. The sun is still low in the morning, angled to strike your eyes as you emerge. A motley crew mills about, mostly tough salts that looked like they'd lived on a ship all their lives.
A towering Garundi man, easily Jacques' size if not greater, stands on the deck, stroking his long braided beard. To his side stood a wiry man with a cat-o-nine already in hand, swarthy and wearing a thin braided beard and a shaved head save for a pony tail.
The six of you aren't alone. Four others stand - or kneel - before the Garundi, set apart by the lack of tanned skin and cleaner clothes. A redheaded human woman, a grim looking Varisian man, a muscular halfling woman, and a fopish gnome man.
"Glad you could join us at last!" The towering Garundi growls. "Welcome to the Wormwood! My thanks for ‘volunteering’ to join my crew. I’m Barnabas Harrigan. That’s Captain Barnabas Harrigan to you, not that you’ll ever need to address me. I have only one rule—don’t speak to me. I like talk, but I don’t like your talk. Follow that rule and we’ll all get along fine."
"Oh, and one more thing. Even with you new recruits, we’re still short-handed, and I aim to keep what crew I have. There’ll be a keelhaulin’ for anyone caught killin’ anyone." That part is aimed at the whole crew as much as it was aimed at the newest members. "Mr. Plugg! If you’d be so kind as to make pirates out of this menagerie, it’ll save me having to put them in the sweatbox for a year and a day before I make pies out of ’em."
Harrigan turns on his heel and makes for his cabin, leaving you with Plugg - with the cat-o-nine - and Scourge - who woke you to your new life.
As she crests topside, Jaquelyn can't help but pause for a moment, her breath taken away by the majesty of the view of the open ocean surrounding her, and she inhales deeply the salt air. As the person behind her catches up, she is broken from her reverie and continues towards the line of people. She looks around at the crew, trying to see which faces might be friendly, and which clearly show no sympathy. As her gaze sweeps the ship though, her sight locks onto the helm, and her thoughts wander once more to her dream of sailing.
As Harrigan starts talking, she watches him wearily. I doubt I want to sail under this mountain of a man. Piracy is one thing, but this man seems like one who views cruelty as amusement. I better walk small until I can figure out the best way forward.
Upon reaching the main deck, the vanara puts a hand over his eyes to shield them from the light, waiting for his eyes adjust. His movements, including his tail, seem more fluid than a few moments ago. He still spits over the railing to get the oily taste from his mouth when he gets the opportunity, then proceeds to stand in line with the other nine newcomers, scanning the scene inquisitively.
When the garundi speaks, he listens in silence, letting out one or two stifled coughs. At this point, his tail is aimed at the sky and coiled at the end. Once Barnabas Harrigan retreats to the captain's cabin, the vanara relaxes slightly. He looks to his left and right, not wanting to interrupt the "ceremony" with introductions. Looking around and only seeing the open sea, there might be enough time for that.
Anyone who looks at the simian can decipher a face revealing grogginess, a little bit of disappointment, but also a hint of snoopiness.
Once on deck, Izkaen feels the sweep of brine-tinged air over him. Already at sea. Of course. Well, it's best to make the best of it, then... The faintest memory of a poem tugs at his memory, but the loud voice of the captain disrupts the words before they can form.
With that, the samurai examines Harrigan. 'Remain loyal to crew and captain...' He reminds himself silently, then completes the vow. 'So long as they remain loyal to you.' Is the word even in this man's vocabulary? Certainly, not a man to bother... yet, at any rate. Perhaps later, should I prove myself. Assuming that was worth attempting. And no killing... because he's short-handed. Would it be fine otherwise? Not a good sign.
His ears twitch slightly as he takes in the other new recruits. Two humans, a halfling, and a gnome. Then... The samurai turns his attention to the others who'd been asleep. An exotic crew. A half-orc, a few planestouched, another human and... I'm not sure what he is.
Finally, he turns his attention to the remaining officers. What are you made of, then...? Patience, patience. Humans reveal their colors quickly.
Lily stood at attention chin up, shoulders back. She held both her arms tightly to her side with feet together. She kept her eyes on the captain but he was a bit blurry from this distance. She didn't know if she needed the customary aye aye, the order was to remain silent. She didn't say anything but a bead of nervous sweat dripped from her brow.
She began sizing up the other crew, to see who could possibly be her allies and her enemies. The captain and his officers, they didn't care for the rank and file. No offer of articles meant no pay, if they had asked her to sign up she would have but instead they choose the cheap way out.
Lily looked at Jacquelyn first, her eyes drawn by the unusual woman. She was a paradox to Lily, her wide eyes and obvious exhilaration pegged her as a land-lubber, but her skin told a different story. She forgot what they were called, but she heard tales about women like her, they took to water like a fish and had a reputation for drowning sailors after luring them away with their musical voices.
Jacques, Lily didn’t know what to make of him. He was defiant and that could get you killed here. At least he looked like he could cause trouble for whoever tried though.
A monkey in flashy robes, and one that had trouble finding their feet. He would be dead within a week, she guessed. Whipped to death for incompetence.
An elf, lean muscle like much of their kind. But often arrogant, at least they kept quiet.
She looked down on the halfling and gnome, more so than her height gave her credit for. The gnome especially disgusted her, done up like he was.
She thought to herself, ”Any one of ‘em could be useful. Bide yer time. Ask politely if they ken fight or sling spells. She was gonna need help to survive the Wormwood.”
Jacques twists his face and again spits on the deck to save face, though he refrains from further obvious resistance. He looks briefly at the others, as if assessing whether they are potential allies or enemies, but he seems too furious to intelligently converse or appraise. Instead he stares into the middle distance as if planning his eventual revenge.
As the group emerges onto the main deck, they are followed a few moments later by a scrawny Varisian man dressed in fine clothes of a slightly dated Ustalavic style, his tardiness likely caused by his curious shuffling gait as much as the time it must have taken to retrieve the thick tome he clutches to his chest in a death grip. Two bulging, unblinking eyes stare out of his grayish face, magnified further by the thick spectacles perched on his flat nose, and a curious iron amulet of a complex rune hangs from a simple cord around his neck.
Shifting his weight as he takes account of the others on deck, he casts an appraising eye over his fellow abductees, his too-wide mouth seemingly fixed in a half-sneer, though there's no real malice in his gaze. A capable band of ruffians, at first glance. Rather fewer humans in our group than most crews in these waters, though none of them seem ill at ease on the water. Not the worst ship I've ever served on... A gust blows some of the sea's spray into his face, and he scowls, removing his spectacles as a long tongue snakes up from his mouth to moisten his eye. ...though not far from it.
The strange man listens attentively to the Captain's speech, nodding as the Garundi man storms off before turning to Mister Plugg expectantly, raising his eyebrows as he waits for the man he presumes is the bosun to give them their tasks.
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"Ah, I'm glad the fish decided to join us." Plugg sneered as Ramada stumbled on deck. "Right, ye heard the cap'n! Time to make yerselves useful!" He takes a dramatic pause, looking at each of the ten newest members of the Wormwood.
"Ye three be riggers." He points to Jacquelyn, Aamu, Izkaen, and the foppish gnome. “Ye be working with Fishguts, the cook.” He points at Jacques. "Ye five be swabs." He points to Ramada, Lily, and the other three pressgang victims. On Ramada, his sneer turns into a sadistic grin. “I been told yer a doctor? Hear that, mates? If ye mess up and taste either me or Scourge’s justice, ye be in the freak’s care! So do yer jobs, eh?” He then goes down the two lines of five giving you your daily tasks.
Aamu, you are tasked with rigging repair, Plugg making a comment about the monkey feeling at home. To reach the rigging you need to succeed on a DC 10 Climb, then to perform repairs either a DC 10 Profession (sailor) or DC 10 Dex check.
Izkaen, you are tasked as lookout with comment about elven eyes seeing better. DC 10 Climb to scale the 60 mast to reach the crow’s nest, then DC 10 Perception check to spot hazards or points of interest.
Jacquelyn, you are assigned to mailsail duties, a grueling task of raising and lowering the mailsail and to keep you away from the water. DC 10 Profession (sailor) to successfully perform this task, then a DC 10 Con check to avoid becoming fatigued by the end of the shift.
Ramada, you are assigned to rat catcher with a joke about keeping you from frying in the sun. DC 10 Stealth, Survival, or plain Dex check to catch enough rats and insects to show you did your job.
Lily, you are tasked with a classic backbreaking job of swabbing the deck, mopping and then using sandstone blocks called holystones. This requires either a DC 10 Str or Con to succeed, with a failure resulting in fatigue.
Jacques, you are the cook’s mate. Heading down into the galley you are met with the cook, a red-eyed rotund man with chickens roaming freely about the kitchen. He looks up at you, clearly severely hung over, and gives you a lopsided grin. “Yer a biggen, aintcha?” He then fetches a bottle of rum and cozies up with it in a corner, nursing his hang over and asking you to start cooking something. “I’d like to see what I’m working with, eh?” Either a DC 10 Profession (cook) or an Int check to successfully prepare the fish stew for dinner.
The gnome is tasked with tending to all the ropes, checking for frays, warping, and other damages. The redhead woman is tasked with checking and double checking every inch of the ship for damages or necessary repairs, joined by the female halfling. The Varisian man is tasked with hauling heavy coils of rope to and fro and performing necessary knot work.
The two women have amble opportunities to chat with any of you, as they hustle across the ship and will come within conversation range frequently. The Varisian and the gnome could be conversed with by Aamu, as their tasks overlap throughout the day. Izkaen and Ramada are isolated unless they make attempts to shirk their duties. Unless you fail your checks, you can attempt to gather information or sway potential allies.
Jacques glares at Plugg, and narrows his eyes as he contemplates what life on this ship is likely to be for the near future. He watches the others divide into groups and start on their tasks, and then sullenly goes to see the cook. He looks around the messy galley with an expression of disgust, his eyes wide in horror of the squalid conditions under which their food is prepared. The cook's genial greeting causes him to bite back his forceful rebuke, and instead he shrugs self-deprecatingly. "I am the man I make myself," he answers carefully after a few seconds. "Zhock is my name. What should I call you?"
He nods to show he understands as the cook gives him his task, and watches him out of the corner of his eye as he works. While he might be inclined to shirk his duties if forced to do them with intimidation, he grimaces as he realizes the cook has pricked his pride. So, he sets about organizing his work surfaces and dividing the steps into manageable tasks, which he then performs meticulously. He does not know much about cooking, but he reasons that it should not be very difficult for a person of his intelligence to figure out how to transform water, fish, and spices into stew.
When he is finished, he glares in consternation at the resulting slop. His eyes flicker to the drunken cook, and back to his creation, which is only barely edible. "I..." he starts, and breaks off, disappointed and furious with himself. After a deep breath he continues. "Very well, it seems you have taught me a valuable lesson. I do not know how to make stew, and it seems that I cannot cleverly will it into existence through sheer determination. If this is to be my task on this ship, will you show me how to succeed?"
Izkaen's monochromatic sea-green eyes widen slightly at the strange human's arrival. A... human? Admittedly, I've never seen one who looked so much like a fish. Is he from inland? At Plugg's mention of the new "fish's" role, he inhales quietly, his reckoning of the crew's competence dropping sharply. A doctor? They impressed a doctor? Are they insane? Unless they've got a healer of their own, that's a real quick way to dying of an infection... or an "infection."
The ronin nods silently to his newly assigned duties, accepting them without comment. At least they aren't stupid enough to let the potentially resentful doctor near the food... Though he does have to wonder whether or not that was by design or simple accidental malice.
He glances up at the crow's nest, a faint smile flickering on his lips. At least there'll be a chance to have some solitude. With that, he swiftly sets off up the rigging, clambering ever upwards along the mast to his new assignment. Once there, he casts his gaze over the ocean, immersing himself in the sway of waves and water. He hears himself speak in a low voice, echoing words not his own.
Leaving only starlight's song.
The waves seek their home."
Shiasa Kachi. I doubt she was in quite the same situation as we are now, but still... it's appropriate, I think. He shakes his head. Focus, now. There's plenty of time to enjoy the sea later. Now... He puts his efforts towards looking for anything noteworthy on the waters, occasionally stopping to glance down at the ship and observe its crew.
Perhaps it was left over grogginess from the night before, perhaps it was the height of the sun beating down on her head, neck, and back, perhaps it was because she knew the holystone wore down decks too much and didn’t use them at all. Perhaps it was because some scallywag hid the mop and bucket on her, maybe even Plugg himself, and it took her half an hour to find the blasted things. Or perhaps it was because she was distracted by the woman checking the ship for damage. But the deck looked worse for the wear at days end.
Lily approached the woman, careful not to sneak up on her, and held out her right hand, switching the mop to her left. She introduced herself, ”Lily, like the flower.”
She looked around warily at the other pirates, ”Lots o’ strange jacktars on this boat. You get trouble from ‘em, lemme know an’ I’ll punch 'em in the nose. Could also hog tie em’. I know this knot, what if they move, a nose tightens. Prolly shouldna do that one, what with the rules.”
Jaquelyn grimaces upon hearing her assignment, looking longingly at the helm. However, wanting to avoid the whip, and thinking maybe she can still learn something, she sets to her task with grim determination.
Throughout the day, she outperforms her own expectations, competently managing the ever changing sail without running herself ragged. In her brief idle moments, she watches what the helmsmen is doing, continuing her habit of learning all she can of piloting an ocean vessel. She also tries to track the voyage, relying on her god-gifted sense of direction to see if she can guess where they might be heading in the Shackles.
She also takes a few moments through the day to introduce herself, if only by first name, to the other pressganged crew who pass by her.
At one point in the day, as the blond not-quite-human swabbing the deck ambles by, Jacquelyn will nod at her. "Can't say this is how I pictured my day going." She sticks a hand out. "Jacquelyn. What do I call you?"
The piscine scholar scowls at the 'fish' taunts, muttering sarcastically to himself as he obediently ambles belowdecks. "Hhh... 'fish freak,' that's a clever one, never heard that before..." Shaking his head, he casts about him for the tools he needs to succeed at his task...
Despite his grumbling, he works quickly and efficiently at catching vermin aboard the ship - this isn't the doctor's first press-ganging, and within a couple of hours, he's crafted a few impromptu 'rat-traps' and baited them with dabs of some foul alchemical tincture, placing them in areas he knows from long experience will see heavy rat traffic. While he may not be quick or agile enough to catch the rats on his own, the rat traps more than make up the difference, and he spends the rest of the shift ambling from trap to trap, resetting them if necessary and killing any captured vermin with swift blows to the back of the head from a reasonably hefty object, or his iron amulet if none are available.
As he works, he tries to acquaint himself with the ship - he's no navigator, and he knows he has no hope of determining the ship's position or destination without being told (at least, not beyond 'far out to sea'), but he does take the opportunity provided by his circuit of the traps to surreptitiously stick his head into any rooms that catch his eye, excusing himself as 'looking for rats' if challenged.
The vanara doesn't express emotion when he is assigned to tend to the rigging. He nods at the rest of the crew, who are given a similar position, then the masts and sails, studying the construction as if plotting paths to move around.
He nods to his new colleagues, but remains silent for now. Turning back to Plugg, he waits in silence for the congregation to disperse. Once allowed, he picks up whatever tools he considers useful for the job and tucks them into his belt. While others may move to the ladders near the railing, the vanara walks to the base of the mainmast. He walks around it once or twice, making sure his tools are secure, but he keeps looking up. Then he stops.
A second later, the vanara springs up with surprising agility, using both hands and both feet to hold himself on the handholdless pole. Without stopping, he hastily ascends towards the scaffolding, looking over the pulleys, ropes, and fabric to make sure everything is in order. When he finds a potential issue, he does his best to make adjustments.
Arguably, he doesn't seem to have much experience in this, but it seems like it's coming to him fast. He does, on occasion, try to find work near where his new crewmates work, introducing himself and engaging in small talk to get to know them. He might as well get acquainted and see whether they are of a compatible mindset. He introduces himself as Aamu to the Varisian and the gnome, jokingly confessing that his only experience with ships is from a passenger's point of view, but that he lived in jungles for days or weeks at a time and had to sleep in trees, jokingly comparing the ship's rigging to building secure hammocks in the treetops.
Eventually, he climbs up to the side of the crow's nest in an attempt at striking up a conversation with the elf. While Izkaen is looking into the distance, he hears a raspy, low voice with a slow cadence and a placid tone. "Fancy some water, spotter?"
If Izkaen turns around, he sees the vanaran clinging to the side of the basket, acting like he is inspecting the nearby pulleys, but his hand is extended over the crow's nest edge, offering a waterskin. "I'm Aamu." He jiggles the waterskin around, producing a muffled sloshing sound.
Izkaen looks towards the monkey-like sailor, half-startled by his approach. "Ah, yes. Thank you." He takes the waterskin and drinks briefly before handing it back. "I... You can call me Izkaen. I've a few other names, but that one's easiest for most to say."
He looks Aamu over, his eyes revealing nothing as he weighs his words carefully. "What are your thoughts on our new crew and ship?" He asks finally. "I've not had the chance to meet any of them."
When Jacquelyn approached, Lily introduced herself in much the same way as she did to the other woman, "Call me Lily, like the flower."
She repeated her name slowly, sounding it out, "Jac-que-lyn."
With a touch of fear Lily asks rather bluntly, "Do ye sing? Heard tales o' yer folk singing sailor to their doom."
Aamu takes the waterskin back, and takes a sip before strapping it to his belt. "A few names, Izkaen?", he raises his eyebrow. "Curious, but all right." When asked about the crew, Aamu shrugs. "It's only been a few hours. Time will tell. Captain seems..." he pauses, considering what word to use. "unrelenting? Yeah, let's go with that." A small smirk appears on his face.
He shrugs once more. "Then again, I am not a sailor by trade, so this might be normal. Well, I wasn't until today. Apparently, a career change is in order." He jests, and looks at the deck, checking whether there are eyes on them. "Any idea where we are? How are those elven eyes of yours?"
Ambrose – or Fishguts – produces a ladle and slurps up Jacques’ version. Smacking his lips, he cackles, startling a couple of the chickens. “That’s not half bad, matey. Yer sharp as paint, I ken tell. You’ll catch on quickly. I’ll see to it Cap’n Harrigan cannae tell the difference between me cookin and yers.”
“Sandra Quinn. A pleasure, Lily.”
Her grin twists into an understanding smirk at Lily’s offer. “Aye, I’d appreciate a friend at my back. Don’t start anything that can’t be pointed at you, though. You heard our new masters, no infighting.”
She then leans in conspiratorially, making a show of inspecting the holystone Lily had been fumbling with. “On that note, I saw where our weapons were stowed. I might be able to get our hands on a few, at least easily concealed ones. Any of you good at … quiet work? Or smooth with your words?”
Within moments the sounds of snapping whips and pained howls rise muffled from the bilge. Ramada listens as he explores the lower deck, hearing the two officers demanding a confession from the man – called Magpie and a thief. After two hours of what could only be called torture, the two officers then leave the bilge, cleaning the blood from their cat-o-nine and whip.
“Guilty as charged.” Scourge’s painful grin was wicked.
“Cap’n will keelhaul Jakes for certain.” Plugg nodded.
As they head to the upper deck, Ramada has discovered the rows of personal lockers – small chests – that he would know each crewman has been assigned to protect their valuables. He notes only 18 have locks, the other 22 are not and thus not in use. He imagines once he and his fellow pressgangies prove themselves they’ll receive lockers of their own.
Izkaen looks out to sea, and sees only the blue nigh cloudless horizon and the gray-blue waves of the Fever Sea. He imagines they can’t be more than a day’s sail from Port Peril, but that distance depends on Gozreh’s winds and Besmara’s favor – as local salts would say.
As Lily fumbles about with the mop and holystone, Plugg and Scourge emerge from the lower decks, having returned without the man they dragged below. Plugg pauses before the half-orc, brushing his foot over a particularly messy spot.
“That the best ye can do, teeth?” He his holding his cat-o-nine, flecks of fresh blood on the barbs. “Ye want yer cap’n trippin on the deck and make a fool of himself in front of the crew?”
"Yes. The language spoken by the humans on my home islands has different sounds than Elven, and different rules." Izkaen replies with a dry chuckle. "Thus we use some names for our families and some for the others.
"Your first impression matches mine, more or less." He glances at Aamu, curious. "You're not a sailor. Sorry to hear that you got caught up in this, then. I promise it's usually less... aggressive than this. Well, on some islands, anyways. Where exactly are you from? I take it you're not local to these waters."
After a moment, the elf looks back out over the waters. "We're on the Fever Sea, obviously, and no more than a day's sail out of Port Peril, but in which direction and how far is unclear." He turns his face skyward. "It'd be easier to tell by the light of the stars."
Jaquelyn laughs slightly at Lily's question. "I sing no better than anyone else, and quite worse than plenty. You do not need to fear that from me. My skills lie in other directions." She looks around briefly, making sure no crew is too close, before dropping her voice. "What of yourself? Would you be dangerous to make an enemy of?"
"Eh. You take life as it comes, you know. Ebb and flow. We'll see how this chapter turns out." Aamu shrugs and makes a dismissive gesture. "I am kind of from here? Depends on your definition of local. I am from east of here - Mwangi. Specifically, the Saruhk complex, if you are familiar."
Aamu briefly scans the deck again. "Fever Sea, sure. Okay. I'd better go. Maybe I'll stop by later. For now, nice meeting you, Izkaen. Shout if you're thirsty or something."
It only takes a moment before the vanara disappears from sight, but can be seen looking for things to fix on the rigging.
Her eyes brighten and then darken again at the mention of weapons, "Me falchion. No, I canne hide it. Just as good with me fists, and not against biting an ear off, if they're askin' fer it. I'll ask if some o' the others want a shiv."
Jaquelyn
Lily nods, visibly relaxing at Jacquelyn's assurances, "Aye, was put to shore in Peril cause I sent a man to the briny deep on the Sucker Punch. But I wouldna do it fer no reason, mind you, he was askin' fer it."
Lily pauses thinking, "If there's a son o' a biscuit eater, who needs a lesson, I can help ye."
Lily points out Sandara, "She knows were tha weapons be kept, and can get 'em, or so she says."
Plugg and Scourge
Lily barely contains her rage at the officers, so much that her fist started to glow red hot. He expected top shelf work in less than optimal conditions. But she swallowed her anger and yelled, "No sir! O' course not sir!"
Jacquelyn raises an eyebrow, looking over towards Sandara contemplatively. That is good to know, though it is probably a bit early to be staging a mutiny, would be good to figure out who else might join in.
The helmsman makes a call, and Jaquelyn begrudgingly starts pulling on the ropes to adjust the sail. "Good to know I have allies though," she puffs. "A friendly face is always welcome in dangerous territory"
Izkaen nods. "I've never been that far into the mainland. Well, I hope you find your sea legs soon... and keep an eye out. I doubt our... superiors are going to look kindly on anything that could be construed as 'slacking.'"
When the strange monkey-like man leaves, the samurai turns his gaze back out to the ocean. I need to find out where my swords are. He muses silently. That's the first step to surviving this voyage.
Jacques nods as Fishguts praises his cleverness, and almost smiles. "Have you been on this ship a long time?" he asks, to make conversation. He looks around the galley to see if there's anything he can take (or borrow) to use as a weapon.
LILY
Plugg's expression is unreadable for a long moment, then he sniffs, brushing under his nose. "Count yerself lucky that someone's already slotted for the Bloody Hour tonight, teeth." He hocks a wad of spittle onto the deck before Lily and walks away, followed by a tutting Scourge.
Sandra nods. "I saw that blade. Definitely can't smuggle that one out without a hassle. Prove yourself and you might earn it back, backwards as that is. Daggers are easy enough to come by." She pauses. "I'm not considering mutiny per se, just wanting to level the waves, balance power. A crew is best when respect binds them, not fear and tyranny."
JACQUES
Kroop nods as he begins to fish out some dry vegetables and chopping them up, making a show of revealing where things are in the kitchen. "Aye, I've sailed with Harrigan for a long time. If I weren't so clever a cook, I doubt I'd be still on this side of the water." There are several knives of assorted sizes, many pitted, notched, mismatched, repurposed, and even rusted
Jacques nods, considering the man's warning a kindness, though his expression darkens when the captain's name is mentioned. He considers trying to swipe one of the knives while Fishguts has his back turned, but he decides that getting caught would be bad for his working relationship going forward. Besides, based on the cook's activities earlier, Jacques thinks the man is likely to get himself blind drunk at some point in the future, which would make stealing a dagger child's play.
From morning to sunset, the work is grueling and often tedious. Anyone appearing to not be active or alert earns a crack of Scourge's whip at their ankles. There is little in the way of shade either, so the spring sun beat down on the sailors.
As the last amber hues faded to violet and blue, Plugg gathered the crew on deck, lanterns casting the Wormwood in yellow light. At the bow Plugg and Scourge have a man bound at the wrists standing on the railing.
"For those of ye who donnae know, this be Jakes Magpie." Plugg spat out his name. "Scab was caught robbing from our quartermaster and has admitted his guilt after some ... encouragement to be honest. Stealing from us all. Such a crime is punishable by keelhauling. Let's see what comes out the other side~"
With a vicious kick, Plugg sends Magpie over the bow into the water. The rope snaps taut, and for 72 seconds the ship is silent as the punishment is dealt. What is pulled up is a tattered mess of flesh and exposed bone.
A moment of silence is provided before the corpse is tossed overboard. Plugg sniffed dismissively, then he turned to Jacques and Fishguts. "I assume fish stew is on for dinner? Let's see how well our new cook's mate performed."
The stew is surprisingly hearty, Fishguts having aided towards the end of the day to add a pinch of spice and vegetables and other tricks of his to provide his trademark meal. The crew, with the exception of the officers, takes their food on the deck. Rations of rum are also provided with the stew, half pints of strong alcohol.
Jacques drinks his rum ration as he eats, wrinkling his nose at the awful taste.
Since he has no silver with which to gamble, Jacques tries to sit near the other press-ganged crew members, listening to their conversations and ready to chip in. He scans the crew members who have been here the longest, trying to decide who he might be able to "encourage" (threaten or intimidate) to participate in a mutiny.
Jacquelyn grimaces during the entire display of the execution, taking no effort to hide her distaste for the event. She spends most of the long seconds staring at Plugg. This is a man who treats cruelty as a bedfellow. She shudders. And he is likely not the only one on the ship
As the meal is passed around, she looks wearily at the mug, remembering well the last drink she had. Figuring they can't pressgang her twice, she takes a swig.
She coughs at the rough brew, muttering to herself "This might be more torture than the whip."
Like Jacques, she eats her stew near the other press-ganged crew, preferring to listen before speaking, still unsure as she is of most of the crew. She does sit as close to the gunwale, looking wistfully out at the sea from time to time.
Izkaen watches the keelhauling, struggling to keep his expression neutral. Cruelty does nothing to endear oneself to one's crew. Theft from the quartermaster's store is serious, but... why do I suspect that they're doing this because they want an example? He sighs inwardly. Even more than that, it's wasteful, especially when the Captain claims we're already short-handed.
Still, he reminds himself, he doesn't know the other man's history. If this isn't his first offense, then it might be more justified. But still, I somehow doubt that's the case.
After the corpse is disposed of, Izkaen pulls back from the crowd for a few moments, only stepping forwards again when he is offered food and drink. Ugh. That's... foul. The taste of the rum leaves him slightly staggered, but he forces his way through it, focusing.
Alright... I need to figure out where my swords are, and how to get them back. Izkaen scans the crowd for several moments, then resigns himself to asking around to find out whom to talk to about his lost weapons.
Lily isn't phased by the gruesome punishment as the long seconds drag on. She mutters to herself, "Ye coulda jus took his hand." She then feels a moment of shame, in a rare moment of self reflection. Afterwards there’s a surge of hate in her mind, hot and hard like steel. She feels lost with no outlet for her anger.
Lily downs the rum in one gulp, and it immediately goes to her head. She wobbles a little bit but it gives her a bit of courage. She approached Jacques and spoke quietly. After introductions she suggested, ”I’m bandin’ a crew o’ hearties together, fer protection. Ye look like ye can handle yerself and ye were press ganged like us.”
She points out Sandara and Jacquelyn, ”They be friendly, Sandara can get ye a weapon from the quartermaster. A small one tha can be hidden.”
Once called to the deck from the rigging, the vanara man descends without issues, but is obviously winded from the full day of working after a drugged haze. Once the punishment, or rather the execution, begins, he looks at the keelhauling with disgust, yet is somehow unable to look away. "What a barbaric policy.", he mutters in a hushed voice, as if involuntarily thinking out loud. He realises this after the fact and looks around for any heads turned in his direction. When dismissed, he waits in line for his provisions. He smells the bowl of soup with a grimace, but nods approvingly after smelling it. Then he checks the contents of the cup and moves towards the deck.
He leans his back against either a wall or a mast and slides down to sit. Fortunately, he doesn't get a splinter in his back.
He doesn't bother with a spoon and instead tilts his plate and slurps the thing. "It's honestly better than I expected.", he chuckles at the blue-skinned woman's remark. "Then again, some people say that hunger is the best cook." Before long, the soup is gone, and he lifts the half-pint to take a sip. NOW he grimaces and frowns, but continues drinking the "rum" and powers through. "Ugh. Maybe some wine in the future? Drinking this, I am honestly scared of going blind."
Jacques narrows his eyes and tenses as Lily approaches, fearing that a conflict is about to ensue, and is surprised and relieved that her whispered message sounds friendly. "That is excellent intelligence," he whispers back. "I have been watching the others, those who were here before us, looking for those who will try to abuse their seniority over us recent additions. Those seem like the best to threaten into leaving us alone."
He saunters over to Sandara. "Lily said you might be able to acquire me a blade," he mutters, looking out of the side of his eyes to see if anyone notices they are speaking. "I am Shock, and I assure you that I will put it to good use. It may well be to your advantage to have me in your debt."
He catches Jacquelyn's eye and nods to her, approaching. "I am Shock," he says with a bow-like nod. "Lily says I am to trust you. If you do not cross me, and if I can recover my spellbook from the connarrs who stole it from me, you will find me a valuable ally." His demeanor is stiff, but he seems to be trying to be friendly. He glances at Aamu, who he recognizes is close enough to overhear his boasting, and he nods again in the contemplative's direction. "That goes for you as well, Vanara."
Jacquelyn, having noticed her getting pointed at, and feeling much less reclusive than she did a moment ago, meets Jacques as he approaches. Grinning and matching his nod with one of her own, she introduces herself back. "Jacquelyn."
After his assertion, she will respond with a much friendlier demeanor, though it is clear she hasn't held her drink well so it is hard to tell how much can be attributed to that, "I certainly do not intend to cross anyone who offers themselves as my ally. To vouch for myself, while I'm not the most dangerous in a fight, I can pilot this ship, and am likely one of the better navigators you will find in the Shackles, my thanks to Desna for that." She makes a small gesture that could be recognized as a sign of blessing or respect for said deity.
Her voice becomes even quieter, and she looks around carefully. "I have no intentions of sailing under Harrigan and Plugg one day more than necessary"
Jacques smiles, a cold expression with more promise of vengeance than amusement evident. "Oui," he murmurs in response. "We are in accord. But if we are to have a hope of removing their hands from the whip and the wheel, we must convince the others that their good fortune is with us rather than them. And if we have any hope of seeing our former possessions again, we must find some way to make the quartermaster return them to us. Perhaps silver. Or we need to steal them back."
At the keelhauling, the eerie doctor pays little attention to the looks on the officers' faces - he pulls a handful of tinctures and tools from his heavy pack, ready to treat the man should he somehow survive his experience, but as the mangled form of the seaman resurfaces, he shakes his head, stowing the tools as he recognizes the man as well past saving.
That night, as the soup and rum rations are passed around on the main deck, the fish-like man approaches where Jacques and Jacquelyn speak, the mug of rum he's nursing inspiring the normally introverted scholar to introduce himself to some of his new crewmates. Clearing his throat, he addresses the two, his Ustalav-accented voice punctuated at odd intervals by a faint humming as he speaks. "Excuse me, meine Freunde - I do not mean to... hmm... intrude, but you were press-ganged at Port Peril also, yes?" The well-dressed doctor extends a webbed hand to Jacques and Jacquelyn in turn. "Doctor Nicolas Miron... hmm... Ramada, a carpenter of no small skill and a physician of Bhaltvrest Hall - though I have always first considered myself a... hmm... scientist. May I have the... hmm... pleasure of your names?"
Jacques nods. "Oui, I was also drugged and captured at Port Peril. I am Shock Lacrimoisi." He says his name with a slight puff of pride, as if he imagines Ramada should know who he is. "Woe to those who wrong us," he adds.
With a non-response, Aamu turns his focus to his cup. He flips it bottoms up, and shrugs when nothing comes out. Doing this, he doesn't pry on other conversations, and only turns his head towards Jacques when he registers the word "vanara" uttered. His head swivels towards the source. "Sorry, what was that?"
He looks around to double-check for others of his kin, then turns back towards Jacques, now paying attention to the man.
Jacques turns back and narrows his eyes at Aamu, suspicious that the monk is pretending not to be paying attention. He looks him up and down, and then repeats his introduction. "I am Shock," he says in his slightly-exotic accent. "Since we are, as it is said, in the same boat, we might work together so long as you do not cross me. Those responsible for the press-ganging will suffer for what they did to us."
Aamu furrows his brow and tilts his head, giving Jacques a confused look. "Okay, 'Shock', you can call me Aamu. But I want to clear something up first, if that's fine with you."
Aamu is holding his cup in his right hand, and half extends his left hand towards Jacques palm up, in an inquisitive gesture. Most of his fingered are relaxed, but the index finger is pointing at Jacques. "Are you asking for my help, or are you threatening me? I'm getting mixed signals here."
Jacques watches Aamu. "Oui, I am," he says with a nod. "We have a common cause, it seems to me, and we both need as many allies on this ship as we can find. But I also say, if you should oppose me, you will regret it. There will be a reckoning once the captain and his toadies no longer have the upper hand, and those who support the tars who did this to me will suffer the same fate." He mutters this monologue as if it is an oath to himself, more than a threat aimed at anyone in particular.
Upon Jacques answering an either-or question with a 'Yes', Aamu doesn't seem to be any less confused about this man. Even if there is a slight explanation of the human's thought process, the vanara just rubs the bridge of his nose. "Coercion, then?"
He sighs, stands up, and moves closer, leaning towards Jacques to whisper. "Let's suppose I am not opposed to this idea. I have a suggestion for you, however. If you wish to talk of this... insurgency? I would advise picking a less public environment." Aamu gestures around, pointing out the entirety of the crew on deck. "Unless, of course, your intention is to end up like the recently thrown-overboard remains of a man."