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.