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The battle is long and brutal. Cannonfire erupts in a near-constant thrum of kinetic power and destruction. Two ships, side by side, blast each other nearly point-blank, shredding each other’s ships. One, a sturdy galleon, is taking the worst of it. The ship’s name is engraved upon its side: The Rock Bottom. A cannonball blasts the word “rock” to pieces, leaving a gaping, dark hole in its wake.

The second ship is clearly not of this world, but the next: its hull is holed in a dozen places, letting in a constant stream of seawater, yet it remains afloat by some ghastly, inhuman will. The bones of colossal sea creatures line its hull in a dozen places, and a ragged, torn sail somehow manages to billow, even though it is full of rips, and there is no wind. The vessel oozes a hideous, unnatural fog, muffling the cannonfire, and the sounds of crossing steel, throughout the scene. On its side, spelled out in huge, inhuman bones planted into the ship's hull with massive, rusty nails, is spelled the name Naiegoul.

Everywhere pirates, salty dogs all, wield crossbow, pistol, and cutlass in a vain effort to drive back the unholy invaders; fleshless skeletons in some horrible parody of true pirates, wielding sabers, their bone-white pates wrapped in bandanas. But the pirates are no green landlubbers. They’re veterans of the Shackles and the Fever Sea; they swallow their fear and fight ruthlessly.

Despite their battle prowess, the pirates prove no match for the cold, lifeless relentlessness of the skeletal crew. One by one they fall, until only a handful remain standing, led by the aging Captain "Keelhaul" Thurl. His sword and pistol in hand, blackpowder erupting and cutlass flying, he bellows orders and cleaves through pale bone. But eventually, even this stout captain is ended with a hideous gash across his throat that nearly decapitates him. As Thurl's lifeblood erupts in arterial bursts from the gaping hole of his neck and his head dangles by a few pieces of meat, he collapses, and the last remaining crew drop their weapons in defeat, finally allowing the fear pushed to the backs of their minds to take over. Some flee, leaping off the Rock Bottom's port side to take their chances in the black waters below. Some fall to their knees and weep, praying for mercy.

All but one. One young man is on his knees, hands behind his head, but his face shows no fear. Only disdain, cunning, and a certain level of curiosity.

A skeleton walks past the remaining crew, one by one, slitting their throats with the businesslike tone of a butcher at an abattoir. At the young man, the skeleton’s hand stays, and it cocks its head, as if hearing a distant voice, then steps back and drops its bony hand to its side. All the skeletal faces turn in unison to behold a figure stepping across the gangplank. She is not quite skeletal as her crew, but she is so gaunt, and her skin so pallid and leathery, that she cannot be mistaken for one of the living. She moves with a sauntering grace, her limp brown hair wafting about her as if underwater, with a large, foppish tricorne hat topping it off. Her rotting leather belt is clasped with a solid gold buckle bearing the skull-and-crossbones seal of Besmara, the Pirate Queen. Everywhere in her flesh, strange rods leaking oily black energy jut out at horrid angles, giving the man the surreal impression of a human pincushion. Yet if he finds her laughable, he wisely keeps his mouth shut.

When she reaches him, she strokes a long, withered finger along his chin. He flinches, but doesn’t move away. She smiles at him, and he wishes she hadn’t; her mouth is only half-full of teeth, and those have long since rotted to a fetid brown. She leans down and whispers something in his ear. He gives her a long, appraising look, then mutters a response. With casual strength, she picks him up by the throat and drags him into the captain’s chambers, slamming the door shut behind them.

Minutes pass. An hour. Two. The skeletal crew of the ghost ship remain unmoving the entire time, still as stone. Finally the door opens and the creature strides out with a smirk on her face. She makes a motion to the skeletons, and they turn as one and return with her to her ship, leaving half a dozen terrified, confused pirates on their knees, wondering why they were spared. The young man steps out of the captain's cabin to watch the ghost ship sail away. He brings his right hand up to his face to inspect it, eyes deadened with both horror and fascination.

The hand has been reduced to bleach-white bones. He flexes the fingers experimentally; they crack and pop in rhythm with the movements. He drops the bone-hand to his side and stares out at the horizon; whatever bargain he made, it left him with his life. But how is he going to sail a galleon back to Port Peril with a half dozen sea dogs on a ship this size?

He will find a way. He found a way to cheat death mere moments ago; getting this ship to port with a few holes in her should be easy by comparison. He begins barking orders to the remaining crew. Not a one even hesitates, let alone ask who put the man in charge now that Captain Thurl was dead. They take one look at his bone fist and know this figure is the captain now.

Days later, the ship sits in dry-dock, the holes patched and the new crew working on replacing the lettering on the ship's side. Its new name shimmers in solid gold plating: The Filthy Lucre. Her captain stands at the poop deck, staring out at the setting sun as he considers his good fortune, and the price he paid for it. He will make it worth it. He will make the Shackles tremble at his name. He will find his way to the greatest seat of power a pirate can hope to attain: The throne of the Hurricane King.

The sun silhouettes him as it sets on the western waters, erupting the emerald waves with rippling gold.

Four disparate individuals arrived late one afternoon at a small, unassuming hut in Midland, in the city of Korvosa, on 22 Desnus, 4707AR. Each one came from a wildly different walk of life, but each also had one dark thread weaving their fates together: each had a powerful need for vengeance on the withered old bastard known as Gaedren Lamm. To that end, each had found a strange harrow card in their positions that day, scrawled with a note from a mysterious writer saying only to come to this address at sunset.

Within, they first met each other: Lordling Adrin Laecus, son of the powerful Lord Domir Laecus, harboring a secret alter ego bent on vengeance and justice; Andakos Viden, son of the minor noble house of the same name, the daemon-blooded tiefling investigator and guardsman at the local Academae; Maelis Dorso, a recovering shiver addict and priest of Calistria; and Trell Odum, adopted son of the famous duelist and fencing instructor, Vencarlo Orisini.

After feeling each other out a bit, the owner of the hut, Zellara, arrived to explain the situation. Her own son had recently been murdered by Gaedren and his cronies in an attempt to retrieve her Harrow deck, her family heirloom. She wanted revenge too, and was able, through means she did not entirely specify, to discover the elusive criminal’s current whereabouts. All four of them were understandably suspicious, but their need for revenge outweighed their caution, and they agreed.

Unwilling to rush into the hideout, despite the danger waiting posed to the many orphans in Gaedren’s clutches, the group gathered information and learned Gaedren’s second-in-command, an equally despicable man named Yargin Belko, would leave the fishery in two weeks’ time for his monthly excursion to the black market to sell their illicit goods. The party was unanimous: wait and watch the fishery to jump Yargin and squeeze him for information.

The plan should have been solid, but they made one drastic mistake: Gaedren and Yargin knew Trell’s face from his time as their muscle. During Trell’s shift staking out the fishery, Yargin came out and immediately spotted the young elf. The fishery went into lockdown, and the plan was shot. They had no choice, now; they had to storm the fishery before Gaedren could clear out and vanish again.

So storm it they did. After a long, grueling battle with Gaedren’s crew of ruffians and terrified street waifs, the party rescued the orphans--including Andakos’ charge, the young aasimar girl Lyse--though it turns out their hesitation had cost a child their life, and Trell’s bungle during the watch had cost another boy his. With two young deaths on their minds, the party entered the underbelly of the fishery to face Gaedren Lamm. After a knock-down, drag-out fight, Gaedren fled badly wounded, while the party was left to fend off his large and incredibly hungry and angry crocodile. The fight very nearly took the lives of Trell and Adrin (aka “Destriant”) but in the end they survived and slew the beast.

The final revelation came among Gaedren’s possessions, in a fly-ridden box. At the bottom, wrapped in cloth, was Zellara’s Harrow deck. Sitting on top of it was her rotting, severed head. Zellara had been dead for several weeks, if not several months. When they exited the fishery, the party found the streets in chaos. The crier called: ”King Eodred II is dead! The King is dead! Long Live the Queen!”

And boy, the city was not having it.

Riots, chaos, and mob justice filled the streets. Danger lurked around every corner. The city was on the very edge of anarchy. After returning the Queen her brooch stolen by Gaedren, the party was conscripted into the Korvosan city guard to help combat the rising tide of crime and lawlessness. Shady deserters, otyugh uprisings, and slimy crime lords all awaited the party as they fought to quell the unrest of Korvosa for Field Marshal Cressida Kroft. Adrin Laecus gave his life in pursuit of that goal, but otherwise the party was successful in their endeavors--until Trinia Sabor.

The chase was a struggle. The janky, rickety, uneven rooftops that made up the wild maze above Korvosa known as the Shingles made for a desperate chase as the party tried to capture alive the prime suspect in the King’s murder: a young artist named Trinia Sabor. She was a poor but up-and-coming artist who had been commissioned to paint the King’s portrait right before he died of a “mysterious illness.”

As a citizen of the Shingles her whole life, Trinia was a wily and difficult opponent; but the party had numbers, wits, and the luck of Calistria on their side. Eventually, aided by their new ally Kelzee of the Sable Company marines, they managed to capture Trinia. And Maelis had even stopped the pair of Hellknights in the Shingles looking for Trinia! The young girl wept and begged for them not to hurt her; she insisted over and over that she had never killed anyone; but the party knew the mission was to bring her in for magical questioning. Field Marshal Kroft felt the whole thing stank to high heaven, and she wanted answers.
The plan was going well; all they had to do was get Trinia a few blocks away to a city guard safehouse and hand her over. But when they reached the safe house, things went sideways.

Someone must have tipped off the Hellknights about the safehouse, because four more of them were waiting there. They demanded the party hand over “the treasonous b&!+&” immediately. Kelzee, in particular, was adamant in her refusal. She had orders, she was going to obey them. The Hellknight commander produced a royal decree stating only the Hellknights were authorized to bring Trinia into custody. Kelzee argued. It got heated. Words were exchanged, then Kelzee drew steel. The whole debacle fell into chaos.

In the end, Andakos was gravely wounded, Maelis fled, and Trell and Kelzee lay dead in the street. The Hellknights didn’t bother finishing the investigator off; they simply took the girl and left.

That was three days ago, on 17 Sarenith, 4707 AR. Andakos is now fully healed, but after a heated exchange between himself and Commander Kroft--she was absolutely livid at the disastrous results of the mission--a guardswoman finally arrives at the barracks in the early morning of 20 Sarenith, requesting the tiefling’s presence in her office.

You get the sense that while everything she's saying about needing him as a good soldier is perfectly logical, there is also a thread of something more. There is a faint hint of guilt in asking you to perform this duty, like she feels she's letting someone down by having you do this rather than doing it herself.

It takes a moment before it finally clicks: she loves him. The words make several disparate pieces fall into place. She can't possibly voice that emotion to Grau because he's a subordinate. Similarly, she can't go plead him to return to duty herself because it would be seen as favoritism; hence her sense of guilt at making you do it.

You recall Trell speaking of Grau. From what he said, his father took Grau under his wing and trained him at the same time as a then-young Sabina Merrin, the Queen’s Guard you had the misfortune of meeting on your way to see Queen Ileosa about the brooch. Vencarlo and Grau both fell in love with the young woman, who apparently had romantic affection for neither of them. Grau, in a fit of jealousy, turned Sabina and Vencarlo against each other, ending in a duel that is one of the only defeats Orisini has ever suffered; Trell said he lost two fingers from his left hand from it. When Vencarlo learned it had been Grau’s manipulations that had caused the rift, he threw the young man out in a rare rage. Trell never heard of the man again, and Vencarlo refused to even speak his name.

FORT KORVOSA, 4407AR

The fortress, and its cluster of surrounding hovels and cabins, lie on the tip a verdant peninsula. Though only a few months old, already the fort and its inhabitants have spread inward toward the mainland in a bustling frontier town. The sun is setting over the ocean to its west, and torches begin lighting as the people make ready for the evening. Soldiers bearing the black and crimson of Cheliax – a Cheliax that is imperialist and expansionist, but not yet tainted by the darkness of the Nine Hells – stand guard at the towers abutting the wooden walls.

Just outside the town’s tall, wooden walls, underbrush grows wild and thick. Sleepy-eyed guards stand a questionable vigil in towers at each corner. Unseen by their apathetic eyes, trails of movement slip through the tall grass, creeping inexorably toward the outpost. Hunkering in one of these trails, creeping forward at a steady gait, is a young Shoanti warrior. His eyes are hard with righteous fury, and he holds a shortbow low to the ground, arrow nocked. His copper skin is striped with war paint, and the hardened leather plates of his armor are marred with old battle damage.

In an explosion of movement, dozens of Shoanti spring from the grass and rain arrows upon the fort’s defenders. Screams and battle cries fill the sky as the chaos and blood of sudden and desperate battle erupts. Near the far end of the grassy patch, a wizened old Shoanti in heavy furs, his footsteps aided by an intricately carved Cherrywood staff, is flanked by two Shoanti women in battle garb. One is armed with a beautifully crafted longbow; the other wields a klar in one hand, and – impossibly – a massive earthbreaker in the other.

The archer looks to the old man (she is played by Tonantzin Carmelo) and speaks to him in Shoanti.

“Grandfather,” she says, “this is madness. We cannot hope to take these pale invaders with the numbers we have.”

The bigger woman, with the earthbreaker, snorts at the words. (She is played by Marisa Quintanilla.) “Is that cowardice I hear, sister?”

The archer looks furiously at her sibling and opens her mouth to respond, but the old man holds up a hand and pulls the hood back from his cloak to reveal heavily weathered and wrinkled skin and deep, sad eyes. His shock-white hair is pulled back in a neat bun. (He is played by Raoul Max Trujillo.) “Shala has a fair concern, granddaughter. The predator that hunts game it cannot bring down is doomed to starve.”

She begins to retort, “But Grandfather—”

He makes an impatient noise at her and she immediately falls into a sullen silence. “Enough, Nata.” He turns to his other granddaughter. “Unfortunately, we have no alternative. The clans are fractured; we bicker and fight when a greater disaster looms. If we at least had the rest of the Lyrune-Quah…” He sighs and shakes his head. “No. We stand alone. We must destroy these invaders before they realize what it is they have discovered. Go now. Honor my grandfather’s memory. Honor his sacrifice.”

With a firm nod, Shala and Nata run directly for the embattled fort to join the fray.

They fight with a level of skill and power, grace and strength, that is unmatched by anyone, even their fellow Shoanti warriors. Every arrow lands true, every blow deflected by the klar and answered with the deadly weight of the earthbreaker. As they slowly overcome the well-trained but flat-footed defenders, Shoanti battle chants fill the night sky. Their victory seems assured.

Then the doors of the fortress open.

Out pour a score of battle-ready soldiers, charging into the fray with shield, sword, and spear. Momentarily dismayed, the Shoanti warriors harden themselves and push back against this new wave. Chelish blood runs thick with Shoanti, mingling red with red in the darkening night. As the last Chelish soldiers leave the fortress, a final figure strides slowly, purposefully, out of the doors and into the blood-soaked night. His armor is blood-red, trimmed with onyx, with curves and spikes on the pauldrons giving it a demonic appearance, as if foreshadowing the future of its owner’s country. The man stands tall, imposing, thickly-built, with long gray-streaked brown hair held back in a ponytail, and a bushy goatee covering his chin. (He is played by David Harbour.)

A soldier runs up to him, holding his bloody side. “Field Marshal Jakthion!” he pants. Blood streams from his grip. “They are routing us! Even with the reinforcements, the men are ready to retreat! What do we do?”

The grizzled veteran snorts and claps the man on the shoulder. “No fear, lieutenant. You did well. Go back to the fort, get to triage. See to that wound. I’ll handle the savages myself.”

Jakthion tightens his grip on his steel kite shield, inscribed with the First Prayer of Aroden. He draws forth a sturdy flail and strides confidently into battle. His skill is immediately apparent, to the Shoanti’s detriment; every swing of his flail ends the life of a Shoanti warrior. Worse still, his very presence bolsters the resolve of the soldiers around him. “Steady, men! Hold your ground! We won’t let some backwoods savages deny us our divine birthright! For Cheliax!” Furious cheers and roars of defiance answer him.

Shala and Nata see the newcomer at the same time, and immediately turn their attentions on him. Shala unleashes a hellstorm of arrows as she steadily moves forward, step by slow step. Every arrow lands either on his shield, or deflects off his heavy plate mail. Nata steps in and brings the earthbreaker down on his shield with a ringing boom that reverberates throughout the outpost. The shield sparks and ripples with magic, but doesn’t seem to even be scratched. Nata’s face drains of color as his flail’s heavy, jagged, spiked head swings at her. She raises her klar to block, but the flail bursts with fiery energy as it hits, and the treated animal bone of the klar shatters into thousands of pieces. A split second later, the sickening crunch of shattering bone can be heard, and Nata screams in agony, holding her ruined arm.

Jakthion shows no sign of mercy or hesitation. He swings the flail overhand, and Nata’s head bursts like an overripe melon.

Shala launches another volley of arrows, screaming in blind rage at Jakthion. She does not see she is the last of her people standing, nor that she is surrounded by enemies. Jakthion bats aside her arrows contemptuously as a dozen soldiers bear down on Shala with spears, impaling her over and over. She dies with a look of rage still pasted across her face, as her bow falls into the blood-soaked dirt.

Several yards back, the old man listens to the cheers of the Chelish soldiers as they celebrate their victory. He closes his eyes and hangs his head. “Grandfather Coja,” he whispers, “we have failed you.”

He looks up, past the fortress, into the dark, imposing shadow of a massive, crumbling tiered pyramid almost half a mile back behind the fort and several hundred feet tall. It practically radiates menace, whispering of power and death.

Time passes; first dark to dawn, then dawn to dusk, to dawn, rapid-fire, as the years, then decades, then centuries pass, and the fort burns and crumbles, to reveal new buildings, sprawling across the space between the old fort and the pyramid, growing like mold on a sandwich into a bustling town and finally a city, rapid-fire and unstoppable. Scaffolding appears around the remains of the ruined pyramid, molding and shaping the skeleton of a new, grand structure. Soon it morphs into the proud visage of Castle Korvosa.

KORVOSA – 300 YEARS LATER

Through the slitted windows of a parapet on Castle Korvosa, past servants, Crimson Guard, nobles and advisors, the grandiose royal bedchambers can be seen. At a desk, a man of perhaps distant Chelish descent, well past his middle years but not yet venerable, writes with swift hand across parchment. (He is played by Gary Oldman.) He pauses in his writing to massage his cramped wrist. A tremor runs faintly through his fingers, and his face is pale and sweating.

A woman saunters into the bedchamber, tall, straight-backed, with proud visage and high cheekbones. She is considerably younger than her husband. Her pale skin and dark chestnut hair and eyes mark her Chelish blood far more distinctly than her husband’s. (She is played by Sarah Bolger.) “Eodred, dear,” she chastises, “get back into bed. You need your rest. It won’t do the city any good to lose their king because he obstinately refused his physicians’ orders.”

King Eodred waves a dismissive hand as he stands to greet his wife, Queen Ileosa. “Ah my love. You worry too much. It’s simply a persistent cold, I’m sure.”

Ileosa scowls. “A cold that has rebuffed the most potent healing spells the clerics could conjure. You are too dismissive. Please, husband. I beg you, return to bed.”

Eodred chuckles. “Don’t tell me you’re falling for that old ‘curse’ nonsense, my dear. There is no curse on the throne now, nor has there ever been. Simply rotten luck.”

“I care not for any curses, husband,” she snaps, then softens her tone. “I only care for your well-being.”

He sighs and kisses her cheek. “How can I deny you anything? Very well, I shall tuck in, after I visit Venster for a quick game.”

Ileosa sighs. “You give that man too much of your sympathy.”

Eodred’s face becomes defensive. “He is family, Ileosa. What else can I do? He’d never survive on his own, with his… condition.”

Ileosa looks about to make a scathing remark but thinks better of it. “Very well, husband. One game, but then you must return to bed. I don’t want to lose you.” She squeezes his hand, and Eodred grins. For a moment, the illness wracking him fades, and his old, charming smile shines through. “My dear woman. What would I do without you?”

He shuffles out of the room, and Ileosa watches him go with hard eyes. “What indeed? Old fool.” She strides over to the desk, glances at the paper on it, and with a smirk, strides out of the room.

The parchment is a royal decree, unfinished, but the first lines can be read:

[u]BY ROYAL DECREE
IN THE NAME OF HIS ROYAL EMINENCE
KING EODRED ARABASTI II[/u]
In the interest of the safety of our beloved queen, my wife, Ileosa Arabasti,
I hereby grant her authority to formulate and enact the creation of a
Personal Guard, hereby known as the Gray Maidens, and
Do grant permissions to withdraw such funding
As is necessary for the group’s creation, from the city’s treasury, to…

As if through someone else’s sight, the bedchamber drifts away, as the eyes sweep back through the halls of the castle, then dive hard and fast into the ground, through dirt, stone, rubble, and bedrock, a vast and unknowable distance, until they plunge into total darkness. Eyes open in the void, crackling blue with fury, before erupting in electric power and fading once more into darkness.

THE CURSE OF THE CRIMSON THRONE