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Sunday, 23 Rova, 4707 AR

For five years, the faithful of Sandpoint have attended church in temporary structures erected after fire destroyed the previous temple, and while their new religious leader was helpful, kind, and wise, church wasn't the same. Now, the new cathedral is finally done. All that remains is for the Swallowtail Festival to renew the site's blessings from the gods and it will be as if the Sandpoint Fire had never occured.

The people of Sandpoint and travelers from afar have all gathered in the town square early in the morning for the festival's welcoming speech, and stands and stalls boasting breakfast foods, pastries, and festival games have already sprung up around the square to entertain travelers and locals alike while last minute preparations are hurried along to get festivities under way.

Alright, doing the thing.

As soon as you rush up to manage the cook's disastrous kitchen, he lurches awake with a grossly exaggerated belch and lurches forward, slamming his cleaver into a chopping board all too close to you. The cook looks you up and down in dazed contemplation before saying "You crew...*hic* or food?" and wiping his face off with the thick, hairy arm holding the empty bottle of alcohol. "Shouldn't be no one down here touchin' pots but myself and my assistant...Only considerin' I don't have an assistant. You my assistant, miss?" He grins in a friendly manner, casually tossing the bottle over his shoulder to clink into a pile of similarly emptied vessels.

Through the doors into the galley, you are greeted by an almost depressing sight; a large, seemingly unconscious man slumped back against the wall, a filthy cleaver hanging in one hand and a near-empty bottle of booze in the other. The ambient sounds of the ship are drowned out by his loud, unseemly snoring, and you are almost sure he's drooling into his greasy, grimy apron. The kitchen itself bears a striking resemblance to it's cook, featuring messy counter tops, far more cleavers than one man could ever need, and live animals wandering around freely, their cages open and unused. Three goats and quite a few chickens hop and move about, one goat coming up to you and bleating in a friendly manner. The two stoves at the back of the room are lit, one empty with a cauldron full of dingy stew next to it, and the other featuring a similar cauldron full of similarly dreary fare, bubbling away unattended, seemingly in danger of boiling over.

Fate: 1d100 ⇒ 51

The red-headed woman offers a lop-sided smile and shakes her head, as if in mock defeat. "Well, I can't rightly argue that, can I? You'v' got a stormy temper, I think. Well, I'm Sandara Quinn, faithful servant of Besmara, and I can respect a storm. I'll leave ye t' ol' Fishguts now, but I want t' see you an' your friends later, if I'm right about you." Sandara dips her tricorn hat and offers a friendly grin, then rushed back above decks to get to work. She leaves you off in front of the doors to the galley in the middle hold, expecting you to enter and meet the cook yourself.

Rigger's Job: 1d6 ⇒ 2
Swab's job: 1d6 ⇒ 6

"Alright, you layabouts! Entertainment for the day is over!" Mr. Plugg calls out as the recruits rejoin the rest of the crew on the deck. "I'll be handing out your jobs for the day, and today only! From now on, your tasks will be nailed to the wall of crew's quarters. Shortstone! You're working ropes. You there, the crow, are to help Ratline with the sails. The other bird and Cusswell are on repair work with Badger and Aretta. Cog! You're running for Master Scourge. Now get to it!" Mr. Plugg shouts his commands, and then heads back up the stairs to the upper deck, to monitor the rigging work.

The crew spreads out to perform it's assigned duties, the silence quickly being filled with the grunts and cursing of work and the idle chatter the crew. Diah is joined at the lines by a rat-faced halfling missing two fingers on one hand and one finger on the other, who immediately takes to working the lines, eyes darting around at the other crew working around him. Vestal is approached by the halfling woman who was marked as a new recruit. "I've been on this ship a few days already, and these bilgesucking scum already know to keep their hands off if they don't like my axe. I have nothing against you, bird, but don't think I'll trust you any more because you're not one of them yet. Come on, we're working with the old woman and the elephant-eared slut. Pick something to fix and get on it, and we won't get lashed."

See Actions on the Campaign Info to figure out what you can do here, and Crew Jobs to see what check you have to make to succeed at your task.

As Diah mounts the railing and climbs into the crows nest, Conchobar throws you a wide grin and bows, holding his hat to his head with one hand. "Welcome to second place! Conchobar Turlach Shortstone at your service. I suppose your kind takes more to flying than climbing, hm?"

Down below, Mr. Plugg barks up at the recruits. "Alright, it seems I have my new riggers! The rest of you are swabs, and my good friend Master Scourge is your new boss. Now hit the deck so you can start working, gentlemen! You belong to the Wormwood now." Plugg again punctuates his orders with a crack of his nine-tailed whip, and the halfling and human man give up on their half-hearted climbs and head back below, while Conchobar at the crows nest gives a confident grin to Diah before vaulting the rails and making his descent.

A wave of insults and 'encouragement' rises up from the deck as you take to the rigging, joined by your three fellow recruits. The halfling reaches the midway point first, working the nets at an almost reckless pace before seeming to get her foot tangled, cursing more loudly than any of those watching below as she yanks and squirms to free herself.

The man with the scarf wrapped around his head like a bandanna climbs almost leisurely, moving just quickly enough to avoid rousing the ire of Plugg's whip. He clearly has no real investment in the race.

Conversely, the gnome climbs at breakneck speed to the top, laughing in the salty sea wind as he clears the side of crows nest more quickly than any of the others. Upon reaching the top, he reclines against the railing of the nest, looking down at those below. "Of course, Conchobar Turlach Shortstone crosses the line first! And who else would it be?" He calls down triumphantly, followed by another merry laugh. At the sound of his boasting, the halfling ceases her struggling for a moment and shouts back at him. "Great job, fop! Now see if you can reach the bottom first, maybe the crew'll be so impressed they'll catch you!"

"You are bold, woman!" Plugg laughed raucously, some of the other crew joining in, a malicious sound that seems a prelude to violence. It even seems for a moment that Mr. Plugg would strike out with his whip, but no blow comes for you. Instead, he jerks a thumb back towards the doors leading down to the middle hold.
"Alas, you get ahead of yourself, miss. We'll strap you to the bow if you've made more trouble of yourself than your worth, but not before. I'm giving you the task of improving my thrice-damned dinner, that drunk Fishguts in the galley doesn't know a good cut of meat from a squid's arse. One of you lot, lead her down!" Mr. Plugg finished, with a crack of his nine-tailed pet against the deck. Before any of the vicious men and women from your previous escort can act, a red-haired woman in a tricorn hat rushed forward to take your arm, flashing an almost mocking grin at Mr. Plugg as she hurries you off. "Besmara's breath, woman, are y' looking to get lashed? Y'might get respect with that attitude with these lot, but y' won't last long enough to earn it if Plugg's the one y're mouthing off to." She speaks to you quietly as she leads you down to the galley, the first friendly face to address you on the ship.

Back up on the main deck, Mr. Plugg turns to the rest of the gathered press gangees with a scowl. "The rest of you will be put to test. We need riggers and swabs! The rules are simple. Everybody climbs, first two to the top don't get the mop. Now, line up at the main mast, you lead legged bastards!" Plugg barks at the remaining recruits, with Master Scourge snapping his whip for emphasis. The gathered crew starts to throw insults around, trying to spur the recruits on or taunt them into slipping up as they gather around the mast.

One of the three gathered recruits, a flamboyantly dressed gnome with well groomed dark-blue hair and a finely curled mustache takes to the order almost immediately, taking his position with a swagger to match his appearance. The second, a female halfling in a tight, open leather vest with a masterfully forged axe at her hip, gives the first mate a glare as she takes a slower, more defiant approach to the mast. The finale recruit, a man with a Varisian scarf tied around his head, pulled down low over the left side, approaches grudgingly, muttering under his breath.

"Now, if you lot are ready to show us we made a wise investment...To the top! Go, and it'll be my whip if you don't go QUICKLY!"

First of all, I know the count of recruits changed again. I miscounted initially after all, and included the red-haired woman the first time around. Second, requirements! After posting up to the point where you are to climb, I want two climb checks each. Feel free to post after the rolls in the event of success or failure, but make no more than two checks until your next chance to post. Climbing at normal speed, you move one quarter of you movement. At accelerated speed, you can move half of your movement but take a -5 penalty to the climb check. You may make a Bluff check to fake effort and try to fool Plugg if you don't want to become a rigger, and keep in mind that only ONE of you may win!

As the pirates close in around the party, you get a better chance to study their features. The two closest to the door, following at the pirate officer's feet and leading the party up the stairs, are a male dwarf and a female human. The old dwarf wears a threatening scowl constantly, though the expression is almost lost in the long, bushy beard that seems to be the only clean aspect of the dwarf. This threatening visage is accentuated by the large, crooked, and pointed nose jutting out above his facial hair. The woman next to him seems more fidgety, holding on to her sap with an almost nervous eagerness and glancing back at the party with a vicious glint in her eye. A large, ugly scar circles her neck. The two pirates directly in front of the party are the most imposing of the six lackeys. The first is a grim looking Rahadoumi man close to seven feet tall, with dark skin and a quiet, powerful demeanor. The second is a half-orc man with yellowish-green skin, his mouth shut tight, almost expressionless, though his eyes seem much more active, scanning the party and his cohorts with obvious contempt. Finally, the two pirates flanking the party are another man and woman pair, both human. The man holds his sap tightly in a large meaty hand, slapping it against his open palm with a look of gleeful menace. His head is clean shaven, with no hair or beard to cover his thuggish features, and his girth rivals the height of the Rahadoumi man. The final pirate is a woman with messy blonde hair with a seemingly less violent look than the others, though her eyes give a cruel glint. Instead, she wears a bored pout, looking she would rather be somewhere else.

As the party is escorted up through the middle hold, light floods your bleary vision. The middle hold is primarily empty, save for a series of rusty cages containing pigs. Fourteen pigs in total, squealing and beating against their cages, the doors rattling and banging as the pigs try to push their way out. The party is led around and up another set of stairs and through a cramped quarters, similar to the larger crew quarters below, though much better kept. Five hammocks and five footlockers dominate the room, as well as various chests and pots and other assorted storage and belongings. One man leans against the wall by the doors to the main deck, his hair cut short and slicked back and a clean white bandanna covering the bottom half of his face. A flash of metal gleams in his hands, a thin curved blade he seems to be cleaning. He eyes the party with a grim expression as they pass through one of a pair of doors onto the main deck.

The musty, dirty interior of the ship is washed away by the fresh, salty air of the open sea almost immediately. Your surroundings are astoundingly blue; the sky meeting the sea in all directions with no land in sight. Your attention is quickly drawn to a gathering of other crewman, some of which you notice look just as uncomfortable around the pirates as you are. Standing above those men are two other figures, looking down from the raised deck at the stern of the ship. One of them glares down at a group of four others, a wicked nine-tailed whip curled in his hand. This man is young, in a long, fine officer's coat over a bare chest. His head is mostly bald, except for a long braided ponytail at the back and a pointed goatee on his chin, the goatee bound in two golden rings. The other man watching the crew is a large, dark-skinned Garundi with a studded leather eyepatch covering part of his scarred, bald head. A thick beard, banded in gold, reaches down nearly to his waist. He stands shirtless, with shoulders armored and belted across his chest, the buckles sharp and shining gold. A cloth wrap is held around his waist and dropping to cover one leg, the cloth held by another large, thick leather belt with a golden skull buckle, and a studded leather skirt is visible beneath the cloth.

Once the party is herded onto the deck, you are all grouped up with another four 'recruits', set apart from the rest of the crew by their relative cleanliness and uncomfortable demeanor. As soon as you are gathered together, the dark-skinned man on the raised deck speaks, a commanding boom above the white noise of the sea.

“Glad you could join us at last! 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."
The captain gives a cursory glance at the eight new crewman, and then draws from his cloth wrap a large, ornate pistol, which he levels at each of you in turn to emphasize his next words.
“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. Mr. Plugg! If you’d be so kind as to make pirates out of these landlubbers, it’ll save me having to put them in the sweatbox for a year and a day before I make pies out of ’em.”
With his speech finished, Captain Harrigan shoves his hand-sized cannon into his wrap and walks away without another word, his departure punctuated by the slam of a door a few moments later.

The young man with the whip, Mr. Plugg, leers down at the gathered recruits, letting his whip uncurl as he steps down to get a closer look at you, his new trainees.
"The Captain would like me to teach you lot to be pirates! You might think he's an optimistic man, to put such faith in scum like you. You are wrong! As the second-in-command aboard the Wormwood, he puts his faith in me, and I do not fail the Captain. When I say I will whip you all into shape, I mean so literally and I will not tolerate failure!"
Mr. Plugg sends his whip cracking against the deck to punctuate his shouting. "But before we begin our tests, we have a special case to address. How many pirate crews can say they have a live fish as part of the crew?" He grins, directing his whip towards Lynsenera menacingly, as the gathered crew behind the recruits laugh derisively. "Tell me, miss! Is that tail for show, or would you like nothing more than to be tossed overboard?"

The filthy man at the head of the group of pirates seemed to ignore the willingness of the Tengu, more interested in the disobedience of the merfolk woman. Motioning for his thugs to back off, he jerks his arm and the whip lashes out with a crack.

Attack Roll: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (7) + 6 = 13

The whip snaps against the pillar above your head harmlessly. "That was a warnin' lash, Miss Fishlegs. Ye may not have feet to walk, but I'll bet you'll get movin' fast enough with th' right motivation." the man gives a cruel grin, and after a glance at the other two captives, turns to head back up the stairway. "If she don't start movin', you men use yer motivators."

A few moments after waking, you are all greeted by the sound of footsteps at the far end the hold. As your attention is drawn away from the problem at hand to the noise at the other end of the room, you take a moment to examine the room itself. Sixteen pillars, including the ones you are bound to, are set at even intervals through the hold and support the middle deck above. Strung between a few of the pillars are hammocks, and footlockers line the walls across from the pillars. The hold is empty of other notable cargo, besides yourselves and other miscellaneous clutter. The only exits seem to be the stairway on the far end of the hold, and a trapdoor at the base of the mainmast at the center of the room.

A gruff, cruel voice calls to you as footsteps approach, announcing the arrival of your hosts. "Still abed with the sun over the yardarm?" the man in the lead questions, accompanied by the crack of the whip in his hand. "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!"

The man standing before you seems to be trying to smile, but he holds the whip with more comfort than the expression. Filthy black hair shows under the dark red bandanna tied around his head, and his beard in a similar state is braided with beads and shiny bands of metal. A bloodstained handaxe pokes out from his faded greatcoat, and his hands seem to twitch in anticipation of putting his whip to use. The man with the whip is flanked by six grinning or glaring thugs, each holding a sap in a way to make it entirely visible to you all. With a nod from their leader, the thugs spread out to cut your bindings shove Vestal and Diah to their feet, while not entirely sure what to do with the merfolk woman other than to bully her into moving.

In the Shackles, a fine line is drawn between celebration and debauchery. One such night of revelry in the infamous Port Peril is all that fills your recent memory, a whirlwind of exotic scents and rich tastes cling to your senses, the result of a night at the Formidably Maid. An establishment notorious even within a nation of pirates, the Formidably Maid plays host to more than a few cutthroats and raucous sailors on a nightly basis. It just so happens that one such group of Shackles' patriots took an interest in each of you, shortly before you become unable to recall the rest of the night.

The next thing you know, you wake to the swaying of a ship at sea, a dull ache clouding your mind and a soreness in your limbs, which you find to be bound above your head. There are three of you bound in this way, thick rope holding your wrists to a post at your back. Two Tengu, one in soldier's garb and the other in seemingly plain rust-colored clothing, and what at first glance seems an almost elven woman above the waist, wearing standard explorer's gear. The clothing, and humanoid appearance, ends at the waist, blending into a wide, scaled, tail-like body.

You appear to be in the dark hold of a ship, with little explanation or understanding of why you're here...

Out of character discussion goes here!

PLACEHOLDER