The Formidably Maid tavern was alight with activity that night, even more so than usual, in fact. There was dancing, singing, mead and wine, wenches and gigolos, and even the odd brawl that broke out couldn't bring down the lively attitude. For those new to Port Peril, it was everything one could have dreamed of and more.
But all good things must come to an end, and as the sights and sounds and experiences of the night fade away into a warm, black fog, they are slowly replaced by sensations much less pleasant. A deep, pervasive, throbbing headache takes hold in each of the six figures currently awakening in the small, dark room. Though they are only vaguely aware of each other in the darkness, they share the same slow realization that something is amiss. The swaying they feel is not alcohol throwing off their balance, the wooden creaking is not the worn floorboards of the tavern. No, even as groggy as they are, the obviousness of the situation becomes clear: They have awoken aboard a ship, at sea.
There is little, if any, time to process this realization, however. All too suddenly, a door is opened, spilling blinding sunlight into the room. The searing pain caused by the light is followed shortly by the crack of a whip over their heads, a sound which is only slightly less painful than what comes after.
A man stands in the doorway, an ugly smile spreading over his even uglier face. Behind him, the group can see multiple other figures holding saps. He speaks, or rather shouts, at the assembled figures still on the ground.
"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!"
Anyone who reaches for a weapon or equipment quickly discovers it missing. Aside from the clothes on their backs, they have been relieved of all of their belongings.