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He turns, puts down his tools and speaks.

"If you don't find him at the Apothecary's they should be able to point you in his direction. I've seen him coming in and out of there a lot - never anywhere else."

Then, looking at you with a concerned earnest expression, he goes on.

"If you could help us in any way get to the bottom of his hold over my father ... in fact, if you could help us run him out of town we'd pay - handsomely. As I said, my father also has friends in power and might try to counter anything you do so tread cautiously. Please ... come back if you learn anything. I'm here every morning from dawn till afternoon, then my brother takes over. Good luck!"

bullseye!

The boy's expression changes quite dramatically as if your words hit the silent centre of his woes and he has heard explicitly for the first time what he previously could not express.

He puts down the hammer and looks at you as one does a dear friend in times of peril. His expression conveys hurt and long quiet suffering.

"You don't know the half of it! We do the bulk of the work and we do work as good as he ever did. He brought us up for it. Our whole lives have been about learning this trade and his secrets. Yet, still, the biggest contracts come in for him. People still want to say they have a Tewey sword made by the great master himself. You know what, though? He hardly sets foot in this place any more! We knock out the special jobs like we do every other, and what do we get in return? A future of penury if he has anything to do with it. Our dear mother, gods look after her soul, is buried in the cemetery up the road. She's been dead years but he still won't let her go. Like it's not been tough enough for us, her children, to deal with things without him refusing to accept her death. He'd always say 'she's around, I can feel her presence, she talks to me'. Well, that was bad but what's been happening lately is worse."

"A few months back he met a holy man praying in the cemetery. He was praying over a grave and the old man says the spirit of the departed was talking to him. The old man begs him to help him talk to mother. Begs him again. Offers him money. The 'holy' man relents - for a price, of course. Since then our dear father has been frittering away our inheritance in indulging this extravagant sentimentality. He won't let her be. It's all the same to her. She sends her love and we send ours but she has passed over. Passed over for good."

He pauses, troubled deeply for a brief moment then continues.

"Well, maybe not for good. I'm not sure. There's something strange happening. Dad's been talking about getting her back for good, but not resurrecting her. Something different. I don't know. He's very secretive. It's got to have something to do with that blasted 'holy' man. None of us like him - him or his friend the Apothecary. He shouldn't be performing services without a license - not in Maxvale Janis' town. He may have one, might not. We'd turn him in to the authorities but father would probably find a way to get him out. He might need dealt with more permanently."

At that he stops talking. The emotional outpouring over, the dam burst, he recovers something of a calm it seems he's not felt in a long time. You see now an overworked boy who is just happy to have found someone he can trust. He smiles, picks up his hammer and continues.

"Have a look around the workshop if you want while the great master is away. If you want, I'll introduce you to him later."

'Another tourist', he thinks to himself, his suspicion replaced with a familiar boredom.

"The day goes long and is borne on the backs of me and my siblings as is the far reaching fame of this forge."

He speaks thoughtlessly with some bitterness, his resentment obviously beyond publicly observing the mores of filial piety. He hammers on then, apparently unsettled at his own loose tongue, he looks up with unease and continues.

"Though it's founded on the skill and dedication of our dear father and we serve happily in his stead."

Apparently satisfied that this rejoinder to his own indelicacy will have smoothed things over he sets back about his work. You see a look of bitter resentment settle on his harried face. Perhaps there's more he could be coaxed in to revealing.

If you want to question him more, take a Diplomacy test. If you want to leave it at that you can depart without prejudice.

You can lie about who you are now, or just walk out, or lie and walk out. The man at the forge isn't Halgo Tewey. The holy man doesn't know of your arrival. To meet him you first have to find him.

The next morning you awake at first light to the sound of heavy rain. It batters down on the inn's roof, gushing along the gutters and dripping loudly from the eaves on to the sheltered shrubby border below your window. The sky lies heavy and grey upon the town. If it weren't for the sweltering heat and choking humidity this could easily be a dank northern October.

Leaving the men behind, you sneak out of the front door - past a dozing night watchman - in to the streets. Porters move busily along the roads with heavy bundles tethered to their backs. A few hawkers have set up food stalls under makeshift shelters to feed the early-shift. You stop for some food at one and enquire as to the whereabouts of the Steel Clad Giant and learn it's just 15 minutes walk from Tobit's Retreat. You make your way there and map the route in your memory for later. It is currently closed. You continue your reconnoitring of the town and learn the location of the barracks, the stockade, the town's only cemetery and a peculiar Apothecary's shop which has above the door the same magical glyph as Shadraq's office. Through the centre of the town runs a large river spanned equally by two bridges. You follow it out of town to the outskirts. The road shrinks to a twisting path and dwellings turn to shanties as you come across the wretched and cast-out of Rapier Bay: a shabby, pitiful, pathetic and ugly looking collection - the same as in every town in the shackles. Most hover in groups except one notable figure who guards the entrance to a cliffside cave on his own, scaring away anyone who comes close. He has the look of a pirate who has seen better days: old but spry, thin but not malnourished, disturbed but not insane. He sits cross legged chewing on a gold coin like a child. Around his neck hangs an extremely valuable looking gold, bejewled religious symbol. The path continues further but beyond here there is nothing more of interest.

You return to Tobit's as the sun rises, morning sets in and the storm clears. The men are up and eating breakfast. You mention everything you've seen then leave them to go out again to see if the forge is open. You arrive to see the shutters up and the courtyard gate open but little activity. You walk in to the forge itself and see a youngish man working at an anvil. He eyes you with curiosity as if trying to confirm a hunch about you. He wonders if you're a genuine customer, a time-waster or something more troublesome.

Another man hearing you ask if there is anything else you should know responds.

"Plague or fire, Gods forbid no. Rapier Bay is a clean and orderly enough place. On the outskirts here folks can live a decent enough life if they keep to themselves, work hard and make themselves useful. We don't worry ourselves about others' business (however godless and profane) and they don't worry themselves about our necks. Master Janis' troops are well disciplined and ruthless. Mind you don't give them cause to take an interest in you and you'll do all right."

"I don't know him so well - as much as anyone else. He's an excellent crafstman - but you'll have heard that already. Good businessman too - could set himself up anywhere in the shackles if he chose to. Almost did, too: he was all set to pack up shop and move when Marlu died. That suited Lord Maxvale Janis."

"Tewey, as you might have heard, has had many offers from Tessa Fairwind. Although Janis could never publicly oppose or thwart her, he always did his best to put things in the way of Tewey leaving. Before Marlu died Tewey started getting death threats and the shop was vandalised several times. Janis insisted, as Lord of the Bay, it was his duty to have Tewey accompanied by a guard at all times. Tewey wasn't really worried - he can handle himself - but he couldn't rightly object. Anyway, that all stopped after Marlu died but I wouldn't be surprised if Janis starts keeping an eye on him again. News travels quick round here and Janis is sure to have heard about Tewey's holy man, priest or whatever he is and he'll want to know exactly what's going on. He's not the only one. There's a lot of people round here awfully curious about Tewey's new confidante."

The bluff works. Although you appear to be more than 'just merchants', your manner convinces him to give you the benefit of the doubt.

You are on the outskirts of the centre of Rapier Bay. Anywhere important is 30 minutes walk, including the harbour, the barracks where Jackson lodges and the Steel Clad Giant.

"Well now Sir, space we have a'plenty. I'm more than happy to accommodate you and your party."

He turns to his wife.

"Annie my love, grab the girls and make up some rooms for these gentlemen will you: a room each for the masters and the bunkhouse for the boys."

"As for news, well ... you know, it's funny you should ask - you having business at the Steel Clad Giant an' all. Old George was over there today and happened on a mighty peculiar thing, did'rnt you George?"

Old George sits by the fire laughing, oblivious to Tobit's question.
Muttering under his breath, Tobit shouts over.

"Georgie boy ... George! You was at the Smiddy today, wasn't you? Mind you was telling us? This gent here's got business. Come o'er here and tell us what you was saying before."

Old George jumps up excitedly and comes over.

"Well, now ... yes. Funniest thing it was. The master there - Tewey - since 'is wife passed over - has been something or an 'ermit. That is, until the past few weeks. Folks about 've been saying there's something new about the fellow. So, since I was going that way I thought I'd stop in and say hello. I'll say folks weren't wrong. I barely recognised the man. "Tewey", I said to him, "Tewey my man, gods be blessed, you're a new man so you are. You're your old self again. Have you a new lady friend?". He were'nt so pleased at that suggestion but let it slide quick enough and he says to me "George, my friend, better than that ... I've got Marlu back!". I were a bit confused at that. Thought he might've finally gone mad but he isn't mad. Seems that new holy man come to the Bay not long back 's been helpin' channel the old girl's spirit for 'im. Anyway, I says to 'im: "Halgo, that is good news! Maybe now you can leave Rapier Bay and take up mistress Tessa's offer? Be a nice change for your kids and you. Nice not to be bound to stickin' near the cemetery?". He weren't so pleased at that. Can't say why but my guess is ... "

At that Tobit coughs and gives George a meaningfull frown suggesting he's being a bit too chatty and George clams up.

"Another beer George? You're looking a bit dry there." Tobit says, not asking.

"Beer? Right. Yes, that'd be grand Tobit. I must be getting back to my friends now. You fellows have a nice evenin'."

Before long you come across a suitable inn, 'Tobit's Retreat', and go in. On the ground floor is the bar. Some locals have gathered for the evening to sit round the fire, drink beer, sing and tell stories. The place has a wholesome, virtuous atmosphere. Behind the bar you see what must be the proprietor, Tobit. He's a large, fat, ruddy faced, kindly looking man. Beside him, a women - his wife - stands, engaged in the telling of some lively tale. A door to the side of the bar bursts open and a young girl runs out screaming and giggling pursued by her sister. They chase each other about the bar to the amusement of some of the crowd at the fireside then run behind the gantry in to their father's arms. The huge man scoops them up like bundles of rags and ernestly but kindly admonishes them. Then dropping them down he fetches for each a biscuit from a jar behind the bar and sends them back upstairs.

At length, your entrance is noticed and causes some concern. Here as in many small rural pubs strangers are a novelty and not always a welcome one. Strangers of your party's sort are also usually bad news. The mood dampens as an atmosphere of trepidation and curiosity descends on the bar. Some of the fireside crowd smile and nod, some tip their hats. A worried expression passes over Tobit's face. He looks to his wife, who smiles reassuringly at him, then turns to your party to speak.

"A thousand welcomes gentlemen. What can I do for you this fine evening?"

"Aye, Sir!", the captain responds.

"Wyrmwards: you're on watch - dawn till dawn. Keep an eye out and be ready to push off at the first sign of trouble to meet us in Rapier Bay."

"Scrimshaws: arm yourselves and put some gear together for a trip in to town. We're going overland to Rapier Bay."

Your party follows the broad, easy track round the cove and up in to the low hills. The jungle is sparse enough for you to look out to sea and, when the path winds along cliffs, Rapier Bay itself. After a few hours the jungle thins out and is replaced by scrubby semi-cultivated land with small shacks along the roadside. The people are poor, hungry and pay little attention to you. Eventually, around dusk you arrive on the outskirts of Rapier Bay. You can decide to find an inn for the night, forge on in to town or camp here on the outskirts.

"You can tie up anywhere you want. The owners of this place disappeared several months back and there's only me left looking after it. My lodge is on the end of that pier but there's nothing left there - all looted. I still get a wage, though. Don't know who pays it but they pay regularly and I collect regularly which is why I still hang around. I've a hide up there overlooking everything where I stay at night to keep out of the way of the bandits. They've not been by in a while, though. Nothing left to steal but the buildings. You can berth here if you want - wouldn't mind a bit company actually. There's a track leading in to Rapier Bay, it's a few miles but good going. If you're going in to town you'll need to leave some crew. Around here I'm what counts for security and I'm afraid I don't count much on that score."

"Well now, that's awfully generous of you. Isn't it lads? At least we won't be going home empty handed."

His men all nod their appreciation. He throws a coin to each of his four crew, puts one for himself in his waistcoat pocket and throws the bag of remaining coins to the other boat. As your crew starts hoisting the sails he looks over and speaks.

"My name's Jackson, by the way - in case you do happen to pass through Rapier Bay later on. Feel free to call on myself and my good wife any time. We've a suite at the barracks. There's a good tavern nearby your men can drink at."

He barks a few commands to his men and makes to set out then, turning as if suddenly remembering something, he says.

"If you do, ahem, happen to find your way to Rapier Bay in the very near future. You might want avoid berthing in the main harbour if you're doing business in town. The master has taken to imposing a levy on trading ships and impounds anyone who doesn't pay. He applies the term 'trading' very loosely."

At that he waves you a cheery farewell and they set off.

Captain Melchior sends the crew to their stations. The sails are hoisted and you set off. You pass the headland and see the narrow horse-shoe shaped Rapier Bay to your left. Before long, you're past the further end and pass round out of sight of the bay.

Here 'civilisation' (or what passes for it in The Shackles) seems to end. There are no fishing villages, not huts or fires. Just dark, quiet empty jungle. Before long you come across a settlement of piers, quays and warehouses which appear completely abandoned. They appear to form what was either a competing landing spot to Rapier Bay, or the original settlement. Though, the buildings appear far too new to be obsolete. Then, you see a figure. An old man carrying a fishing rod on his way to the end of a pier. He looks up, shading his eyes from the sun with one hand, and sees you. He waves in a friendly manner.

The men smile at the thought of a good drink at the end of the day. A man is sent to take soundings after the sails are brought up and set for a cautious approach to the vessels ahead.

The other boats remain as they were. The small, light, fast vessel has a crew of four and a captain. It sits high in the water but it's deep keel keeps it stable. There's little below deck to accommodate crew or supplies. A spinnaker lies furled along the starboard deck. The crew look lean and mean, bored and itching for trouble. The youthful captain on the other hand seems relaxed and jolly and somewhat out of place in his foppish attire amongst his worn veteran crew. The large rowing boat next to them holds a different kind of crew who display little signs of competence or experience but plenty of brute force. You notice at the stern a series of cleats from which several strands are tied. The strands come together to form a large thick rope which sits coiled on the deck. You guess it's some kind of tug boat.

As you come alongside the foppish young captain waves cheerily and shouts out.

"Thought we'd have to give you a pull out of there old boy. I must say, we all thought you did rather well, didn't we chaps?"

His crew grunt and nod unenthusiastically. The crew of the other boat don't seem to be keeping up with the exchange.

"Don't mind them, they're good lads. Give 'em swords and a chance and they'll hack and slash their way to gold and wenches before you can say what. Isn't that right, buck?"

Buck, lean and mean is proudly amused of his captain's apparent compliment.

"Well, now, I must say, that was a jolly good show but I'm afraid it leaves us in a bit of a pickle. Allow me to explain. The master of Rapier Bay has tasked my good self and these fine fellows with keeping ships from wrecking on those sandbanks the storms keep shifting. Our chaps are out after every storm mapping the changes and, us being generous sorts, we like to give visitors the benefit of this knowledge. A courtesy service, you might say. Though, actually, more a service and less a courtesy. If we warn ships off and guide them in we command a fee. If they founder and we drag them out we command a fee. As an additional service, if someone can't pay we hold their ship in harbour, nice and safe, until they can."

"Now, here's the pickle: we've never actually come across this situation and I'm not sure what the powers that be will want to do. I assume you're bound for Rapier Bay?"

Then, pausing for a moment he smiles and continues.

"But, if you weren't that would make things much simpler, would it not?"

As the sails drop the boat slumps and starts to lean slightly astern.

One crew busies itself above and below deck moving everything they can to the back of the boat while the other drops the johnboat, loaded with the anchor, and climbs down in to it. After a minute of rowing they settle on a good spot with the right depth and drop the anchor. The chains clatter and rattle as the iron sinks and comes to a halt on the sea bed. They return in the boat to the ship and join the other crew at the windlass.

Manning either side they take position and start heaving on the crank handles. At first, nothing happens. The handles are locked tight and won't budge. The ship continues bobbing gently up and down. They stop for a rest, dispirited. Looking at the chain, you notice that as the ship bobs down, there is some slack. When they start again, you direct them to take up the slack when the ship goes down. They follow your instructions and on the first wave pull in a few yards of loose chain and lock the gears. The windlass groans, the ship tips backwards at an awkward angle, then you all hear a grinding noise on the hull. Then, as she drops on the next wave she starts to pull back.

The men grin from ear to ear and start hauling in the loose chain as fast as they can. This time, she pulls back even more. Once more and she slips free with a bounce, back in open water again.

Your 23 Mystery Roll beat the sandbank's 18 (the CMD of a junk) and the 22 Profession(Sailor) check ensured you got free with no damage to the boat or other glitches.

The Scrimshaws check below deck while the Wyrmwards take soundings round the boat. Before long, it's apparent the ship is in no immediate danger and they report back to the captain who briefs you on the situation.

"Well, there's no damage. We're stuck on a muddy sandbank on a ledge but haven't hit rock. The prow is wedged solid but the stern is free. We could wait till the tide falls and hope she slides back in."

As you and the crew ponder the situation you see something happening on the small vessel. A fire has been lit and an archer is preparing to shoot. He dips an arrow in to one then another barrel. He takes aim and shoots it in your direction. The arrow soars up following a sharp trajectory trailing an orange spume of smoke. It lands in the sea several boat lengths away from your position. Another two arrows go up in the same way.

Fifteen minutes or so pass before you see emerge from beyond the same headland a large broad rowing boat with eight men on either side tugging at the oars. It pulls up alongside the smaller vessel as the crews talk and look your way.

The rowing boat is carrying something important but you can't quite make it out as the first vessel is obscuring your view.

Take a 'Perception' check to see what it is.

"Aye Aye, Sir"

The captain raises the Chelish flag up the forestay and signals the wheelman to hold course.

The ship skiffs along comfortably. The men hold fast at their stations, eager and alert.

Then, without warning, the ship grinds to a sudden halt. There's a loud creaking noise as the wind drags her on to a sand bank and to a dead halt. She turns barely to one side, sinks some then settles wedged fast.

The captain replies.

"They're waiting for us. The flags they flew were modified. The Ustalav flag had a red and black striped border and the Geb one a red and white striped border. The probably denote something other than affiliation. The might be using the flags to send us a signal."

They are using the flags to send you a signal. The signals they are using - by a remarkable coincidence - correspond to those of the 'International Code of Signals' check THIS LINK.

You look at the booklet in the chest again, and see the following: A - Andoran, B - Brevoy, C - Cheliax, D - Druma, E - Druma (red, white) ... W - Worldwound (red, black), X - Worldwound (red, white), Y - Worldwound (white, black), Z - Worldwound (pure black).

You look up the message attached to the letters U and H and see the following: U - "You are running in to danger"; H - "I have a pilot on board".

The message might be false and a trap, or true and a valuable warning. What do you do?

After several moments flapping around in the wind, the flag is caught by a steady breeze and is clearly visible.

"Ustalav"

The distance between your boats is closing. Seeing that you are now clearly within visible range and have probably spotted their flag they take down "Ustalav" and raise another.

"Geb(red, white)"

You can: ignore them and remain on course; drop sails and lay anchor; change course. You may also raise a flag along with any of these choices.

With little effort you spring each lock and open the chest.

Inside you find a booklet, a pile of flags and a number of wooden rods which can be joined together with cuffs to build larger poles. Along each rod are a number of clasps to which the flags can be attached.

Each flag bears the heraldry of a Golarion nation. Not all nations' flags are included and some are included more than once. Those included once are: Andoran, Brevoy, Cheliax, Five Kings, Isger, Jalmeray, Katapesh, Lastwall, Mendev, Nidal, Qadira, Razmiran, Sargava, Taldor, Ustalav, Varisia. Each of these is identical to the usual flag except for a narrow red and black striped border. There are two flags each of: Druma, Geb, Osirian. Of these there is one each with a red and black stiped border, and another with a red and white striped border. Lastly, there are four Worldwound flags. Their striped borders are: red and black; red and white; black and white; pure black.

There are also ten pennant flags. Each one bears a unique and distinct colourful pattern.

The booklet contains several pages. You look just at the first which contains a picture of each of the above mentioned flags with a letter next to it. Beside that, there is a short description which reads much like this document. The ten pennants are also listed next to the numbers 0-9.

For references to doctors, read healers. Multi-symbol messages, as in the example codes, apply within reason (i.e nothing nuclear).

As you ponder the contents you hear a cry from on deck.

"Ship ahoy!"

You rush up on to deck and up to a crewman standing port-side fore pointing to the distance. You follow his direction and see a fast, light vessel coming out from behind a headland. It moves in to the open water, drops its sails and hoists a flag up the forestay. Without a constant wind, the flag is not easily distinguished.

Take a 'Perception' skill test.

As the Fortune's Roost moves out of the lee of the coast's hills the wind catches her sails and she picks up speed. Out in the open she's one of only a few ships at sea that day. All along the coast encampments lie idly in the scorching sun as groups of locals loll about the shady tree line. On-board, the wind blows coolly over the deck making the work of keeping the sails trimmed light and pleasant for the crew.

Around midday, tired of the glaring sun, you go down to your cabin. You notice in a corner a chest which wasn't there last night. You catch one of the crew on his way by and send him to the Captain to ask about it. Word returns that they found it floating in the water on the way in to Quent and thought you should have a look. They haven't opened it yet.

It's an unremarkable item, sturdy and reliable with tar seals around the joins and two locks on each side.

Take a 'Disable Device' skill check for the chest.

"Nothing to report, though, Shadraq sent a letter by messenger and asked you read it before we leave. Also, there is another letter but the messenger wouldn't say who it's from."

You open the anonymous letter first.

"Brother Xaikon, our man is in place at the Steel Clad Giant in Rapier bay. I trust you are ready to perform the ritual. There is no haste but we want to get to Tewey before Fairwind finds a way to claim him herself. Also, I'm very excited to say that we have verified the new claims of Strong-Arm Hix and are sending someone from the lodge to Zhenbarghau to establish contact. Svartblut."

The letter from Shadraq reads as follows.

"My valued associate, as you requested I have compiled a list of credible treasure hunters. I hear, firstly, that a team of explorers led by an Oracle of The Sea have formed a theory regarding the Chenogg Rainforest obelisks and are making remarkable progress. Their success, so far, is known to myself alone and now you. Another team, attempting to find safe passage to the Glittering Lake last sent word two weeks ago. As they have been there more than a month, I think it's safe to say they have found a way to survive and their chances of success are better than we thought. Regarding our interests in the Dye business: my agent at Bogsbridge continues to make overtures towards Tendry Boles but she needs further convincing. We must get to Boles before we can make the move on Burie and Shaggard at Lilywhite. Shadraq."

Captain Melchior speaks.

"Shall we be setting out now, or did you want to visit Quent for anything first?"

Back in the bar, Koolzee is sitting seething in humiliation.

"Who the heck does he think he is? Talk to me like that! I need a drink."

He shouts angrily at Sally.

"Hey you, yeah, you yeh fat cow: bring me a beer now!"

Sally bristles and shouts back at him.

"I've had enough of you. You want a beer, you can get it somewhere else. Now you and your little friend, you just clear off now!"

Koolzee smiles with pleasure and nods to his bodyguard. The half-orc steps up and starts walking slowly towards Sally with a wicked, vicious grin on his face.The Scrimshaws, following the whole thing look to each other knowing exactly what the play is. From the corner Bargs jumps up, darts across the room, vaults on to the bar and slides across and down in to the gantry between Sally and the half-orc. Before the half-orc really knows what's happening, Bargs bull-rushes him. Head down, shoulders up, he punches in to him with the force of five men, grabs him and drives forward out of the gantry in to the corner crashing in to Koolzee. The three of them collapse in a pile. Tables and chairs scatter about them.

Bargs wrestles himself on top of the half-orc and starts pummeling his face with his fists. The brute struggles, bucking and writhing, almost unseating Bargs but the flurry of blows is quickly too much for him and his strength fades to nothing until he can't even summon the power to protect himself. Koolzee, seeing his predicament, thinks for a moment of his merchandise in the half-orc's pocket but thinks better of it. He stumbles to his feet and turns to flee walking straight in to the fist of Plaid Scrimshaw. He falls to the ground like a sack of potatos, caught halfway down by Torin and Smorts.

Plaid reaches in to Koolzee's pockets and retrieves the tainted Pesh and then turns to the bar and speaks to the startled drinkers.

"You see this here? This stuff is poison and this 'man' Koolzee has been selling it to kids. You all know Nahmesme's cousin and how sick she was? Well this is the cause of it. I'm no kiljoy: a little Pesh to soothe the soul is fine for a grown person but foisting poison like this on the young is beyond deplorable."

The drinkers, reasurred to know the fight isn't going to turn their way, start talking excitedly. They see Sally standing shaking at the bar. The mood starts to turn from nervous confusion to focused outrage.

"Sling him out!"
"He set his dog on poor Sal'. I say take the worm out and gut him!"
"Get lost Koolzee and take your poison with you!"

A few brisk slaps wake Koolzee up from his daze and he sees the half-orc unconscious on the floor and the whole bar staring at him angrily. He tries to speak but is still shaken and can't quite get words out his mouth. Torin speaks.

"Right you: time we went for a little walk."

Torin and Smorts frogmarch him out the bar followed by Plaid who touches his money pouch. He glances at the broken table and chairs and nods to Bargs. Getting up from the half-orc, Bargs tidies himself up and walks over to Sally who throws herself in to his arms and kisses him. He gets his money pouch out and puts a few silver pieces on the bar. An old man sitting at the bar pushes the money back towards Bargs.

"Put yer money away son. This one's on me."

Bargs nods and smiles. Then, turning to Sally.

"Sal, my dear. We're off again. I'm sorry. I don't know when we'll be back. You'll wait for me?"

She smiles sadly and nods: "Of course ... always."

Bargs gives her a kiss and leaves the bar dragging the unconscious half-orc by the scruff of his kneck. He joins his brothers in an alley next to the tavern where they disposess the two of the good Pesh, some gold, and throw the tainted stuff away.

The party travel through the winding streets of Quent towards Calistria's House of Stolen Kisses. There they find Captain Melchior and the Wyrmward brothers. After some food and Pesh, they leave and make their way to the harbour. There they take their small rowing boat and travel up along the coast by the light of the moon to the small secluded cove where the Roost is moored. Finding Xaikon still awake, they work for a couple of hours making the ship ready to sail the next day, then bunk down for the night.

The next morning sees a glorious sun high in the sky with brisk breezes rustling the palms and mangroves along the coast. It's a fair day to set sail. A myriad of tropical scents lace the briny air and the waves crash frenetically about the ship, rocking it robustly.

Cool. Looking forward to it.

Torin and his brothers, Plaid, Bargs and Smorts stumbled half-drunk through the close, crowded streets of Quent.

"Sons of harlots, the lot of them!", said Plaid Scrimshaw.
"Those Wyrmward boys are cheats and liars. If they weren't such bloody good sailors I'd have keel-hauled their mealy corpses for the sharks to eat months ago"
"Shut yer face Plaid", said Bargs.
"And shut yer whingin, they won fair and square and you lost."
"You shut yer face, Bargs! They're cheats, I say and one day I'm gonna catch them at it then they'll be hell to pay."
"Well, now Plaid ... ", said Smorts, " ... when that day comes we'll be there, my brother, to bring the hell to 'em. Until then, just ... you know ... Shut yer face!"

Torin, Bargs and Smorts roared in laughter at Plaid who smouldered silently in a petulant rage. Shortly, Torin spoke.

"Boys, boys, be nice now. And Plaid, don't be so sensitive and don't be so stupid. Fine sailors and fine fighters the Wyrmwards are - without a doubt. They might even be fine card players but, by the Gods man, you never win against them! Give it up. Anyway, what's about this girl you were telling us about, cousin to one of the Stolen Kisses girls ... ?"

Plaid's embarassment left him and he straighted up, serious and angry.

"That scumsucker Koolzee!"
"The elf pusher, piece of drek poseur ... what about him?"
"He sold Nahmesme's cousin some tainted Pesh."
"Who the feck's Nahmesme?""
"Nahmesme, ye bastrd! Nahmesme! For feck's sake: my Nahmesme! She's only the girl I've been talking about getting married to for the last half year!"

The brothers looked at each other feigning ignorance.

"I thought she was made up!"
"So did I!"
"The Wyrmwards' harlot?"

"Bargs Scrimshaw, by the Gods I'll have yer gizzard if you say that again. I'm serious. Don't you dare joke about Nahmeseme like that again. She's not like that ... not like the other girls anyway. She had no choice. She was sold in to it and I'm going to buy her out when I get the gold, and I'm going to marry her and you buggers are going to show her some respect, d'ye hear me?"

The brothers look down, chastened, ashamed.

"Sure, Plaid. We hear ye."

"Good. You better. Nahmesme's cousin wanted to try some Pesh and some jackass pointed her in Koolzee's way. The bugger had some new gear to punt and didn't want to try it out on his regulars so used her as his lab rat. 'Sold', I say, 'robbed' more like. Totally cleaned her out. And, that's not the worst of it. The stuff was complete poison, mixed with some rubbish. That poor lass, just a child, was driven half out her mind. Spent two weeks in bed, puking her guts and ranting about demons. Nahmesme had to take time off work and paid dearly for it. Now she owes even more to the Madame, and it's going to be even longer until I can buy her out."

Plaid was shaking with rage, almost crying.

Torin put his arm round his brother's shoulder, nodded, pulled him in and gave him a reasurring hug.

"Plaid, we'll get the bugger!"
"Smorts, where'd Shadraq's man say he'd be?"
"Drunken Parrot, with his Orc bodyguard."
"Anything else?"
"Only that the gobshyt's been running round town claiming he's tight with Shadraq and he needs to be shut up before Shad hears about it and skins to poor bugger who recommended him to him."
"Bargs ... Drunken Parrot, isn't that where your gal Sally works?"
"It is indeed!"
"Well, now boys ... I think it's about time we paid Koolzee a little visit annd reclaimed some of that gold, maybe take that Pesh off him too and make Sally and elf-tooth necklace while we're at it."

The brothers smiled to each other, bumped about, laughed and sauntered off in the direction of the Drunken Parrot.

"What the hell kind of a name is Koolzee anyway?"
"The prick gave it himself. Runs around claiming he got it in jail. Bastrd's never seen the inside of a cell in his life. Prick!"

They spied the sign of the Parrot and on it Omen.

"Boys, look, it's Omen."
"Omen ye black hearted little thief, is yer good master inside then?"

The bird cocked its head, focused a beady eye on them and cawed a garbled string of corvine words.

"Same to you, ye little bastrd!", shouted Smorts.

Omen raised his throat and let out a shrill raucous squawk, then motioned with his beak at the door of the tavern.

The brothers now burst stumbling into the modest room, each jostling to get in before the other. A group of men and women at a table against the back wall, sensing trouble, quickly down their drinks and shuffle past and out. The boys spot Xaikon in the corner, see he's doing business, ignore him and continue to the now empty table. Though half drunk and apparently in good humour, there's a sharp, poised alertness in the group's bearing.

Not wanting to take your eye off the odious elf and his meat-faced bodyguard you ignore the commotion behind you and glare at Koolzee.

The elf, squirming in his seat, nods nervously to his bodyguard, then up to the ceiling and in to a corner, avoiding your gaze.

You have intimidated him. Any plans he had to play you are out the window. In a flurry of nervous movement, he stows all but the yellow stuff away. You examine the goods before you and notice that the yellow product is made up of two different grades, a poorer dusty yellow Pesh and a dark brown, resinous much higher quality one. You scratch some of the dusty yellow stuff away from the better quality gear and look at him questioningly. He tenses up and shoots a worried glance to the orc. The orc stiffens and pulls his jacket shut. Before he does, you spot another wrap in an inside pocket - like the one Koolzee had. It contains the better quality gear.

The barmaid, Sally, comes over, coughs politely and gives you a warm beaming smile then playfully tousles the feathers on your head. You hand her some coin and she winks at you, turns smartly and walks back to the bar (not before giving Koolzee another look of searing contempt).

"Drinks on the kind gentleman in the corner! Order up quick!"

The room lets out a cheer and claps. People jostle up to the counter giving you happy nods of appreciation.

From the corner, Bargs walks up to the far end of the bar and stands looking upon Sally adoringly. She looks over, brushes her hair back shyly and gives him a quiet, tender smile. She pours him a tankard of Ale. He takes a long, greedy draught of the liquor, foam spilling down his face and lets out a loud, dramatic contented sigh, slamming the tankard down on the bar.

"Ah, by the heavens that's good stuff. My friend, my friend ... "

He calls out to you and waves.

"You're a scholar and a gentleman. Bargs is my name. A pleasure to make your acquaintance ... me and me brothers! If you'll join us for a mug, we'll return the favor?"

He points to the corner and the other Scrimshaws give you a light salute and each other a knowing smile.

Koolzee peers round the corner of his orc and looks and dismisses them as harmless drunks.

How you play this is up to you. You can convince the boys to get Koolzee another time if you want. If Koolzee sees they're your crew he'll bolt. If he doesn't twig, he'll carry on waiting for more business (no need to Bluff for this, it's a given). So, there are two things: Plaid's score on account of Nahmesme's cousin and the good quality gear the orc is holding. I'll draw up a map of the room with everyone's positions. When initiative is rolled, as a free action (unmodified by anything else), you can have them surround you (stepping clear of adjacent threats if you have to). They are, effectively, a force-field you can Quickdraw. As I've not done the map, for now you can go and talk to them to discuss meeting up with the rest of the crew. You might also want to give them instructions to rob Koolzee while you go see Svartblut. You can play them remotely. How does that sound?

Wouldn't hurt to appraise the quality of the goods he's offering.

The Drunken Parrot is found down a narrow, dingey, cobble-stoned alley. Shanty tenements rise up on either side obscuring the night sky so that only a slit of velvety silver spotted black can be seen above. The waning crescent moon hanging high above passes in and out of sight above whispy scudding clouds. Somewhere down the street from an upper dwelling you hear the cheerful song of a fiddle, stamping feet and singing. Passing along, hawkers beckon animatedly drawing your attention to their wares: silks, spices, exotic foods and carved trinkets. Through small, thick smoked glass windows in taverns you pass you see shapes of people moving, their comings and goings a lively pantomime of shadows in front of flickering lanterns.

You see the sign for the Parrot - a chubby scarlet Macaw with a eye-patch and a hat, inexplicably grasping at the end of one wing a tankard of overflowing ale. The door to the tavern opens on to the lounge area - a space built to hold at least two dozen people. Straight in front, along the left side of the room are benches and tables. Set in to the back wall a large fire burns. People stand on either side, leaning against the walls using the mantle-piece to rest their drinks. In the centre of the room stand two large tables with benches on either side. The right side is the bar and gantry with a gap at the end for access in and out. To your right, on the street-side are a few tables, in the far right corner a smaller round table with three chairs - all occupied.

A large orc gets up from a chair at the small round table, his huge broad back filling your view. He reaches out and shakes the hand of someone in the corner at the round table then turns and walks towards. You can see there's something not quite right with him. The typical, aggressive, alert, predatory aspect of an orc isn't apparent in this one. Instead, he seems weak, like he has the ague, eyes and nose running slightly, his flesh dull and greyish tinged. His bloodshot baggy eyes betray fear and vulnerability. Despite this, he doesn't look completely unhappy. In fact, if anything, it is a serene relief which characterises the creature's expression. His fingers dart down to a small pocket in his waist-coat then back to his sides. He smiles to himself and hurries past you out the bar.

In the corner you see a weasely elf with a conceited grin down the dregs from a mug of coffee. Beside him, another orc sits with a quiet, mean attentive expression surveying the bar and its visitors. The elf looks up, sees you, whispers something to the orc beside him who nods, then gives you an unctuous smile, waving you over.

"I've been expecting you, man. Where've you been? You think I've got time to sit around waiting all night? I'm a businessman, places to go people to see!"

He stares at you, looking serious, then bursts out laughing, struggling to hide how clever and funny he finds himself. The orc beside him stares, bored, to the side.

"I'm just kidding you man. Any friend of Shadraq's a friend of mine. I mean that! Seriously, me and Shadraq are tight and he'd do anything for me, so when he asked if I could do you a favour I told him 'Shadraq, man, you don't even need to ask - consider it done'. Take a seat, man, sit down for god's sake."

He looks over nonchalantly to the barmaid and nods in your direction. She notices him but turns the other way. Bristling, he shouts to her.

"Hey Wench, where the hell 's this man's drink? You think I tip you like I do to stand propping the wall up with your fat ass all night? Bring the man his frigging drink!"

The barmaid scowls at him and starts lazily getting your drink. She walks leisurely over to the table and smacks the drink down in front of him causing it to spill on the table, turns her back and walks back without a second glance. He jumps back, enraged but quickly composes himself and gives you an oily grin.

"She's just mad at me cause she caught me with her sister last night. I don't know why she's so mad. Her sister ain't even as good looking as she is, though that ain't saying much."

He nods to the orc who moves his chair round the table, blocking it from the bar's view. He peeks shiftily round the sides of the orc, wipes the table with a ragged, grubby sleave then carefully pulls a thick wrapped bundle from the inside pocket of his jacket and opens it out on the table.

"This, my man, is the finest Pesh in the Shackles. I got three different strains, give you a different kind of buzz. The yellowish one is heady, sparkly. The greenish one's an all over buzz - make you feel like you're floating. And that bluey one there, that's the best - make you see astral. I really recommend that. I had a dwarf girl try it for the first time and she said she saw a ghost tell her where some buried treasure was and ... and I'm not jerking you around here, this is true - I swear on my momma's grave ... when she went to where the ghost said to look she found a bag with 500 gold pieces in it!"

"The yellow and green are normally 30 gold pieces but since you're a friend of Shadraq's you can buy a dose for 15. Just don't tell anyone I sold you it for that. The blue, it being a bit different, with discount, you can have for 20 a dose. You want something a bit different, I can get it. I just send one of my boys out, he can be back in 20 minutes - any-thing-you-want! I mean it man, any-thing!"

He gives you a snakey look and smiles, waiting for your response.

The door is thick and heavy, made of tarred old oak with a thick black dusted resinous veneer. The scrivener's gives the appearence of being of being dead to the world but that's as it always is. You hear a muffled voice distantly behind the door then the quick scratching sound of claws on stone as something runs towards the door. It stops. Then, slowly, you hear it move to the side and claw its way over papers and furniture to the small window at the left of the door. A pair of small red eyes flash through the glass for a second then disappear. Scratching, disturbed papers falling over and a leathery flapping sound follow before the creature scuttles back in to the distance and again you hear a muffled voice. Soon you hear bolts thrown on the door and see it open very slowly. A small squeaking, grunting sound accompanies it. The door stops, open just enough to let you through, and the tiny clawed wing and arm of the Scrivener's Homunculus beckon you impatiently in.

In the centre of the room on the left the dying embers of a fire provide the only illumination on the scene. At the back, sat at his bureau against the wall you see Shadraq. His luminescent blue-green eyes pierce the darkness. Beneath his hood his hair glows a deep cobalt blue like the glyph above the door. At first sight he appears a rather fragile creature under swathes of thick dark robes. His greyish Fetchling's skin and emaciated appearance suggest an aged unlhealthy man but you know he's in excellent condition, and though he moves and speaks slowly he'll open the throat of the foolish robber that tries to demand his purse before the robber closes his mouth.

Shadraq smiles, his ivory teeth gleaming, and bows subtly touching his hand to his head in an elaborate and respectful gesture of welcome.

"You are welcome, Xaikon! It warms my shadowy heart, as always to see you safely back in Quent. I hope your business abroad was successful. I would offer you something to eat but I'm afraid I wasn't expecting company of your tastes and I've only the ashey fare of a Fetchling to offer."

He spreads his hand out over a plate in front of him with an elaborate theatrical gesture. Through the dimness you can see what looks vaguely like dessicated baby rodents and shavings of charred bark.

"But, we have business to discuss. Please ... join me."

He stands up, pulls a chair out at his table for you then, in the blink of an eye, hurls a sharp piece of charred bark at the Homunculus. It strikes with deadly aim at the hapless creature sat licking itself. It yelps pathetically looks about stunned then fixes its master with an angry stare and growls showing rows of sharp little teeth.

"Scratchling, take this food away immediately. Bring it back when the master has left."

The creature stares defiantly before the threat of another missle sends it scuttling to its master's bidding.

"So, my brother Blackthumb, you'll want tidings of your ship and men. Captain Melchior visited me yesterday. He came in with the Roost and your men the day before last. She's moored in a cove a few miles down the coast. Where exactly, I don't know. Melchior 's with his harlot at Calistria's House of Stolen Kisses. Then men are somewhere in town. I believe the Wyrmward brothers went one way and Scrimshaws another. The matter you asked me about earlier the ... ahem .. Pesh: there's a man in the Drunken Parrot doing business tonight. He knows you might be coming along. Also, Father Svartblut at the lodge has something important he wants to discuss with you. It can wait if it must but you'll need to see him at some point."

He glances back over his shoulder at the plate of food giving it a longful look then returns his gaze to you.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm really quite hungry and would like to finish my supper. If there's nothing more you need from me Scratchling will show you out. It has been, as ever, a joy to see you, my esteemed friend. I look forward dearly to seeing you at Svartblut's next blessing"

The sun sets on the harbour. The taverns and street stalls along the shore front put up lanterns, drawing the thronging crowds their way. Waves crash calmly on the beach, hissing and fizzing, drawing back with a pleasant crackle over the shingle. Around the edges of the settlement and in to the hills you hear the jungle, patiently quiet during the day, coming to life with the sound of cicadas, owls and a million creaping, crawling, squeaking, scratching things. In the high distant valleys the occasional roar of a large beast echos down.

On the beach many small fishing boats sit pulled up out of the reach of the encroaching tide. Around fires by the boats groups of men sit talking, laughing, drinking, playing dice and smoking their pipes.

A rocky promontory stands proudly out against the sparkling teal sea. From shackles fastened between the tide-marks a group of men in Chelish uniform dangle, kicking out. Muffled screams and groans issue from the thick hessian sacking gagging them. No one pays them the slightest bit of attention. The tide creeps in, its warm caresses creaping up their bodies towards terrified eyes. On the other side of the rocky pier a Chelish schooner lays anchored. A gang of men are busy unloading her under the sinister watch of an old bronzed leathery goblin. Further up the pier, hanging from a hoist, the rotting remains of a huge spiny sea serpent jerk and twitch from the bites and hacks of a pack of freakishly large rats.

A drunk staggers out of a corner tavern on the thoroughfare crashing in to a group of passers who push him away. He spins, steps back, stuggles and flails pathetically attempting to stay upright before crashing grandly in to the dirt. Moments later out of the same tavern a broad-set flusterred woman storms out on to the street. Her thick arms hold up her trailing extravagant but cheap ruffled dres. The slovenly laced front of her bodice barely holds in her huge fat flushed doughy bosom. She stops, casting quick means looks up and down the street, until she sees the paralytic drunk clawing at the ground. She straightens up, smiles and marches proudly over to him. A wirey old man with a hilarious, toothy red stained mouth gapes happily from his begging spot over the proceedings. Looking down on the man the woman spits contemptuously on his face. He barely moves. She gives him a mighty kick in the guts with her sturdy clogged foot. Again, he barely moves. Finally, without a care for the passers by, she stands over him, lifts up her skirts and squats.

The old beggar looks on with choked hilarity, staring dumbly at the puddle forming around the man's body. When she's finished she tidies herself up, fixes her bodice, pulls her hair back and throws the beggar a coin before returning to the tavern. A horse and carriage clatter to a halt by the man. The fat merchant within looks down at the drunk with scornful amusement then violently raps the roof of the carriage with his cane. As the carriage speeds away the toothy old beggar sits turning his coin between gnarled old fingers, staring in wonder at the miserable pittance as if it were a diamond.

Round the corner from the tavern a broad dusty road snakes up through tottering shanties to the hills. At the start, on the other side from the tavern stands a smiddy. A sign, swinging in the warm breeze, bears the expensively painted image of a hammer and anvil. Above it, in gilded lettering stand the words 'Undershale and Partner'. Through the roofed open courtyard where several horses stand tethered you can hear at the back the muted sounds of a furnace, creaking billows and the chink of metal as someone works .

Back on the main street, on the other side from the tavern wedged between a chandlers and a vintners stands a scriveners office. Tall, narrow, unobtrusive and dull it goes unnoticed by all except the wealthy and powerful few who have cause to do business there. Above the door, engraved into the stone mantle a glyph glows a deep florescent cobalt blue in the gloomy twighlight. A small gecko stalking a cricket crawls into a groove in the engraving, inches away from its prey. In a flash, its body lights up brilliant blue and it drops, convulsing on to the flagstone below. A razor toothed cat-like creature pounces on it within seconds but spits it out after one taste and gallops down the street into a lane.

As the boiling sun sinks below the horizon, braziers along the street are lit and the thick smokey briney air lingers about you. Small groups huddle round open grills waiting for street vendors cooking seasoned meats and sliced yams. The town seems to heave with the chatter and laughter of its denizens. Occasionally a scream or throttled cry coming from the backstreets punctuates the mirth. Sometimes a fight spills out on to the street leaving another body for the vultures to clean up when the sun rises.

No one cares. This is Quent: a place of endings and beginnings.

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