Chapter 8: Wistful and Weathered

[Jeff]

The world beyond the patio has faded entirely. It never went to black. Instead, it's a deep, dark gray, a void bereft of life or any real light, or even evil. It just is. It's non-space.

The grayness makes Adamant think about Dolurrh.

He remembers Father Charl's teachings about the Realm of the Dead, the Shadowfell where the souls of the living are said to go when their existence on Eberron has ended . Like many warforged, Adamant has often wondered what will become of him when he dies. Not mere disablement, but when whatever force or life suffuses his body is at last completely extinguished.

What then?

Many claim that warforged have no souls, and therefore will have no afterlife—not even the bleakness of Dolurrh. Adamant has heard even priests of Dol Arrah say it, out of pity, but Father Charl never said it. He once heard a warforge bitterly say to him, "We have no souls, Adamant! That's what they tell us. But I say this: neither do they. We are all constructs, of metal and stone or flesh...it doesn't matter. We will all die and remain that way, as if we never even were." He wasn't the most optimistic of warforged.

Dolurrh is said to be a vast, gray, desolate realm. A place of forgetting, where even the memory that spirits once lived fades away with time. It is where the dead reside, with no knowledge that there ever was something else bright and vital. Vassals of the Sovereign Host largely accept this, that Dolurrh is the fate of everyone, Vassal or not, and that not even the Host can go there. But some believe that the Sovereign Host will eventually release the souls of the faithful from the bleakness of the Realm of the Dead...

"So long as as you can sing, Adamant," Father Charl told him, you are still alive. And the gods can still hear you."

....

For now, he waits.

Chapter 8
Wistful and Weathered

Zol, the 17th of Sypheros 998 YK

Time is passing, but it's difficult for Adamant to measure it. There is no change of light, no yawning of breathing people, no bags under the eyes of his flesh-and-blood companions to indicate weariness. None of the telltale signs with which he's accustomed to gauging time when the light of Dol Arrah sets in the west. But he does think that it is hours, not days, passing. Still, he can't be sure.

Eventually he lapses into his restful, but alert state of inactivity...there is nothing else to do. No one has attacked, after all this time. And though he is a warforged, Adamant needs to refocus his strength again.

After another indeterminate time, the grayness falls away. Not only the void, but the ground itself fades quickly from view. Gone is the table, the food, the trays, the chairs, even the smooth flagstones.

They are replaced by solid, well worn floorboards. The ground suddenly shifts, unexpectedly, and it catches Adamant completely off guard and he loses his balance, stumbling—

But someone catches him. Two someones. Three. Strong, bare-armed human men grab him by his arms, then bear him to the ground—a ground of hard wood. He is pinned there. His weapons are yanked away from him. His pack, too. In the confusion he sees sees other figures descend on his friends. And though he himself struggles, the men who hold him are strong, one of them easily as strong as he is.

"Hold still, 'forged," a gruff voice behind him says in his ear—if he had an ear. "And you'll not be harmed. Your friends won't, neither. Not if you don't fight. I'll see to it."

"But if you do," another snarls, "Then you're just dead weight, and you're going overboard."

"Shut your stinkhole," says a third voice to the second one.

The sound of Adamant's struggle, and the voices of men, begins to rouse Condign, Kal, Streko, and Syrdan from their sleep. They still feel sluggish, and they don't snap awake alertly. Only gradually do they begin to take in their surroundings. Their unnatural sleep has left them feeling severely drowsy and weak. But they can move, and speak, and just now start to think again. Tangat is still sleeping.

Belarin lies still, but his eyes are half open—and rather glassy. He looks like he's in a stupor, only halfway conscious. Staring up at the ceiling. Not yet mentally returned.

Then the men holding Adamant release him. "Take it easy," says the first gruff voice.

As the rest of you begin to gather your wits, you find that your weapons and packs have all been taken. Only your clothing and armor and remains.

No fewer than ten men, leathery-skinned sailor types in thin, open-sleeved jerkins, stand arrayed around your group, pointing thick cutlasses at you. Some are standing atop crates and barrels stacked at the edges of the dark room you're in. They all look able-bodied and quite willing to fight. A few of them are dwarves, with short beards and hair pulled back and braided to stay out of their eyes.

"You gonna play along?" one of the men holding Adamant asks him.

The ground seems to be rolling, shifting...the whole room is swaying slowly from side to side... You see small, circular things on the walls that might be windows, but there's very little light coming through there. The main source of light is a couple of everbright lanterns hanging from sconces on the walls.

There are two doors nearby. One, straight ahead, is closed. The other, behind you, hangs open, but it's too dark to see what's beyond it.

From somewhere above, a familiar voice—ir'Zathyran's?—says, "There are spellcasters among them. If you see them using magic, cut them down."

[Brian]

Condign groans as consciousness slows returns. The ground lists, and he rolls with the movement, flipping onto his back. His eyes crack open. The surroundings . . . very different, not the patio. His hand slides down to his scabbard--wait, that right. No scabbard. He feels for his sword, dagger, crossbow, shield. Nothing!

His friends lay nearby, on the floor. All except Adamant. He sees the warforged surrounded down by men. And there are more men--and dwarves?--around the room.

Struggling to get to his feet, he takes a few moments to get the feeling of the rolling floor. When he has gained his footing, he realizes he and his friends are outnumbered--for now.

When he hears a voice, one that may be Larest's, he shouts, "Do not be so modest, my lord. Come down. I am sure you can entertain us with an explanation for this abduction. Though I doubt it will save your useless skin from being flayed from your bones."

[Darren]

As Kal's eyes flutter open, he reaches forward as though grasping at something. "No," he mutters, "come back!"

As his eyes open fully, Kal runs a hand through his hair and tries, slowly, to sit up. Disoriented, he looks around, and gradually his memory returns to the smug look on Larest's face. Cold anger floods his brain and his face goes hard. Carefully, Kal tests his right leg before rising to his feet and folding his arms defiantly. "Abduction?" he asks. "Not a good way to start a relationship."

[Joe]

Streko begins feeling his body. The rolling beneath it. The tossing...the turbulence. He turns to his left and vomits, an almost-projectile force that lands between him and one of the guards.

"Otyugh's breath! I am not happy!"

More rolling. "Not fighting this."

He sits down and turns his head to the left, vomiting yet again.

"Where is Laster? I want his face nearby as I unload the contents of my stomach across it. Just to show him I mean no ill will."

Streko continues to fight the urge to continue tossing his cakes. He does not move, but he listens, watches and takes in his surroundings as best he can.

[Dave W.]

A strange rumbly sound, somehow both mechanical and primal, vibrates from Adamant's metal chest. The men holding him to the floor feel him tense his mussels.

Slowly, it feels like years to the warforged, he relaxes his inorganic mussels. Yes, relax fingers, one... two... three. Next hands, then forearms, upper arms, shoulders, etc. In a few minutes (years?) he has calmed himself, "I am not a weapon," he whispers, "I have mastery of myself."

"You gonna play along?" one of the men holding Adamant asks him.

"For now, though you play a dangerous game. I am not a weapon... But I am a soldier."

Adamant stands and nods to his friends, "I am grateful to see you are all in relatively good order."

When is friends speak to Professor Z, Adamant adds in a cold clear tone, "Yes Professor, come explain how we need to find an artifact and prevent it from falling into the hands of foul men. Men who would trap, poison, and carry away people against their will."

[Mike]

Syrdan awakens ... and sees the sailors, holding their blades to his warforged friend's throat.

"Oh, we'll play," Syrdan says to the sailors. He glances about at the others who surround them. "You might not want to bother with trying to slit my friend's throat, though. You'll only dull your blade."

"Just tell your master that we'll not do his bidding," the elf continues. "Tell Professor ir'Zathyran that I don't serve cowards. Or traitors."

[Jeff]

Streko:

"Where is Laster? I want his face nearby as I unload the contents of my stomach across it. Just to show him I mean no ill will."

The men surrounding you shake their heads, or outright curse, at Streko's sickness. Some of them inch away, as if hoping to escape clean-up.

Kal:

"Abduction?" he asks. "Not a good way to start a relationship."

Adamant:

"Yes Professor, come explain how we need to find an artifact and prevent it from falling into the hands of foul men. Men who would trap, poison, and carry away people against their will."

Syrdan:

"Just tell your master that we'll not do his bidding...Tell Professor ir'Zathyran that I don't serve cowards. Or traitors."

"You may tell me this yourself, Master Syrdan," Ir'Zathyran answers from above, smugness in his voice. And when you look up, you see a large rectangular hatch in the ceiling, open wide. The sky is the gray-blue of dusk. By now it's obvious you're on a ship, and in the cargo hold, given the crates, portholes, and the general lack of daylight.

Condign:

Do not be so modest, my lord. Come down. I am sure you can entertain us with an explanation for this abduction..."

"I'd much rather you come up here. I'd like to show you something. Captain? If you please." Ir'Zathyran is somewhere you still can't see above you. The top deck, it would seem.

"What the hell is this, Larest?" a strong female voice demands, also from above, suspicion in her tone. "Abduction? Explain."

"Remember 'twelve passengers, no questions asked', Captain? These are the remaining six. You agreed to these terms, and my payment..." Then ir'Zathryan's voice lowers and you can't hear the rest of the explanation.

After another moment, the woman says, "...let's be done with this. You're responsible for them. Bring them up." That last part comes out, an order. The cutlass-wielding men press closer, herding all of you onto a platform that's the same length and width of the hatch above. Several of the men jump on, pressing closer around you, holding their blades out. And then the platform starts to rise, without any obvious chains or ropes.

"And our stowaway," the unseen captain says, quieter and to someone other than ir'Zathyran, but you can just make it out. "Might as well."

The platform continues to rise, and you're pressure you're about to be on the top deck.

"Take it easy," one of the crewman warns again. "There's nowhere to run, and only enemies to make. My suggestion is, don't make any more."

"Aye," says another. "If you've got a problem with the professor, keep it there."

Clarity, though weakly, comes to Belarin as he awakens right then and there. The first thing he sees is a cutlass held over him, where he lies on the ground. Beside him, Tangat is drowsing, but his other companions are awake, weaponless, equipmentless, wearing only their clothing and armor. He also smells vomit, and sees Streko looking quite unhappy, and guilty.

[Brian]

Condign stands completely still, fist on his hips, as the deck rises. At the captains words, he says, "Stowaway?" After a moments thought, he turns and smiles at the queasy-looking Streko. "I may be completely wrong, my friend, but I think you may have a relative on board."

[Dave W.]

Jan 30, 2011 11:07:50 GMT -4 Jeff said:

"Take it easy," one of the crewman warns again. "There's nowhere to run, and only enemies to make. My suggestion is, don't make any more."

"I would agree, it appears that the crew and captain were not informed of the method of our employment."

[Dave W.]

Jan 30, 2011 11:20:26 GMT -4 Brian said:

Condign stands completely still, fist on his hips, as the deck rises. At the captains words, he says, "Stowaway?" After a moments thought, he turns and smiles at the queasy-looking Streko. "I may be completely wrong, my friend, but I think you may have a relative on board."

"No offense my friend, but I hope you are wrong. I would rather it not be another person I care about drawn into this."

[Darren]

Kal holds up his hand in a non-threatening gesture, indicating his willingness to cooperate with the men around him. "Good fellows," he says as he looks around the room, "we have no quarrel with you. Just know that. You serve your captain, and she has been tricked into making a poor arrangement with that man on deck. You're good sailors, just doing your job. I have no intention or desire to fight with you."

Moving forward, Kal speaks again, though this time he speaks to everyone in the room, his words clearly meant to carry meaning to his companions. "I would, however, like to speak with the captain." He places emphasis on the last word, hoping that like him, his companions will realize that there is potential dissension between Larest and the captain, and that they may be able to exploit that.

[Mike]

As the platform rises, Syrdan bows his head, and closes his eyes. With his arms folded across his chest, his lips move slightly. To anyone watching, it appears as though he's speaking, but he makes no sound at all.

He stands motionless as Kal speaks to the men on deck. He drops his hands to his sides, flexing his fingers. And he opens his eyes, slowly looking about, assessing everyone on deck, both friend and foe.

[Mike]

Syrdan looks over at the crewman standing closest to him.

"You there," the elf says, "can you tell me the name of this vessel? I'd like to at least know that, for the moment."

[Jeff]

The crewman nearest Syrdan looks surprised to have been asked. He narrows his eyes. But then the next one over says, "This is the Merrow Down."

[Brian]

Condign gives a nod of approval to Syrdan, then adds, "The Merrow Down, is it. And her captain? What would her name be?"

[Ken]

Slowly, Belarin attempts to pull his wits together, although to those around him, it may not sound as though he's been successful. "All right, need to read up on owlbears soon...," he mutters. Still lying on the floor, he looks around, listens, and is able to quickly assess the situation -- including the removal of their magical items -- and to realize what happened to him.

Advancing to a sitting position, he says straightforwardly, "My friend Kalarian speaks wisely." At the compliment, he exchanges a raised eyebrow with Kal. "Yes, I'm shocked as well." Looking at the crewmen, he continues, letting his voice carry as it may, "Good men of the sea, simply know that you are now in league with a scalawag. A peddler of drugs. A blackguard. A common bootlegger in fancy clothes. The Shadow will drag what's left of his soul to Khyber, and I'll laugh at its taking. Pray to the Host that you're not near him when that happens."

Kal, Streko, and Condign are the ones most familiar with Belarin, and they've never heard him speak in this dark, subtly menacing tone before. They know that Belarin is furious beneath the calm exterior.

--------------------------------------------------
Jeff: Any chance that Belarin's concealed elbow blades escaped detection?

[Joe]

The sound of Belrain's voice at first pleases, Streko, but the tone is...off. This is not the Belarin Streko has known for, the months that he's been in company with him. THis is a darker, more malevolant Belarin. The thought makes Streko's stomach quiver slightly.

"I need some water...or wine. Yes, wine will do perfectly. And I need to stand hear the bastard who kidnapped us so I can clean his shoes with my vomit."

"And our stowaway," the unseen captain says, quieter and to someone other than ir'Zathyran, but you can just make it out. "Might as well."

"Olladra forgive me, but please let it not be Varna," he whispers in his native tongue.

[Jeff]

Indeed, Belarin finds that the crewman were quick about taking weapons and equipment. The blades concealed at his elbows remain in place. The crewmen, however, do not react to Belarin's words in any particular way. Almost as if they're used to derogatory terms being slung about. They are sailors.

The platform reaches the upper deck, and you are promptly shuffled off of it onto the deck proper. Kal is left to lift Tangat, who begins to awaken. He licks at Kal's hands and starts to bear his own weight, but seems dimly aware of his surroundings.

________________________________

Big expositional post coming from me in the morning, when I wake form a NyQuil-induced sleep...

[Jeff]

On the top deck now, you can see you're standing aboard a three-masted galleon of considerable size and magnificence. It looks fairly old, extremely weathered, but exceptionally crafted. You don't know ships very well, certainly not galleons, but this one's impressive anyway. The boards of the deck are a patchwork of various woods; it looks like it's been repaired many times.

The sky is the deep blue of twilight. Several half-moons hang in the sky, but offer very little light. Dark cliffs flank both the port and starboard sides of the ship, though the base of the cliffs are probably miles away. You seem to be sailing through a channel. The water itself is the color of midnight.

And you're also surrounded by many people.

You spot Professor Larest ir'Zathyran first, standing only a short distance away, though now he's wearing traveling clothes and a thin cloak; a rapier also now hangs from his belt as well as the jeweled dagger. He wears a guarded expression, but he appears unafraid. The circlet he wears gleams beneath the moon.

Behind the professor, standing furthest from you by the railing, is a willowy human woman in what appear to be deliberately tattered black robes. They wrap her form like a shroud, and she holds a staff in her hands. With her hood down, she is actually vaguely pretty, and she appears to be about the same youthful age as Kal and Belarin, but her eyes are slightly sunken and her expression is naturally withering. Belarin feels a twinge of anxious familiarity: This is without a doubt the necromancer who commanded the skeletons and ghouls against him and his friends in the City of the Dead, whom he first saw in a narrow passage. She even looks like a storybook necromancer. The ghost of a smile reaches her ashen lips when she meets his eyes, then it fades away.

Standing closer to your are three you immediately assume are part of the crew:

The first is a woman in the practical clothing of a well armed sailor, complete with cutlass, but every inch of her is covered in grey cloth, except her face. She looks human, but there could be elven blood in her. From what you can see, she would be prettier if she weren't scowling, even though the harsh winds of a seaman's life have clearly written lines in her face. But for the somber color of her garb, she reminds Syrdan, just a little bit, of the Valenar, the Aereni elves who migrated to Khorvaire and set up their own battle culture in the Blade Desert long ago. In the desert winds, they dress in flowing garments that cover most of the body.

Standing a few paces to her side, at the foot of the fore mast, is a warforged—the only one here other than Adamant. It is slender but still solidly built, equal parts wood, stone, and metal. Its composite plating is minimal, sufficient enough to provide it with protection but not adamantine and not quite of Adamant's caliber. The construct is garbed in clothing similar to the human sailors, but its shirt is sleeveless and it wears no boots. Curiously, it's wearing an eyepatch—a distinctive look for a warforged that makes you think of the archtype of pirates.

On the woman's other side is a human, taller and burlier than the rest. He looks like he's ready to break up any fight—or start his own. His skin is brown and bronzed, he wears a cutlass on his belt and an axe strapped to his back, and gold earrings. And he looks like he could arm wrestle Condign and Adamant at the same time, one with each arm, and stand a chance of beating them both.

Idling on the port side, sitting on a crate with a book in his lap, is a gnome in black and burgendy traveler's clothing and a short grey cloak. He looks older than most of you, but not quite middle-aged for his race. The gnome offers a bow of his head when he looks your way.

But by far the figure that commands your greatest attention stands several paces away from the gnome on the port side, and he also stands eight foot tall, with massive bovine horns crowning his head that dwarf even Conding's. A minotaur! And though some of you have seen minotaurs before, this one stands apart from them all. His dark brown body fur is fletched with the grey and white of age. And though scars can be seen across his face and brow—minotaurs are well known for leading brutish, volent lives—he wears an unusual white garment more akin to a robe than any armor, draping his frame like a tabard. The robe is adorned with complex, mazelike knotwork. The minotaur is facing the water, but he half turns when you and your party appears.

A number of sailors also stand about, weapons in hand. There is tension in the air.

You're still trying to take all of this in, when Professor Larest ir'Zathryan speaks from where he stands behind the warforged, burly sailor, and heavily-garbed woman.

"We're going to Xen'drik, as we agreed," Larest says. "This fine ship will be our home for a time, so we must be respectful of it and its crew."

"I am called Spindrift," the patch-wearing warforged says, raising one arm in greeting. His voice is masculine, though with a tinny quality to it. There is a natural politeness to his manner. "And this is the Merrow Down. Welcome aboard, whatever the circumstances may be. Captain Morsha"—he indicates the head-to-toe-wrapped woman—"is the Merrow's captain. Everyone here obeys her foremost. Please abide by this mandate, and all will be well."

"Listen," Captain Morsha says to your party. "I don't like speeches...or surprises on my ship." She glares at ir'Zathyran, who doesn't look her in the eyes. "But this is how it's going to be:

"We're sailing to Stormreach. That's the only real city on Xen'drik, located near the northern coast. Most commercial ships take a month to get there from Sharn—we'll get there much sooner. I don't know what your arrangement with the professor is or was, and I don't really care. Work it out with him. If you choose not to be a passenger aboard this ship, or if you cannot stick to my rules, that's fine. You can leave any time." She indicates the dark waters that stretch out for miles in all directions.

"The rules are quite simple," she goes on, allowing for no interruption.

"One, stay out my crew's way. We'll get the ship to port safely. That's our job, don't make it harder.

"Two, don't raise a weapon against any of my crew. If you make threats, you'd better see them through, and we will respond in kind. If you look like you're going to respect this rule, your weapons will be returned. Every man deserves the right to defend himself.

"Three, no bloodshed whatsoever. Not between passengers, not between friends, not between enemies. You want to fight, you do it in the Thunder Sea."

"Do you understand this?" Morsha asks.

[Jeff]

Do me a favor: when you next post, please include an updated description of your character. You know, so our new PC can get a good visual on you.

[Darren]

Jan 31, 2011 12:42:37 GMT -4 Jeff said:

You're still trying to take all of this in, when Professor Larest ir'Zathryan speaks from where he stands behind the warforged, burly sailor, and heavily-garbed woman.

"We're going to Xen'drik, as we agreed," Larest says. "This fine ship will be our home for a time, so we must be respectful of it and its crew."

"As some of us agreed," Kal corrects the other man.

"We're sailing to Stormreach. That's the only real city on Xen'drik, located near the northern coast. Most commercial ships take a month to get there from Sharn—we'll get there much sooner. I don't know what your arrangement with the professor is or was, and I don't really care. Work it out with him. If you choose not to be a passenger aboard this ship, or if you cannot stick to my rules, that's fine. You can leave any time." She indicates the dark waters that stretch out for miles in all directions.

"The rules are quite simple," she goes on, allowing for no interruption.

"One, stay out my crew's way. We'll get the ship to port safely. That's our job, don't make it harder.

"Two, don't raise a weapon against any of my crew. If you make threats, you'd better see them through, and we will respond in kind. If you look like you're going to respect this rule, your weapons will be returned. Every man deserves the right to defend himself.

"Three, no bloodshed whatsoever. Not between passengers, not between friends, not between enemies. You want to fight, you do it in the Thunder Sea."

"Do you understand this?" Morsha asks.

Kal's green eyes watch Morsha intently. He smiles, and there is no lack of warmth to it. He likes Morsha. From his time spent on the Talenta Plains amongst soldiers of Deneith, he has learned to appreciate a commander who does her job and leads with a strong hand. He nods. "Yes, of course, Captain. We understand. This ship is under your command and my companions and I will respect your commands." Kal gestures to right and left, looking at his companions, his cheeks brushing the tall collar of his long black coat. "We have no quarrel with you, as I told your men, and for those we do have a quarrel with," Kal's eyes narrow as he looks at Larest, "we will gladly deal with him after we have landed." Kalarian's eyes move slowly back to Morsha and his smile returns. "You have the word of Kalarian d'Deneith on that, Captain." Kal sweeps into a low bow, the leather straps around his right leg creaking as he does so.

[Brian]

Condign gives Larest an flat stare. After Kal has finished, he adds, "This reprieve has only bought you time, Larest, and not much of that, I think. One day, perhaps sooner than you believe, you shall pay for what you have done. You are not the only one capable of surprises."

He turns his attention to the captain. The boat rocks, and his tail helps him keep his balance, though the large horns cresting the top of his head do not help. When a light spray of seawater washes over his red skin, Condign tastes salt. So alien, this place; so different from the dusty wastelands of Fah'lrrg. He wraps his cloak around his muscular frame, then bows to the captain.

"You shall have no trouble from me, " he says, "provided no trouble comes our way. As to this failed professor hiding like a coward back there, I will try to follow your rules, but what he did was heinous. He tried to drug us, and when that did not work, he poisoned us. Oh, did I mention first he tried to kill us? Your crew would do well to watch their backs when he is skulking behind them." A grieved look crosses Condign's face, and he blurts out, "I had a date! It was to have been this evening. Do you know how hard it is to get dates when you have red skin, horns and a tail?"

Condign runs his hand through his blue-black hair. "I apologize. I do not know where that came from. And I have been impolite as well. My name--"

The tiefling abruptly stops. His gaze turns back to Larest, anger smoldering deep his gold eyes. "I am called Condign."

[Ken]

Belarin's stone-cold expression cracks slightly at Condign's surprisng comment. "Come with me to Thelanis one day," he whispers to his friend. "I can set you up."

He takes a step forward, the cloak of his superbly crafted black, grey, and green suit moving slightly in the wind. The breeze seems to have little effect on his already-unkempt black hair. He seems unfazed by the group's current situation, but whether that's due to bravery, lack of concern, idiocy, or a combination of the three is something only his friends know. "Agreed as well, Captain, thank you. My name is Belarin ... charmer, sage, scribe, and slayer of scalawags." A pause as he stares at Larest with his dark green eyes. Then he looks at the necromancer and gives her a jaunty salute. "Hello again," he says. "I respect your talent and your fashion. Very thematic. Though I suspect your choice of employer will be the death of you."

[Dave W.]

Adamant debates for a moment whether to slouch his forged frame down a bit to appear unimportant or to stand to his full height, tall and broad in front of these strangers. I have done no wrong here and the gears are moving; we will be among these people for some time.

Adamant stands tall, his heavy wood and metal body outmatching all but the minotaur in height. Adamantine plates clearly mark him as designed for battle. The crown, hammer, and bellows etched on his chest indicate he at least once belonged to the blasted country of Cyre.

Unexpectedly, there is a mellowness to his deep bass voice, "Captain Morsha, Warforged Spindrift," Adamant touches the other symbol on his chest, an octogram that marks him as an adherent of the Sovereign Host, "I am Adamant by name and inclination. I will not provoke a battle upon your boat, but I feel it necessary to mention that I have promised to protect these, my friends..." there is a slight hesitation, "... as best I am able."

----------------
wow, lots of posting while I wrote this... I haven't read them but will in a minute.

[Joe]

Streko bows to the Captain, his black and white robes billowing in the sea-swept winds.

"My name is Streko D' Jorasco and you have my word as well Captain. No bloodshed. However, I fear I am not one for travelling on ground that isn't solid. I fear I may be sick on occasion. Rest assured, Larest will be the only recipient of any unintended wrath my stomach may wish to impose. Cowardly bastard that he is. Olladra has seemed fit to have some fun with all of us this day, it would appear."

The thick black hair that the Halfling has allowed himself to grow out seems to collect the salt from the misty air washing over the ship.

Streko turns to Belarin and points at the Minotaur, whispering as quietly as possible. "Is that what I think it is? Gods above and below, I think it smells worse than the Otyugh, although it's probably the stench of betrayal and deceit that's throwing me off a bit."

"Oh, and Captain, this man who hired you was to provide us food and wine. It was not supposed to be poisoned, nor be accompanied by the stench of a sleeping gas. As my friends have stated, you had best watch your back. Money may purchase a wonderous ship, but are your lives worth the funds?"
____________________________________________________

Jeff, does Streko still have his holy symbol? Just curious...as you said no bloodshed...

[Jeff]

"We have no quarrel with you, as I told your men, and for those we do have a quarrel with...we will gladly deal with him after we have landed...You have the word of Kalarian d'Deneith on that, Captain."

Spindrift says each name as he hears them, as if committing them memory. "Kalarian." He nods.

Morsha nods at Kal. "Good. But one fair warning: Your dragonmark will get you no favor on this ship. Only your actions, your behavior, can do that. And yes, if you wish to blast ir'Zathyran into Khyber itself, you will wait until you set foot on the docks of Stormreach. "

As Condign lists off ir'Zathyran's crimes, the captain rolls her eyes and waits through it. You have the feeling she'd been told to expect this.

"I am called Condign."

Spindrift hesitates, then nods. "Condign."

My name is Belarin ... charmer, sage, scribe, and slayer of scalawags."

"Belarin."

"I am Adamant by name and inclination. I will not provoke a battle upon your boat, but I feel it necessary to mention that I have promised to protect these, my friends..."

"Adamant," Spindrift says. "It is good—"

"Protect," the captain interrupts. "Fine. Defend. But do not stretch that definition. Do not test me."

Streko:

"You have my word as well Captain. No bloodshed. However, I fear I am not one for travelling on ground that isn't solid. I fear I may be sick on occasion. Rest assured, Larest will be the only recipient of any unintended wrath my stomach may wish to impose. ...Oh, and Captain, this man who hired you was to provide us food and wine. It was not supposed to be poisoned, nor be accompanied by the stench of a sleeping gas. As my friends have stated, you had best watch your back. Money may purchase a wonderous ship, but are your lives worth the funds?"

Ir'Zathyran says, "I would hardly have purchased passage for these fine people if I intended to do them harm, either on this ship or at our destination. This, Captain, is Lord Streko d'Jorasco, a noble cleric of Olladra. He will, no doubt, bring good fortune to this voyage."

"Lord Streko," Spindrift repeats, nodding at the halfling.

Morsha shrugs. "I make my own luck, but you're welcome here regardless, d'Jorasco. As for food...we will provide the food and drink. Passengers will steer clear of the kitchen." She then turns and indicates the warforged. "Spindrift here is my first mate. When I'm not around, the deck is his." She turns and indicates the dark-skinned human. "And this is Anng, chief helmsman. I won't bother introducing you to the rest of this sorry lot"—there is a chuckle among the sailors—"since you'll get sick of them soon enough."

Spindrift steps closer to Syrdan. "And what is your name, master elf?"

[Darren]

"Captain," Kal says with his characteristic grin, "my personality is all I need to win me favor." He winks at her, but then his face grows serious. "Honestly, Captain, I can see you are worthy of your position and we wish only to cooperate with you."

Kal's shoulders slump in exhaustion. "If you please, Captain, my friends and I are still quite weary after being poisoned and abducted by that idiot who we're going to kill when we get off your ship. Is there somewhere we could rest?"

[Mike]

Jan 31, 2011 22:22:51 GMT -4 Jeff said:

Spindrift steps closer to Syrdan. "And what is your name, master elf?"

"I'm called Syrdan Sar Dathiel," the elf says calmly. "Like Adamant, I'm pledged to protect and defend my friends. I vow that while on your vessel, I will not instigate any harm against anyone. But should someone threaten or harm anyone I watch over, know that I cannot stand idly by and watch that happen."

The elf wears no armor, only a simple white cloak and white linen garb beneath it. Black gloves and boots stand in stark contrast to the rest of his bright clothing. He has violet, almond-shaped eyes, and a pale-skinned face framed by even paler long hair. A lacquered wooden mask hangs from his belt - the mask depicts the carved visage of a grinning skull.

[Jeff]

Syrdan:

But should someone threaten or harm anyone I watch over, know that I cannot stand idly by and watch that happen."

"Good enough," Captain Morsha. "As for what you intend to do to ir'Zathryan, save it. I grow tired of threats."

"Syrdan," Spindrift repeats. "Thank you."

Kal:

"Is there somewhere we could rest?"

Morsha nods. "Aye, soon. But first, follow me."

Various crewmen flank you as you're led across the deck toward the aft (back) of the ship. Stairs leads up onto the forecastle, the raised portion of the deck. At evenly spaced intervals, everbright lanterns hang and sway in the breeze, providing the light. The sails overhead are mostly taut, owing to the power of the vessel—wind.

Refresh the page!

Anng takes the helm of the ship—a massive wheel that would take two men to work properly, or one big man like him—from another sailor. He says nothing as he watches everyone gathering near the aft. Ir'Zathryan, the black-robed woman, the minotaur, and gnome follow but keep some distance.

"I want you to see where you are," Morsha says when you look out into the sea behind the ship, which only grows darker as the night advances. She points, but hardly needs to. "There is Sharn."

And you can see it, glowing with soft yellow lights light a mountain fortress of giant proportions, rising up on the cliffs of the Dagger River. It's miles away now—so close, yet impossibly far by the power of any swimmer. The waters are dark, and probably quite cold. The salty air is strong.

Though the City of Towers is the largest city in the world, now it appears small. The Merrow must have been sailing since this morning.

"If you have unfinished business there—as I am guessing you do—you'll have to tend to it later. Stormreach has enclaves; you can always send messages through House Sivis." She shrugs, not seeming to care much about it but saying it like some obligatory attempt to console you. "By morning, if the wind holds up, we may reach the open sea."

She points to the cliffs both east and west of the ship. "This is the last of Khorvaire you'll see for a while. It may take some of you a while to get your sea legs. My advice: the sooner the better. Adapt." She looks to Streko sternly. "Carry a bucket. My deck sees enough abuse; be sick in the sea, not my ship."

Before you can say anything, an approaching sailor calls out. "Captain? The stowaway."

"Aye, bring him here."

A new figure approaches, escorted by two armed crewmen with cutlasses held out as if he was a dangerous criminal. He is of human height, walks lightly with an easy grace. His lean body is clad in a very unusual variety of leather armor, tight-fitting, supple, brown and black at the same time. He, like you, is weaponless.

But what strikes you the most is his skin. It's dark gray, almost ash-like in hue, with white-inked tattoos arrayed around his face and neck in a pattern that suggests war paint. His long hair is pure white, a stark contrast against his skin. With pointed, elven ears, a word floats to the top of your head: drow. Though most dark elves are said to have ebon-black skin. This one looks halfway there.

All of you have heard of the drow. They are said to be, like elves, descendants of the slaves of giants, thousands of years ago during the Age of Giants, when giant-kind dominated Eberron from the continent of Xen'drik. But where the elves left the ruins of their masters long ago and settled on the continent of Aerenal, the drow remained, and now are spread across the jungles of Xen'drik in tribal bands.

Condign and Kal have also heard that there are, in fact, several societies of drow into which the tribes fall. Some are said to live underground, but most lead a nomadic lifestyles throughout the various landscapes of Xen'drik.

Captain Morsha looks hard at the exotic newcomer. All eyes fall on him, and he in turn seems to appraise the many people around him with watchful, red-violet eyes. "Shorak, right?" The captain nods, remembering. "You can walk freely about the ship now, but that doesn't make you free. Consider this a probation. I haven't decided what to do with you yet. But until I decide, I won't have you locked up like a dog. You've heard my rules, aye?"

___________________________

Adamant's History check (1d20+2=4)
Belarin's History check (1d20+5=19)
Condign's History check (1d20+11=24)
Kal's History check (1d20+8=27)
Streko's History check (1d20+6=20)
Syrdan's History check (1d20+3=7) +5 circumstance = 12

Joe, to answer your question: yes, they did not take Streko's holy symbol.

[Mike]

Feb 1, 2011 11:08:09 GMT -4 Jeff said:

"If you have unfinished business there—as I am guessing you do—you'll have to tend to it later. Stormreach has enclaves; you can always send messages through House Sivis." She shrugs, not seeming to care much about it but saying it like some obligatory attempt to console you. "By morning, if the wind holds up, we may reach the open sea."

"My 'unfinished business', as you call it, may mean someone dies because of this abduction," Syrdan says flatly. "Or worse. And that means their blood is on your hands."

"As for your apologies, save them. I grow tired of meaningless words."

Syrdan gazes curiously at the drow newcomer. He's heard of them, and their reputation, but never actually seen one before.

I'll let him cast the first stone, the elf thinks, if there's one to be cast.

"Shorak, is it?" the elf says calmly to the drow. "I'm called Syrdan. What brings you to this lovely ship? The worm called ir'Zathyran, or something else."

He extends a gloved hand to the drow.