You come awake in the dark. Thin shafts of light spear down from cracks in the ceiling, illuminating small circles nearby. The familiar ebb and flow of a wooden floor beneath you and a rhythmic creaking in time tells you that you are at sea. Odd, you don't remember boarding a ship. You push past the pounding headache and sickly taste of cheap wine in your mouth to cast into your memories, trying to dredge up something of last night.
Ringing laughter of a warmly lit tavern room. The heady joy of excess, the scents of rich stewed meat and perfumes of lovely man- and woman-servants swirling about bringing decadence to your table. Then a fading into darkness. A faint oily taste of nutmeg on your tongue implies the use of a drug or poison to put you in a state to be taken advantage of.
Before you can do much more that sit up, several pairs of heavy footsteps enter the darkroom from a staircase. A harsh lantern light stabs painfully through the darkness. At the head of a group of seven, a human man with ink black hair and a wicked yellow expression that might be mistaken for pain but is clearly an attempt at a smile bruising his face. He cracks the whip in his hand above your head,
"Still abed with the sun over the yardarm? On your feet, ye filthy swabs! Get up on deck and report for duty before Cap'n Harrigan flays your flesh into sausage skins and has Fishguts fry ye up for breakfast!"
As you take stock of the situation around you, you find that you are in the hold of a sailing ship. Judging from the size of this area it must be a fairly decent size, probably fully-rigged (three masts for those not up on sailing parlance). Five others are near you, appearing to be in a similar state of bleary confusion about their circumstances. As you become more aware you realize that you have been freed of most of your personal possessions. You take a quick inventory as you rise to your feet.
Grath: The money pouch that you had tucked inside your waistband escaped notice, as did the small knife that you use for sharpening the nib of your writing quill. Everything else is missing though, including most alarmingly your spell book. For the time being you only have access to your cantrips. Ringer: It comes as no surprise that they took your rapier, but they apparently did not find your dagger that you received as a gift from a crewmate on a previous sailing ship. Everything else is gone, including your money pouch and your drums...which is frustrating. Why would someone take your drums? Those are yours. Sasha: Someone searched you thoroughly, too thoroughly to have been entirely polite about it. They found all 4 of the daggers that you had secreted on your body before going out to a rough part of town last night. Fortunately you brush your clothes down as you stand in a natural way and can feel the charm of Besmara in the hidden innerpocket of your blouse. So they didn't find everything. Surprisingly they also left your tinderbox in one of your other pockets. It probably would have been better if they had left your money pouch and kept the tinderbox for themselves...but I guess beggar's can't be choosers, and without a moneypouch you are now much closer to the beggar category. Viriel: Whoever searched you doesn't seem to have spent too much time on it. They of course took the dagger that was on your waist, but they did not find the second one you leave just sticking out from the inside of your left boot, which is one of the first places you would have checked. In addition, your money pouch is in plain view on your belt at the other side and the money inside has been left entirely unmolested by the feel of its weight. Someone was either in a hurry, or they did not understand the assignment. Arlock: The first thing you notice is that your holy symbol is missing. It doesn't hold much monetary value, so it is frustrating that someone would steal it. As you take inventory though you find that it wasn't stolen, someone just took it from around your neck and put it away in a pocket to keep it safe. Perhaps there is a friend of Besmara somewhere on the crew. But if there is, they weren't able to do much else for you. Everything else but the clothes on your back is gone. Deket: Having been on both sides of a body search before, you know how to put your kit together when going out for what might be a rough night on the town. As such, you seem to have faired better than what might have been expected. Both of your daggers are where you had left them last, as are your thieves' tools and tinderbox. Thank goodness for a vest with a lot of pockets. You even manage to find half of the money that you had hidden on your person, since you know well enough to split your gold to smaller stashes across the body.
"Well come on you lazy bloatfish. I don't have all day. Get up on deck for muster. NOW!" The unidentified man brandishes his whip threateningly. You gather if he snaps it again it will not be harmlessly in the air.
Ringer hops to his feet, fluffing out his feathers and patting them smooth after the rumpling they took in getting captured.
"I'm coming, I'm coming.", the kenku says in the voice of a surly teen. "This bed is so warm and comfy though...", his voice shifts to the sultry purr of a female courtesan.
He hops to the staircase and makes his way up, keeping a wary eye on the whip and the hand wielding it as he steps out onto the deck, blinking and shielding his eyes from the sun that makes the remnants of his headache throb.
It takes Vireil a few moments to stand up, still somewhat dazed by whatever it is was in her food, drink, or... who knows. The Half-Elf feels for her dagger. Not reaching down to grab it, but moving her leg inside her boot is enough to feel the small metallic object there. She could, in theory, grab it and throw it on the man above. If she strikes well... he might die before he even realises it. However, she wasn't that confident in her knife-throwing skills to risk everything on one dagger. Besides, what then? There are at least six more people with him, and, even if she miraculously kills everyone, she has no idea how to manage a boat. She should hold her cards, for now.
She stands up. This Half-Elf woman, in her mid-twenties, quickly ties her wavy, mid-length ivory-blonde hair into a makeshift downwards ponytail, using her own hairs in the absence of a string. In case things get messy, she doesn't want it to interrupt her sight. She's a little short (163 cm/5'3"), and rather thin, though not as thin as to be called scrawny. She wears a dark sleeveless shirt and dark short pants, as well as the aforementioned dark boots and belt with a pouch. She had a dark hood, but it was left in her backpack... which, unfortunately, was taken away. Her skin, as opposed to her clothes, is pale. Vireil's Elvish features barely show, other than slightly pointed ears and pale, peach-orange eyes, which study everyone around for one moment before following the Kenku. Vireil has questions, but the whip convinces her to wait and ask them later.
Sasha stands up slowly, looking around her, quickly realizing what had happened. She heard of ships recruiting new crew members like this but she never thought it would happen to her, the humiliation, she had a long long way to captaining her own ship, that was for sure, but she had to start somewhere and at least she was at sea again, how hard could it be to start a mutiny she thought as she starts to walk up to the main deck. Those around her notice a young beautiful but fierce-looking woman with long curly dark hair and a red bandana, wearing a blood red coat over a white blouse, black leather pants and black high soft leather boots. In the stairs she realized she had a tinderbox in the pocket of her coat, strange, but more importantly, her jolly roger besmaran talisman was still in the innerpocket of her blouse. Perhaps the Black Lady was still watching over her. Time would tell.
Arloch breathes a sigh of relief as he feels his holy symbol at his side. These scoundrels would certainly pay for kidnapping him, a simple cook and clergyman. He chuckles internally, they could have just asked. However trying to lash out right now would not be helpful in his escape, as much as he would wish to unleash holy fire on these transgressors. Laying low and trying to find the person who frisked him would be vital though. The others around him seem to just as confused as he to what happened, perhaps some quick allies.
Arloch quickly gets out of bed and falls in line. "I am up. I am up," he says in an almost watery common tongue. His blue skin, yellow eyes, and eerie floating, kelp colored hair clearly reveal his oceanic upbringing, accompanied by the deep blues and greens of his clerical vestments. He doesn't look overly strong at all but his aquatic body looks quite agile enough to handle himself aboard a ship.
Grath is not the one who tolerates attempts to intimidate him, but he is not the kind of person, who loses his head without being aware of the situation either. He, however, likes to push people's buttons to see how much he can get away with. There stands a guy with a whip...a puny human at that. "OK, so using my weight alone I could "pacify" him. I mean I'm 7'4", 300lb giant for heaven's sake " thought Grath to himself. "Still, not enough details. There might be others with whips on the deck. Giving them attitude at this point in time might be counter productive." He stands up without saying anything, looks around and sees a few other people getting shouted at. "They seem fairly new to this place too. Well, at least I'm not the only one that has no idea what's going on. Maybe the ranger knows." He cannot be certain, but he assumes that the Half-elf is a ranger. She must be. The attire suggests it. "Did she just size up the guard?"
Grath stands there for a moment, stretches his arms and muscles all over his body. He takes off his white shirt- it's a nice shirt, wouldn't want to rip it apart while doing morning stretches. He is well-built, 300lb muscle on a 7'4" tall body. Sometimes people wonder why he chose to be a wizard rather than a warrior of sorts. His skin is a combination of cobalt blue and white. Not in a meshed together way. Both at the same time. For whatever reason, the untrained eye cannot perceive the true color. [Truth be told, his skin tone is white. He "earned" the cobalt blue tone- and his mock name- by being exposed to freezing weather during one of his pilgrimage for two days with very limited shelter. ] His iris are the black, but because of his dark skin tone they seem disappear and the white of his eyes become dominant. On top of his bald head (from his forehead to the back of his head) is a white tattoo with the symbol of his tribe.
Puts the shirt back on, eyed the whipman and started moving towards door
Jonah: It seems the denizens of this ship are not very familiar with the kind of gear-work technology that you used to fashion prosthetic for your missing arm and leg. They left the items you had hidden in the compartments unmolested. As such you have been left with the dagger that runs down the back of your prosthetic calf, the crowbar that is attached to the front of the shin, and the lock pick set that is folded into the palm of your hand. Sometimes having built your own arm and leg comes with small unexpected perks.
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Founding Member of the High Roller Society.(Currently trying to roll max on 4d6)
Jonah opens his eyes. He feels the rocking of the ship beneath him, hears the lapping of the waves up against the hull, and his face grows pale, a brief expression of terror flashing across it. His eyes, previously groggily cracked open, fly open, his eyes bulging, his breath quickening. Then, after a few moments, he settles, his countenance returning to the stolidity that the rest of the crew will soon come to recognize as his default expression. He sits up, pressing his large body off of the ground with his one good arm, his right remaining still at his side. It, and his left leg, seem to both be completely artificial. The arm starts at the shoulder, and the leg just above the knee, and both prosthetics seem to be made of a mix of somewhat rotted wood, dented brass, and meticulously polished ivory. Jonah's leg creaks dangerously as it supports the man's bulk, but holds.
Jonah looks about, and the rest of the crew gets a good look at him. He wears a threadbare pea coat, and equally shoddy trousers. His beard is unshorn, and streaked with premature gray. Indeed, everything about this fellow resembles a man who has aged far beyond his true years. Most notable out of everything, however, are his eyes. His eyelids seem to be stuck open, and he regards everything about him with a look so intense and furious even the boards of the hull seem to cringe beneath it. He clenches his artificial hand, the meticulously crafted tendons of thin rope creaking as they stretch. A rictus grin cracks across his aged face as he stares around at seemingly nothing at all, though the way he stares makes one believe that he is addressing something as he speaks. His voice is scratchy, evidently worn down from frequent yelling.
"So, I find myself back in your clutches, eh? You just couldn't keep me away? Heh. It was inevitable, after all." Jonah turns back to the whip-wielding man, fixing his lidless gaze on him. "Where's my harpoon? I need my harpoon, damn it!"
The dark-eyed man with the whip sneers a smile. "Now see here ye scabrous sea urchin! You have no harpoon. You own no harpoon. Everything that wassen yours now belongs to the Capt'n and the Ship. Tis in the care of our quartermaster until someone that can rightly be trusted with a weapon has need of it.
Now, are you going to follow my orders and get up on deck for the muster call, or shall I give you a few licks of the leather first, yer Highness?"
The 6 brutes around him standing in the shadows chortle slightly at the new nick-name that Jonah seem to have earned as he snaps the whip again, this time just inches in front of Jonah's face. If he had been slightly off on that aim he could have taken an eye easily. It would seem that violence will be the result of brooking any further delay.
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Founding Member of the High Roller Society.(Currently trying to roll max on 4d6)
Jonah does not respond to the whipman's swaggering, just wordlessly limps his way abovedecks, never breaking his gaze with the man until he reaches the salty air. He makes a face when he takes his first breath, the salt burning his lungs, and he spits onto the deck.
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"Ignorance is bliss, and you look absolutely miserable."
As the six newly pressed members of the crew climb through the lower holds and reach the main deck, it is quickly apparent that you are on a sizable ship in the middle of the ocean, far from any land. Port Peril and the mainland of the Shackles are just an ochre haze many miles astern.
Crew members cluster around the ship's mainmast, lucking up at the higher deck on the stern where two figures stand. One of them is a broad shouldered, muscular man with a shaven head, a long bear bound with gold rings, and an eye patch -- clearly the captain. The other is a younger, balding man with a long black ponytail, wearing a long coat and carrying a well-used cat-o'-nine-tails.
As you join the rest of the crew at the mainmast, it is apparent that not everyone is comfortable on board. four others are standing apart from the rest of the crew, apparently uneasy with the situation they find themselves in and visibly different from the rest given the relative cleanliness of their attire. The rest of the crew stand about on deck or hang in the ship's rigging, clearly comfortable and existent members of the crew prior to its most recent port of call. You see the man with the whip and his cronies disperse amongst this crowd, bringing the total of crew prior to the press-gangings around a dozen.
As you gather your bearings the captain addresses the crew:
"Glad you could join us at last! Welcome to the Wormwood! My thanks for 'volunteering' to join my crew. I'm Barnabas Harrigan. That's Captain Barnabas Harrigan to you lot, not that you'll ever need to address me. I have only one rule -- don't speak to me. I like talk, but I don't like your talk. Follow that rule and we'll get along fine.
Oh, and one more thing. Even with you new recruits, we're still short-handed, and I aim to keep what crew I have. There'll be keelhaulin' for anyone caught killin' anyone. Mr. Plugg! If you'd be so kind as to make pirates out of these landlubbers, it'll save me having to put them in the sweatbox for a year and a day before I make pies out of'em."
At the end of the perfunctory speech the captain walks away without a glance or waiting for any comments, leaving behind the man with the cat-o'-nine-tails who smiles down unpleasantly at the newest recruits. He swings over the railing of the deck and lands lithely on his feet infront of the gathered 10 new recruits
"Alright then, daylight's wastin' so we best get youse lot your jobs quick. First things first, that rum soaked squid Ambrose apparently needs an assistant in the mess to help make his swill palatable. Any of you lot able to make weaviled hardtack taste like it isn't a year old?"
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Founding Member of the High Roller Society.(Currently trying to roll max on 4d6)
Arloch shivers when the man lands in front of them all. He most certainly would not be saying a word to this pirate captain. There had to be a way out of this. Hadn't he learned something like this in the military academy? They taught us something about if we got captured for sure. But nobody ever really cared to capture a chef... His brain rattles trying to remember childhood teachings, clinging to good memories for hope in seeing a better day. Because the next one will not be great. Besmara bless us...
Arloch almost misses the question but finally chimes in raising his hand, "Y-yes. I'm a cook. I....Can certainly try. Depends what all you have in stock. Where's this, Ambrose?"
Mr. Plugg looks Arloch up and down with eyes that seem to be reading the Genasi's very muscle mass. "Fine, a lily-liver like you probably wasn't going to be any help hauling rope anyway. After we dismiss for the day's duties report to the galley at the aft of the mid-hold. You'll see a slovenly pile of fish blood and sea water there that thinks its human, probably in a drunken stupor. Waken him for yer orders."
Plugg turns to the rest of the assembled newcomers. "As for the rest of you, we need riggers and swabs. Riggers have an easier time, but I would rather not have to sail in circles to pick up you sorry excuses when you fall overboard from the mast in a high wind. As such, we'll put on a little show for our crew here and see who is best able to be up in the heights. From you five that are left first three to reach the crow will join tha riggers and report to me. Tha others will have to stay down here on tha deck and report to Master Scourge as swabs."
He indicates the man with the whip you had the displeasure of meeting this morning.
"Savvy?, don't be waitin' for a Governor's invitation to the ball. Get up there ye clip-winged albatrosses!"
OOC instructions:
(Welcome to the first rolls of the game, if you are wanting to make any adjustments to your character based on what you saw in the Player's Campaign guide do so before you post your response. Everyone except Arloch must climb the rigging up to the crow's nest, 60 feet above the deck. You have the mast itself as well as plenty of ropes and rope netting to work with, so you can climb using either Athletics or Acrobatics, but with the wind and waves it will require a DC 10 climb check for you to make progress equal to 1/2 your movement speed each round. And if you fail by more than 5 you will fall back to the deck, taking the appropriate amount of fall damage. If you fail by less than 5 you don't fall, you just don't make any progress that round. Please make rolls until you:
1) Reach the Crow's nest,
2) Fall enough times that you are knocked unconscious due to falling damage,
3) Decide to give up and accept the consequences of not climbing)
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Founding Member of the High Roller Society.(Currently trying to roll max on 4d6)
Well, Vireil isn't waiting on anyone. Easier work sounds better, even if it's with that man. Besides, up on the ropes means away from reach of those whips.
Within moments, Vireil dashes to the ropes and starts to climb. An expert of balance and movement over rooftops, laundry wires and anything traversablr other than the ground, she should have no problem climbing up.
(I'll just roll ahead 5 checks, assuming she'll reach the top by then (4 successes needed if I understand correctly). If something is supposed to happen during that time that will affect her, only consider the first.)
After the Captain's "inspiring" speech Grath took a look around. "Only one rule, huh? That's not going to go down well. That is, figuratively speaking." He enjoyed having internal discussion in his head with himself. To get away from the chaos of society.
"Kitchen? Cooking is a noble profession for sure, but preparing dinner for this scurvy stricken bunch is an insult to food, let alone the chef" said to himself. "So what's the second option: a climb to the crow. That's more like it." He was really giddy about it too.
"Alright here we go. Haven't done exercise in a while, this should be fun. So, grab ropes with confidence, swing legs back and forth so they don't get tangled in the webbing. So far so good."
Acrobatics: 13
Acrobatics: 22
Acrobatics: 3- tangled in the web, hit his against the mast and blacked out...
Jonah watches the others clambering up the ropes as they sway in the wind, waiting a moment before approaching himself. He lifts his artificial hand up to the ropes, ivory fingers clicking... and hesitates. He lingers there a moment, then his fingers close... on thin air. His balled fist falls to his side, and he walks back over to the others, looking Plugg dead in the eyes.
"Bringing me back out here was humiliation enough; I won't be playing your games. Now give me a mop."
Sasha listened well to Captain Harrigan and Mr. Plugg, knowing better than to talk back if she were to survive this. And she wouldn't survive on her own, she would need allies, especially to set in motion a mutiny. She looked over the others press-ganged into service at the Wormwood. The Genasi took the cushy job as assistant to the ship's cook and disappeared down to the galley, good for him. She saw the lithe half-elf quickly scurry up the mast to the crow's nest, impressive. The goliath seemed to be mostly wind though and quickly found himself hanging upside down by the mast, he would talk himself into a keel-hauling if he kept talking like that. The pegleg seemed aware of his shortcomings and went for the mop, smart one that. The kenku seemed as a good choice for the riggings but that would still leave a spot open for her, if she would go for it. Being a rigger seemed a bit less of a demeaning task she finally decided and started climbing.
You come awake in the dark. Thin shafts of light spear down from cracks in the ceiling, illuminating small circles nearby. The familiar ebb and flow of a wooden floor beneath you and a rhythmic creaking in time tells you that you are at sea. Odd, you don't remember boarding a ship. You push past the pounding headache and sickly taste of cheap wine in your mouth to cast into your memories, trying to dredge up something of last night.
Ringing laughter of a warmly lit tavern room. The heady joy of excess, the scents of rich stewed meat and perfumes of lovely man- and woman-servants swirling about bringing decadence to your table. Then a fading into darkness. A faint oily taste of nutmeg on your tongue implies the use of a drug or poison to put you in a state to be taken advantage of.
Before you can do much more that sit up, several pairs of heavy footsteps enter the darkroom from a staircase. A harsh lantern light stabs painfully through the darkness. At the head of a group of seven, a human man with ink black hair and a wicked yellow expression that might be mistaken for pain but is clearly an attempt at a smile bruising his face. He cracks the whip in his hand above your head,
"Still abed with the sun over the yardarm? On your feet, ye filthy swabs! Get up on deck and report for duty before Cap'n Harrigan flays your flesh into sausage skins and has Fishguts fry ye up for breakfast!"
As you take stock of the situation around you, you find that you are in the hold of a sailing ship. Judging from the size of this area it must be a fairly decent size, probably fully-rigged (three masts for those not up on sailing parlance). Five others are near you, appearing to be in a similar state of bleary confusion about their circumstances. As you become more aware you realize that you have been freed of most of your personal possessions. You take a quick inventory as you rise to your feet.
Grath: The money pouch that you had tucked inside your waistband escaped notice, as did the small knife that you use for sharpening the nib of your writing quill. Everything else is missing though, including most alarmingly your spell book. For the time being you only have access to your cantrips.
Ringer: It comes as no surprise that they took your rapier, but they apparently did not find your dagger that you received as a gift from a crewmate on a previous sailing ship. Everything else is gone, including your money pouch and your drums...which is frustrating. Why would someone take your drums? Those are yours.
Sasha: Someone searched you thoroughly, too thoroughly to have been entirely polite about it. They found all 4 of the daggers that you had secreted on your body before going out to a rough part of town last night. Fortunately you brush your clothes down as you stand in a natural way and can feel the charm of Besmara in the hidden innerpocket of your blouse. So they didn't find everything. Surprisingly they also left your tinderbox in one of your other pockets. It probably would have been better if they had left your money pouch and kept the tinderbox for themselves...but I guess beggar's can't be choosers, and without a moneypouch you are now much closer to the beggar category.
Viriel: Whoever searched you doesn't seem to have spent too much time on it. They of course took the dagger that was on your waist, but they did not find the second one you leave just sticking out from the inside of your left boot, which is one of the first places you would have checked. In addition, your money pouch is in plain view on your belt at the other side and the money inside has been left entirely unmolested by the feel of its weight. Someone was either in a hurry, or they did not understand the assignment.
Arlock: The first thing you notice is that your holy symbol is missing. It doesn't hold much monetary value, so it is frustrating that someone would steal it. As you take inventory though you find that it wasn't stolen, someone just took it from around your neck and put it away in a pocket to keep it safe. Perhaps there is a friend of Besmara somewhere on the crew. But if there is, they weren't able to do much else for you. Everything else but the clothes on your back is gone.
Deket: Having been on both sides of a body search before, you know how to put your kit together when going out for what might be a rough night on the town. As such, you seem to have faired better than what might have been expected. Both of your daggers are where you had left them last, as are your thieves' tools and tinderbox. Thank goodness for a vest with a lot of pockets. You even manage to find half of the money that you had hidden on your person, since you know well enough to split your gold to smaller stashes across the body.
"Well come on you lazy bloatfish. I don't have all day. Get up on deck for muster. NOW!" The unidentified man brandishes his whip threateningly. You gather if he snaps it again it will not be harmlessly in the air.
Founding Member of the High Roller Society. (Currently trying to roll max on 4d6)
Ringer hops to his feet, fluffing out his feathers and patting them smooth after the rumpling they took in getting captured.
"I'm coming, I'm coming.", the kenku says in the voice of a surly teen. "This bed is so warm and comfy though...", his voice shifts to the sultry purr of a female courtesan.
He hops to the staircase and makes his way up, keeping a wary eye on the whip and the hand wielding it as he steps out onto the deck, blinking and shielding his eyes from the sun that makes the remnants of his headache throb.
DM: Forged in Chaos, Spiders of the Abyss, The Sundered Way, Champions of the Citadel
Active Characters:
Breldo, Halfling Ranger | Kathryn, Wood Elf Rogue/Ranger | Kroshav, Dragonborn Paladin | T'laren Farsiel, Wood Elf Fighter | Trill, Kenku Bard | Val "Janellae", Mark of Shadow Elf Warlock
It takes Vireil a few moments to stand up, still somewhat dazed by whatever it is was in her food, drink, or... who knows. The Half-Elf feels for her dagger. Not reaching down to grab it, but moving her leg inside her boot is enough to feel the small metallic object there. She could, in theory, grab it and throw it on the man above. If she strikes well... he might die before he even realises it. However, she wasn't that confident in her knife-throwing skills to risk everything on one dagger. Besides, what then? There are at least six more people with him, and, even if she miraculously kills everyone, she has no idea how to manage a boat. She should hold her cards, for now.
She stands up. This Half-Elf woman, in her mid-twenties, quickly ties her wavy, mid-length ivory-blonde hair into a makeshift downwards ponytail, using her own hairs in the absence of a string. In case things get messy, she doesn't want it to interrupt her sight. She's a little short (163 cm/5'3"), and rather thin, though not as thin as to be called scrawny. She wears a dark sleeveless shirt and dark short pants, as well as the aforementioned dark boots and belt with a pouch. She had a dark hood, but it was left in her backpack... which, unfortunately, was taken away. Her skin, as opposed to her clothes, is pale. Vireil's Elvish features barely show, other than slightly pointed ears and pale, peach-orange eyes, which study everyone around for one moment before following the Kenku. Vireil has questions, but the whip convinces her to wait and ask them later.
Varielky | Emma
Sasha stands up slowly, looking around her, quickly realizing what had happened. She heard of ships recruiting new crew members like this but she never thought it would happen to her, the humiliation, she had a long long way to captaining her own ship, that was for sure, but she had to start somewhere and at least she was at sea again, how hard could it be to start a mutiny she thought as she starts to walk up to the main deck. Those around her notice a young beautiful but fierce-looking woman with long curly dark hair and a red bandana, wearing a blood red coat over a white blouse, black leather pants and black high soft leather boots. In the stairs she realized she had a tinderbox in the pocket of her coat, strange, but more importantly, her jolly roger besmaran talisman was still in the innerpocket of her blouse. Perhaps the Black Lady was still watching over her. Time would tell.
Arloch breathes a sigh of relief as he feels his holy symbol at his side. These scoundrels would certainly pay for kidnapping him, a simple cook and clergyman. He chuckles internally, they could have just asked. However trying to lash out right now would not be helpful in his escape, as much as he would wish to unleash holy fire on these transgressors. Laying low and trying to find the person who frisked him would be vital though. The others around him seem to just as confused as he to what happened, perhaps some quick allies.
Arloch quickly gets out of bed and falls in line. "I am up. I am up," he says in an almost watery common tongue. His blue skin, yellow eyes, and eerie floating, kelp colored hair clearly reveal his oceanic upbringing, accompanied by the deep blues and greens of his clerical vestments. He doesn't look overly strong at all but his aquatic body looks quite agile enough to handle himself aboard a ship.
Grath is not the one who tolerates attempts to intimidate him, but he is not the kind of person, who loses his head without being aware of the situation either. He, however, likes to push people's buttons to see how much he can get away with. There stands a guy with a whip...a puny human at that. "OK, so using my weight alone I could "pacify" him. I mean I'm 7'4", 300lb giant for heaven's sake " thought Grath to himself. "Still, not enough details. There might be others with whips on the deck. Giving them attitude at this point in time might be counter productive." He stands up without saying anything, looks around and sees a few other people getting shouted at. "They seem fairly new to this place too. Well, at least I'm not the only one that has no idea what's going on. Maybe the ranger knows." He cannot be certain, but he assumes that the Half-elf is a ranger. She must be. The attire suggests it. "Did she just size up the guard?"
Grath stands there for a moment, stretches his arms and muscles all over his body. He takes off his white shirt- it's a nice shirt, wouldn't want to rip it apart while doing morning stretches. He is well-built, 300lb muscle on a 7'4" tall body. Sometimes people wonder why he chose to be a wizard rather than a warrior of sorts.
His skin is a combination of cobalt blue and white. Not in a meshed together way. Both at the same time. For whatever reason, the untrained eye cannot perceive the true color. [Truth be told, his skin tone is white. He "earned" the cobalt blue tone- and his mock name- by being exposed to freezing weather during one of his pilgrimage for two days with very limited shelter. ] His iris are the black, but because of his dark skin tone they seem disappear and the white of his eyes become dominant.
On top of his bald head (from his forehead to the back of his head) is a white tattoo with the symbol of his tribe.
Puts the shirt back on, eyed the whipman and started moving towards door
Jonah: It seems the denizens of this ship are not very familiar with the kind of gear-work technology that you used to fashion prosthetic for your missing arm and leg. They left the items you had hidden in the compartments unmolested. As such you have been left with the dagger that runs down the back of your prosthetic calf, the crowbar that is attached to the front of the shin, and the lock pick set that is folded into the palm of your hand. Sometimes having built your own arm and leg comes with small unexpected perks.
Founding Member of the High Roller Society. (Currently trying to roll max on 4d6)
Jonah opens his eyes. He feels the rocking of the ship beneath him, hears the lapping of the waves up against the hull, and his face grows pale, a brief expression of terror flashing across it. His eyes, previously groggily cracked open, fly open, his eyes bulging, his breath quickening. Then, after a few moments, he settles, his countenance returning to the stolidity that the rest of the crew will soon come to recognize as his default expression. He sits up, pressing his large body off of the ground with his one good arm, his right remaining still at his side. It, and his left leg, seem to both be completely artificial. The arm starts at the shoulder, and the leg just above the knee, and both prosthetics seem to be made of a mix of somewhat rotted wood, dented brass, and meticulously polished ivory. Jonah's leg creaks dangerously as it supports the man's bulk, but holds.
Jonah looks about, and the rest of the crew gets a good look at him. He wears a threadbare pea coat, and equally shoddy trousers. His beard is unshorn, and streaked with premature gray. Indeed, everything about this fellow resembles a man who has aged far beyond his true years. Most notable out of everything, however, are his eyes. His eyelids seem to be stuck open, and he regards everything about him with a look so intense and furious even the boards of the hull seem to cringe beneath it. He clenches his artificial hand, the meticulously crafted tendons of thin rope creaking as they stretch. A rictus grin cracks across his aged face as he stares around at seemingly nothing at all, though the way he stares makes one believe that he is addressing something as he speaks. His voice is scratchy, evidently worn down from frequent yelling.
"So, I find myself back in your clutches, eh? You just couldn't keep me away? Heh. It was inevitable, after all." Jonah turns back to the whip-wielding man, fixing his lidless gaze on him. "Where's my harpoon? I need my harpoon, damn it!"
"Ignorance is bliss, and you look absolutely miserable."
The dark-eyed man with the whip sneers a smile. "Now see here ye scabrous sea urchin! You have no harpoon. You own no harpoon. Everything that wassen yours now belongs to the Capt'n and the Ship. Tis in the care of our quartermaster until someone that can rightly be trusted with a weapon has need of it.
Now, are you going to follow my orders and get up on deck for the muster call, or shall I give you a few licks of the leather first, yer Highness?"
The 6 brutes around him standing in the shadows chortle slightly at the new nick-name that Jonah seem to have earned as he snaps the whip again, this time just inches in front of Jonah's face. If he had been slightly off on that aim he could have taken an eye easily. It would seem that violence will be the result of brooking any further delay.
Founding Member of the High Roller Society. (Currently trying to roll max on 4d6)
Jonah does not respond to the whipman's swaggering, just wordlessly limps his way abovedecks, never breaking his gaze with the man until he reaches the salty air. He makes a face when he takes his first breath, the salt burning his lungs, and he spits onto the deck.
"Ignorance is bliss, and you look absolutely miserable."
As the six newly pressed members of the crew climb through the lower holds and reach the main deck, it is quickly apparent that you are on a sizable ship in the middle of the ocean, far from any land. Port Peril and the mainland of the Shackles are just an ochre haze many miles astern.
Crew members cluster around the ship's mainmast, lucking up at the higher deck on the stern where two figures stand. One of them is a broad shouldered, muscular man with a shaven head, a long bear bound with gold rings, and an eye patch -- clearly the captain. The other is a younger, balding man with a long black ponytail, wearing a long coat and carrying a well-used cat-o'-nine-tails.
As you join the rest of the crew at the mainmast, it is apparent that not everyone is comfortable on board. four others are standing apart from the rest of the crew, apparently uneasy with the situation they find themselves in and visibly different from the rest given the relative cleanliness of their attire. The rest of the crew stand about on deck or hang in the ship's rigging, clearly comfortable and existent members of the crew prior to its most recent port of call. You see the man with the whip and his cronies disperse amongst this crowd, bringing the total of crew prior to the press-gangings around a dozen.
As you gather your bearings the captain addresses the crew:
"Glad you could join us at last! Welcome to the Wormwood! My thanks for 'volunteering' to join my crew. I'm Barnabas Harrigan. That's Captain Barnabas Harrigan to you lot, not that you'll ever need to address me. I have only one rule -- don't speak to me. I like talk, but I don't like your talk. Follow that rule and we'll get along fine.
Oh, and one more thing. Even with you new recruits, we're still short-handed, and I aim to keep what crew I have. There'll be keelhaulin' for anyone caught killin' anyone. Mr. Plugg! If you'd be so kind as to make pirates out of these landlubbers, it'll save me having to put them in the sweatbox for a year and a day before I make pies out of'em."
At the end of the perfunctory speech the captain walks away without a glance or waiting for any comments, leaving behind the man with the cat-o'-nine-tails who smiles down unpleasantly at the newest recruits. He swings over the railing of the deck and lands lithely on his feet infront of the gathered 10 new recruits
"Alright then, daylight's wastin' so we best get youse lot your jobs quick. First things first, that rum soaked squid Ambrose apparently needs an assistant in the mess to help make his swill palatable. Any of you lot able to make weaviled hardtack taste like it isn't a year old?"
Founding Member of the High Roller Society. (Currently trying to roll max on 4d6)
Arloch shivers when the man lands in front of them all. He most certainly would not be saying a word to this pirate captain. There had to be a way out of this. Hadn't he learned something like this in the military academy? They taught us something about if we got captured for sure. But nobody ever really cared to capture a chef... His brain rattles trying to remember childhood teachings, clinging to good memories for hope in seeing a better day. Because the next one will not be great. Besmara bless us...
Arloch almost misses the question but finally chimes in raising his hand, "Y-yes. I'm a cook. I....Can certainly try. Depends what all you have in stock. Where's this, Ambrose?"
Mr. Plugg looks Arloch up and down with eyes that seem to be reading the Genasi's very muscle mass. "Fine, a lily-liver like you probably wasn't going to be any help hauling rope anyway. After we dismiss for the day's duties report to the galley at the aft of the mid-hold. You'll see a slovenly pile of fish blood and sea water there that thinks its human, probably in a drunken stupor. Waken him for yer orders."
Plugg turns to the rest of the assembled newcomers. "As for the rest of you, we need riggers and swabs. Riggers have an easier time, but I would rather not have to sail in circles to pick up you sorry excuses when you fall overboard from the mast in a high wind. As such, we'll put on a little show for our crew here and see who is best able to be up in the heights. From you five that are left first three to reach the crow will join tha riggers and report to me. Tha others will have to stay down here on tha deck and report to Master Scourge as swabs."
He indicates the man with the whip you had the displeasure of meeting this morning.
"Savvy?, don't be waitin' for a Governor's invitation to the ball. Get up there ye clip-winged albatrosses!"
OOC instructions:
(Welcome to the first rolls of the game, if you are wanting to make any adjustments to your character based on what you saw in the Player's Campaign guide do so before you post your response. Everyone except Arloch must climb the rigging up to the crow's nest, 60 feet above the deck. You have the mast itself as well as plenty of ropes and rope netting to work with, so you can climb using either Athletics or Acrobatics, but with the wind and waves it will require a DC 10 climb check for you to make progress equal to 1/2 your movement speed each round. And if you fail by more than 5 you will fall back to the deck, taking the appropriate amount of fall damage. If you fail by less than 5 you don't fall, you just don't make any progress that round. Please make rolls until you:
1) Reach the Crow's nest,
2) Fall enough times that you are knocked unconscious due to falling damage,
3) Decide to give up and accept the consequences of not climbing)
Founding Member of the High Roller Society. (Currently trying to roll max on 4d6)
Well, Vireil isn't waiting on anyone. Easier work sounds better, even if it's with that man. Besides, up on the ropes means away from reach of those whips.
Within moments, Vireil dashes to the ropes and starts to climb. An expert of balance and movement over rooftops, laundry wires and anything traversablr other than the ground, she should have no problem climbing up.
(I'll just roll ahead 5 checks, assuming she'll reach the top by then (4 successes needed if I understand correctly). If something is supposed to happen during that time that will affect her, only consider the first.)
Acrobatics: 18.
Acrobatics: 26.
Acrobatics: 16.
Acrobatics: 12.
Acrobatics: 22.
Varielky | Emma
After the Captain's "inspiring" speech Grath took a look around. "Only one rule, huh? That's not going to go down well. That is, figuratively speaking." He enjoyed having internal discussion in his head with himself. To get away from the chaos of society.
"Kitchen? Cooking is a noble profession for sure, but preparing dinner for this scurvy stricken bunch is an insult to food, let alone the chef" said to himself. "So what's the second option: a climb to the crow. That's more like it." He was really giddy about it too.
"Alright here we go. Haven't done exercise in a while, this should be fun. So, grab ropes with confidence, swing legs back and forth so they don't get tangled in the webbing. So far so good."
Acrobatics: 13
Acrobatics: 22
Acrobatics: 3 - tangled in the web, hit his against the mast and blacked out...
Jonah watches the others clambering up the ropes as they sway in the wind, waiting a moment before approaching himself. He lifts his artificial hand up to the ropes, ivory fingers clicking... and hesitates. He lingers there a moment, then his fingers close... on thin air. His balled fist falls to his side, and he walks back over to the others, looking Plugg dead in the eyes.
"Bringing me back out here was humiliation enough; I won't be playing your games. Now give me a mop."
"Ignorance is bliss, and you look absolutely miserable."
Sasha listened well to Captain Harrigan and Mr. Plugg, knowing better than to talk back if she were to survive this. And she wouldn't survive on her own, she would need allies, especially to set in motion a mutiny. She looked over the others press-ganged into service at the Wormwood. The Genasi took the cushy job as assistant to the ship's cook and disappeared down to the galley, good for him. She saw the lithe half-elf quickly scurry up the mast to the crow's nest, impressive. The goliath seemed to be mostly wind though and quickly found himself hanging upside down by the mast, he would talk himself into a keel-hauling if he kept talking like that. The pegleg seemed aware of his shortcomings and went for the mop, smart one that. The kenku seemed as a good choice for the riggings but that would still leave a spot open for her, if she would go for it. Being a rigger seemed a bit less of a demeaning task she finally decided and started climbing.
Acrobatics: 12
Acrobatics: 5
Acrobatics: 22
Acrobatics: 13
Ringer, upon hearing that it'll be a competition, cocks his head as a few spring into action before making a mad scramble himself to climb.
Acrobatics: 11
Acrobatics: 16
Acrobatics: 11
Acrobatics: 21
Acrobatics: 17
DM: Forged in Chaos, Spiders of the Abyss, The Sundered Way, Champions of the Citadel
Active Characters:
Breldo, Halfling Ranger | Kathryn, Wood Elf Rogue/Ranger | Kroshav, Dragonborn Paladin | T'laren Farsiel, Wood Elf Fighter | Trill, Kenku Bard | Val "Janellae", Mark of Shadow Elf Warlock
He gets a bit hung up before pushing onward.
Acrobatics: 10
Acrobatics: 11
DM: Forged in Chaos, Spiders of the Abyss, The Sundered Way, Champions of the Citadel
Active Characters:
Breldo, Halfling Ranger | Kathryn, Wood Elf Rogue/Ranger | Kroshav, Dragonborn Paladin | T'laren Farsiel, Wood Elf Fighter | Trill, Kenku Bard | Val "Janellae", Mark of Shadow Elf Warlock
Dice roll for damage on Grath, and then will come back with IC post.
Grath falling damage: 9
Founding Member of the High Roller Society. (Currently trying to roll max on 4d6)