"The sea. Wondrous and mysterious, holding more secrets than emperors and kings, housing canyons deeper than the tallest mountains are tall. The call of the sea is heard by many, but few heed its call and leave the safety of land for the sea. Many a visitor gazes on the sea, wondering what lies beyond the depths, but not one dares to ever answer her call. No, that takes a certain kind of person... that person may not know it themselves, but when their eyes meet the sea, they realize... Aye, the sea be a pretty one to look at, but her looks be deceiving. Any fool with a shred of sense knows that. But alas, those who accept her call are a different breed altogether... aye, the most foolhardy of us are the ones that bend to the will of our cruel mistress, the sea. The most foolhardy of us..."
--- ???
Henceforth Begins the Story of Our Heroes - Rather, Our Fools...
The sharp cry of a lone seabird pierces through the air. The smell of salt and sweat fills the air, and the jovial songs of the sailors are heard from all over the ship. The sailing ship is the Tub o' Gold, a merchant ship heading back from the eastern coast of the continent of Wildemount. She's been sailing for just over two weeks now, her last anchored port being the city of Rotthold. Land was last sighted five days ago, the smoking mountain of Rumblecusp rumbling in acknowledgement of the Tub o' Gold. The Tub o' Gold's destination? The village of Palma Flora, on the southern tip of the Menagerie Coast's Vezdali Peninsula. The Tub o' Gold plans to barter some goods off there to the villagers, before heading for her final destination of Port Damali, to sell off her goods and cargo to the Menagerie Coast's largest port city.
The day grows hot as the sun rises, and the voices of the sailors die off as they focus on their tasks at hand. The sun beams ever so brightly as the morning approaches noonday, and already the heat is blistering, almost making the day miserable, save for the sea breeze that sweeps over the deck of the ship. Then, the long-awaited cry comes from the masthead - "Land ahoy! North of us, captain! About two hours distance!". Cheers rise from the crew as the cry spreads over the ship. From the helm, a short human grins, and yells out to the sailors in his odd little accent. "Ye heard the lad, men! Palma Flora be only two hours from 'ere!" Another cheer rises from the sailors on deck, before the short little man yells again over the cheers of his men. "Oi, I didn't say ye could stop yer jobs! Get back te work, the lot o' you! Didn't ye hear the lad? We've got two hours yet!" The sailors let out a collective whoop that dies down after a minute, and they return to their tasks, invigorated with the promise of steady land and the ever-nearing Port Damali. Jovial songs fill the air once more, and the loudest singing comes from a group of sailors swabbing the deck. Among them is a tiefling, their skin deep purple, with several tattoos on their arms and neck, and their voice adds to the throng of sailors singing and swabbing. The short man shakes his head at the sight, though he grins while doing so, and continues his yelling - "Oi, ye there, Adrift! I didn't agree te hire ye on te hear ye singin'! C'mon, get te deck swabbed!" - an odd spectacle to others, perhaps, but not to the crew of the Tub o' Gold. Welby Saltmarsh, a little man with a big attitude, is the respected and (sometimes) endeared captain of the Tub o' Gold. Even at only just over five foot tall, Welby commands the attention and respect of his rowdy crew like no other captain, making up for his stature with his quick wit and his thirty years at sea - and, of course, his constant yelling.
Somewhere north of the Tub o' Gold is another ship - this one having headed out of Port Damali, readying herself for the long journey home. The Winter's Grasp, an day or so out of Port Damali, has her sails furled still, and relies on the rowing capacity of her crew to move forward. Aboard the Winter's Grasp, the boat is quiet, save for the steady "Row, row, row" the sailors chant, in rhythm as their arms strain with the oars, pulling the Winter's Grasp forward through the water. Water laps against the Winter's Grasp - her hull is unlike those of the merchant ships of the Menagerie Coast - she was built to withstand the icy waters of the Frigid Depths. The Winter's Grasp hails from the furthest reaches of the north, the Greying Wildlands. She's made the journey down from the frigid north to trade her goods, and that she has. The Winter's Grasp has one more stop before she sails into open waters, and begins her return trip of nearly a month back to her home. That one stop? The coastal village of Palma Flora - there, she can find goods to take home with her, for the next time she may visit will be in months.
The crew of the Winter's Grasp consists of dwarves and elves, with a smattering of a few humans as well. Her captain is the elf Jolana Siannodel, now helming the Winter's Grasp, her thoughts on the long voyage ahead as the sailors row in unison, pulling the Winter's Grasp forward. About an hour's time passes, then the cry from the bow of the ship breaks the silence previously filled by the lapping of the waves - a dwarf, Rugrin Icebrine, stands at the bow of the ship, leaning over the railing as he lets out a cry, recognizing the Veznali Peninsula as it comes into view. Palma Flora is but three miles away, now - another hour's worth of rowing.
On land, a lone figure makes their way across the rolling hills of the southern Veznali Peninsula. Dmitri Breighter has been traveling for a month and a half now, journeying from the desolate Greying Wildlands to the Menagerie Coast. As he trods over the rolling hills on a rarely-used road, his mind wanders, dwelling on his travels among other things, and he reminisces on his travel through the Vezdaweald two days prior. The image of the beautiful woods, a bright and sunny forest, filled with tropical flowers of all different vibrant colors fills Dmitri's mind, and the euphony of the songs and calls of the many birds that filled the air flows over him, entrancing his mind as he recalls the scene. Ah, the memory is nearly tangible, and Dmitri inhales deeply, and is met with...
The harsh smell of salt? Dmitri's focus snaps back - he'd been daydreaming. The Vezdaweald was beautiful, yes, but it was behind him now. Dmitri shakes his head, then looks out from atop the hill he stands on. His eyes take in the gentle, rolling hills, and as he looks further, the hills stop rolling, and the land become mostly flat. But beyond that... the sea. The sea breeze that had brought the scent of the sea had passed, but the sea was now visible. And, just on the horizon, a small village comes into view. A second breeze blows over the hills, and Dmitri's hair is tussled by the wind as a whisper, nay, a thought, forms in Dmitri's head - Go.
The lute begins its harmonious song, as its master plucks its strings masterfully. Her fingers glide over the strings with ease, and the song of the lute dips and climbs from bright and cheerful, to desolate and sorrowing, to something in between the two. The lute cheerfully sings the songs of spring dawns and flower fields, before dipping and warning of the harrowing woes of winter nights and barren fields. The lute's song climbs once more, and its master's fingers fly across the fretboard as the melody grows quicker and stronger, passionately praising the summer days and rich seas, before slowing slightly, as the lute and its master tell the final tale of autumn evenings and crop harvests. The lute abruptly stops, as its master looks up at her awed listeners.
The young human woman gives a cheeky grin at the open-aired Riptide Inn and Tavern's patrons, mock bowing before she makes her way back to her seat at the bar. "Well, pops, was that good enough for ya?", she asks of the barkeep. The older bartender chuckles for a moment, before nodding his head. "I didn't expect you to play well. As we promised, free ciders for you and your friend - let me get you those.", he says, chuckling once more before he goes behind a door. Laina Bellweather grins proudly, and she swivels on her stool to face her companion. "What did you think, Silimay?"The waves of the Lucidian Ocean lap against the southern shore of Flora Isle, providing a picturesque view of the ocean. The sandy shore is warmed by the sun's heat, now nearing high noon in its path across the cloudless sky. The locals prepare for the annual shark-hunting tournament that will be held the next day, and the shark-hunters among them can be seen off-shore, diving into the water for minutes at a time, as they prepare for tomorrow's festivities. Several visitors roam the beach, coming from around the Menagerie Coast to watch the shark-hunters, or simply to enjoy Palma Flora's Flora Isle, alongside a Palma Flora cocktail, of course. One such visitor is on the beach, though in her hands is not a drink, but rather some sort of project, one she's been working on for a while on the beach.
The visitor is tinkering away with her project as she hears a lute playing, presumably from the inn and tavern on Flora Isle - a popular inn among visitors, but Ambre is staying at a different inn, one on the peninsula's mainland, in the northern sector of Palma Flora. Her mind is absorbed by her work, but she remembers her family is due to be there in two days - she should get as much done as she can. But that's two whole days away - for now, she has free reign over what she does.
The lute begins its harmonious song, as its master plucks its strings masterfully. Her fingers glide over the strings with ease, and the song of the lute dips and climbs from bright and cheerful, to desolate and sorrowing, to something in between the two. The lute cheerfully sings the songs of spring dawns and flower fields, before dipping and warning of the harrowing woes of winter nights and barren fields. The lute's song climbs once more, and its master's fingers fly across the fretboard as the melody grows quicker and stronger, passionately praising the summer days and rich seas, before slowing slightly, as the lute and its master tell the final tale of autumn evenings and crop harvests. The lute abruptly stops, as its master looks up at her awed listeners.
The young human woman gives a cheeky grin at the open-aired Riptide Inn and Tavern's patrons, mock bowing before she makes her way back to her seat at the bar. "Well, pops, was that good enough for ya?", she asks of the barkeep. The older bartender chuckles for a moment, before nodding his head. "I didn't expect you to play well. As we promised, free ciders for you and your friend - let me get you those.", he says, chuckling once more before he goes behind a door. Laina Bellweather grins proudly, and she swivels on her stool to face her companion. "What did you think, Silimay?"
" Beautiful. As always.", her eyes held Lainas for a moment as if to blur whether she was referring to the performance or the performer. Her eyes ducked away with a slight grin.
When the cider arrived she sipped it as she looked about at the Riptides patrons, " We...I....need money. Not going to be able to set our..myself up here with the scratchings in my pocket. I had no idea there were so many talented folks on the coast, Its going to be harder to find a position than I thought."
" I love the ocean though....Xarath Kitril is nice....but I much rather waves to mountains."
The day grows hot as the sun rises, and the voices of the sailors die off as they focus on their tasks at hand. The sun beams ever so brightly as the morning approaches noonday, and already the heat is blistering, almost making the day miserable, save for the sea breeze that sweeps over the deck of the ship. Then, the long-awaited cry comes from the masthead - "Land ahoy! North of us, captain! About two hours distance!". Cheers rise from the crew as the cry spreads over the ship. From the helm, a short human grins, and yells out to the sailors in his odd little accent. "Ye heard the lad, men! Palma Flora be only two hours from 'ere!" Another cheer rises from the sailors on deck, before the short little man yells again over the cheers of his men. "Oi, I didn't say ye could stop yer jobs! Get back te work, the lot o' you! Didn't ye hear the lad? We've got two hours yet!" The sailors let out a collective whoop that dies down after a minute, and they return to their tasks, invigorated with the promise of steady land and the ever-nearing Port Damali. Jovial songs fill the air once more, and the loudest singing comes from a group of sailors swabbing the deck. Among them is a tiefling, their skin deep purple, with several tattoos on their arms and neck, and their voice adds to the throng of sailors singing and swabbing. The short man shakes his head at the sight, though he grins while doing so, and continues his yelling - "Oi, ye there, Adrift! I didn't agree te hire ye on te hear ye singin'! C'mon, get te deck swabbed!" - an odd spectacle to others, perhaps, but not to the crew of the Tub o' Gold. Welby Saltmarsh, a little man with a big attitude, is the respected and (sometimes) endeared captain of the Tub o' Gold. Even at only just over five foot tall, Welby commands the attention and respect of his rowdy crew like no other captain, making up for his stature with his quick wit and his thirty years at sea - and, of course, his constant yelling.
"Oh come now, Captain," Adrift calls back, their voice thick with what some might recognize as a Xhorhasian accent, though none of their fellows had commented on it thus far, "I've heard you love my singing!" They twirl briefly with the mop around one of the sailors beside them, a sharp-toothed grin curling at one corner of their lips. Having grown used to the good Captain's (occasionally very loud) ways, his yelling had little effect on Adrift beyond encouraging them to work a little harder than they sang, though it didn't quite stop the terribly off-key warbling coming from the deck.
The sea air was, as always, a soothing balm to Adrift's soul, and they pause briefly in their swabbing to cast their gaze north towards Palma Flora, relishing in both the warmth of the sunlight on their skin -even now a marvel- and the rocking of the ship on the waves. The reverie doesn't last long before another sailor knocks into them with a meaningful jerk of his mop and Adrift is left to laugh at themself for their running thoughts, swabbing the mop over the deck boards again. "Yes, yes, I am swabbing," they say with an eyeroll, playfully swatting the offending sailor on the rear with their tail as he slips away. What a strange, wonderful people to find themself among, they think, marveling anew at their situation as the ship sails ever closer to land.
On land, a lone figure makes their way across the rolling hills of the southern Veznali Peninsula. Dmitri Breighter has been traveling for a month and a half now, journeying from the desolate Greying Wildlands to the Menagerie Coast. As he trods over the rolling hills on a rarely-used road, his mind wanders, dwelling on his travels among other things, and he reminisces on his travel through the Vezdaweald two days prior. The image of the beautiful woods, a bright and sunny forest, filled with tropical flowers of all different vibrant colors fills Dmitri's mind, and the euphony of the songs and calls of the many birds that filled the air flows over him, entrancing his mind as he recalls the scene. Ah, the memory is nearly tangible, and Dmitri inhales deeply, and is met with...
The harsh smell of salt? Dmitri's focus snaps back - he'd been daydreaming. The Vezdaweald was beautiful, yes, but it was behind him now. Dmitri shakes his head, then looks out from atop the hill he stands on. His eyes take in the gentle, rolling hills, and as he looks further, the hills stop rolling, and the land become mostly flat. But beyond that... the sea. The sea breeze that had brought the scent of the sea had passed, but the sea was now visible. And, just on the horizon, a small village comes into view. A second breeze blows over the hills, and Dmitri's hair is tussled by the wind as a whisper, nay, a thought, forms in Dmitri's head - Go.
"Is this it? Okay. Let's go. I am excited to see what the day brings." He says aloud, before catching himself, Ah, I'm talking to myself again. I need to stop doing that. Dmitri starts humming to himself. He's found that it helps keep him focused. And brave. He still has not quite gotten used to being alone, traveling alone. However, the wonderful, increasingly colorful sights and smells have made him more comfortable than he ever felt he could be on his own. And yet, there again, he faults, because he is not alone. He always has his wonderful and patient guide. He breathes in the salty air, humming a song deep in his throat. He walks at a steady beat, constraining his otherwise free-form melody to that rhythm. The village grows ever closer.
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Salazar - Human Warlock of the Fiend (1) - The Lucarcian Incident
Shepherd Torrent Brallern Water Genasi Druid (1) - Ekuepool
Celeste Belle - Air Genasi Mutant Blood Hunter (1) - Old West
Somewhere north of the Tub o' Gold is another ship - this one having headed out of Port Damali, readying herself for the long journey home. The Winter's Grasp, an day or so out of Port Damali, has her sails furled still, and relies on the rowing capacity of her crew to move forward. Aboard the Winter's Grasp, the boat is quiet, save for the steady "Row, row, row" the sailors chant, in rhythm as their arms strain with the oars, pulling the Winter's Grasp forward through the water. Water laps against the Winter's Grasp - her hull is unlike those of the merchant ships of the Menagerie Coast - she was built to withstand the icy waters of the Frigid Depths. The Winter's Grasp hails from the furthest reaches of the north, the Greying Wildlands. She's made the journey down from the frigid north to trade her goods, and that she has. The Winter's Grasp has one more stop before she sails into open waters, and begins her return trip of nearly a month back to her home. That one stop? The coastal village of Palma Flora - there, she can find goods to take home with her, for the next time she may visit will be in months.
The crew of the Winter's Grasp consists of dwarves and elves, with a smattering of a few humans as well. Her captain is the elf Jolana Siannodel, now helming the Winter's Grasp, her thoughts on the long voyage ahead as the sailors row in unison, pulling the Winter's Grasp forward. About an hour's time passes, then the cry from the bow of the ship breaks the silence previously filled by the lapping of the waves - a dwarf, Rugrin Icebrine, stands at the bow of the ship, leaning over the railing as he lets out a cry, recognizing the Veznali Peninsula as it comes into view. Palma Flora is but three miles away, now - another hour's worth of rowing.
Rugrin smiles from ear to ear, and pulls some of his long, black hair away from his eyes. Being back south always did that to him, the beauty of the Menagerie Coast and their appreciation for freedom and art was a drug unlike any he had seen his crew take while on leave. The smells, the sights, the music and the people. Rugrin loves it all. "Land guys! Land!" The young dwarf rushes down the stairs, below deck to the rest of the crew rowing. "Row, row, row!" He pulls out a drum from underneath a tall chair and puts it firmly between his thighs. Reaching towards a seal skin bag on his side he pulls out a couple of small drumming mallets wrapped in a cloth. Ceremoniously he unwraps the mallets and joins the droning chant of the rowing crew. Completely focused at his task, all daydreams of late nights of good food and great music at a cozy tavern disappears and makes way for enchanting vibrations of the skin of the drum and the mallets in his hands. There is magic in even the simplest of notes, even the banging of a worn drum. Rugrin smiles.
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Blixanix Glitterpain, Goblin Bard - In campaign: Ravnica, City of Guilds
The Soggiest DM - In campaign: Boats, Rocks & Ruffians Eira Whitefeather, Human Sorcerer/Warlock - In campaign: Death Inspectors Expanded
Roland "THUNDER HIPPO" Wolfscribe, Human Bloodhunter - In campaign: Core City: A Play-by-post Adventure
The waves of the Lucidian Ocean lap against the southern shore of Flora Isle, providing a picturesque view of the ocean. The sandy shore is warmed by the sun's heat, now nearing high noon in its path across the cloudless sky. The locals prepare for the annual shark-hunting tournament that will be held the next day, and the shark-hunters among them can be seen off-shore, diving into the water for minutes at a time, as they prepare for tomorrow's festivities. Several visitors roam the beach, coming from around the Menagerie Coast to watch the shark-hunters, or simply to enjoy Palma Flora's Flora Isle, alongside a Palma Flora cocktail, of course. One such visitor is on the beach, though in her hands is not a drink, but rather some sort of project, one she's been working on for a while on the beach.
The visitor is tinkering away with her project as she hears a lute playing, presumably from the inn and tavern on Flora Isle - a popular inn among visitors, but Ambre is staying at a different inn, one on the peninsula's mainland, in the northern sector of Palma Flora. Her mind is absorbed by her work, but she remembers her family is due to be there in two days - she should get as much done as she can. But that's two whole days away - for now, she has free reign over what she does.
Ambre picks up a tool, makes an adjustment to her goggles, and puts them on. She waits a few moments, before taking them back off and banging on the side of it with the palm of her hand. She puts them back on, turns a dial, and giggles with glee as something happens that only she can see. Pushing the goggles to the top of her head so that she can what's in front of her a tad easier.
Pulling out a bizarre looking watch, she pulls out another set of tools and starts messing with it.
The lute begins its harmonious song, as its master plucks its strings masterfully. Her fingers glide over the strings with ease, and the song of the lute dips and climbs from bright and cheerful, to desolate and sorrowing, to something in between the two. The lute cheerfully sings the songs of spring dawns and flower fields, before dipping and warning of the harrowing woes of winter nights and barren fields. The lute's song climbs once more, and its master's fingers fly across the fretboard as the melody grows quicker and stronger, passionately praising the summer days and rich seas, before slowing slightly, as the lute and its master tell the final tale of autumn evenings and crop harvests. The lute abruptly stops, as its master looks up at her awed listeners.
The young human woman gives a cheeky grin at the open-aired Riptide Inn and Tavern's patrons, mock bowing before she makes her way back to her seat at the bar. "Well, pops, was that good enough for ya?", she asks of the barkeep. The older bartender chuckles for a moment, before nodding his head. "I didn't expect you to play well. As we promised, free ciders for you and your friend - let me get you those.", he says, chuckling once more before he goes behind a door. Laina Bellweather grins proudly, and she swivels on her stool to face her companion. "What did you think, Silimay?"
" Beautiful. As always.", her eyes held Lainas for a moment as if to blur whether she was referring to the performance or the performer. Her eyes ducked away with a slight grin.
When the cider arrived she sipped it as she looked about at the Riptides patrons, " We...I....need money. Not going to be able to set our..myself up here with the scratchings in my pocket. I had no idea there were so many talented folks on the coast, Its going to be harder to find a position than I thought."
" I love the ocean though....Xarath Kitril is nice....but I much rather waves to mountains."
" What were you thinking of doing later? Want to go down to the docks and watch the ships?"
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Henceforth Begins the Story of Our Heroes - Rather, Our Fools...
The sharp cry of a lone seabird pierces through the air. The smell of salt and sweat fills the air, and the jovial songs of the sailors are heard from all over the ship. The sailing ship is the Tub o' Gold, a merchant ship heading back from the eastern coast of the continent of Wildemount. She's been sailing for just over two weeks now, her last anchored port being the city of Rotthold. Land was last sighted five days ago, the smoking mountain of Rumblecusp rumbling in acknowledgement of the Tub o' Gold. The Tub o' Gold's destination? The village of Palma Flora, on the southern tip of the Menagerie Coast's Vezdali Peninsula. The Tub o' Gold plans to barter some goods off there to the villagers, before heading for her final destination of Port Damali, to sell off her goods and cargo to the Menagerie Coast's largest port city.
The lute begins its harmonious song, as its master plucks its strings masterfully. Her fingers glide over the strings with ease, and the song of the lute dips and climbs from bright and cheerful, to desolate and sorrowing, to something in between the two. The lute cheerfully sings the songs of spring dawns and flower fields, before dipping and warning of the harrowing woes of winter nights and barren fields. The lute's song climbs once more, and its master's fingers fly across the fretboard as the melody grows quicker and stronger, passionately praising the summer days and rich seas, before slowing slightly, as the lute and its master tell the final tale of autumn evenings and crop harvests. The lute abruptly stops, as its master looks up at her awed listeners.
The waves of the Lucidian Ocean lap against the southern shore of Flora Isle, providing a picturesque view of the ocean. The sandy shore is warmed by the sun's heat, now nearing high noon in its path across the cloudless sky. The locals prepare for the annual shark-hunting tournament that will be held the next day, and the shark-hunters among them can be seen off-shore, diving into the water for minutes at a time, as they prepare for tomorrow's festivities. Several visitors roam the beach, coming from around the Menagerie Coast to watch the shark-hunters, or simply to enjoy Palma Flora's Flora Isle, alongside a Palma Flora cocktail, of course. One such visitor is on the beach, though in her hands is not a drink, but rather some sort of project, one she's been working on for a while on the beach.
Sylcan Naïlo - Eladrin Blood Hunter - DragonDenn's Dragonlords | Althaea Sylvaranth - Wood Elf Druid - JorvikDave's Storm King's Thunder | Ekane - Half-orc Warlock - Murk Over Gladerown | Aoth Meliamne - Aasimar Sorcerer - WoobyDoobyDoo's Vraleon
I also DM RemCultist's Frozen Sick
" Beautiful. As always.", her eyes held Lainas for a moment as if to blur whether she was referring to the performance or the performer. Her eyes ducked away with a slight grin.
When the cider arrived she sipped it as she looked about at the Riptides patrons, " We...I....need money. Not going to be able to set our..myself up here with the scratchings in my pocket. I had no idea there were so many talented folks on the coast, Its going to be harder to find a position than I thought."
" I love the ocean though....Xarath Kitril is nice....but I much rather waves to mountains."
"Oh come now, Captain," Adrift calls back, their voice thick with what some might recognize as a Xhorhasian accent, though none of their fellows had commented on it thus far, "I've heard you love my singing!" They twirl briefly with the mop around one of the sailors beside them, a sharp-toothed grin curling at one corner of their lips. Having grown used to the good Captain's (occasionally very loud) ways, his yelling had little effect on Adrift beyond encouraging them to work a little harder than they sang, though it didn't quite stop the terribly off-key warbling coming from the deck.
The sea air was, as always, a soothing balm to Adrift's soul, and they pause briefly in their swabbing to cast their gaze north towards Palma Flora, relishing in both the warmth of the sunlight on their skin -even now a marvel- and the rocking of the ship on the waves. The reverie doesn't last long before another sailor knocks into them with a meaningful jerk of his mop and Adrift is left to laugh at themself for their running thoughts, swabbing the mop over the deck boards again. "Yes, yes, I am swabbing," they say with an eyeroll, playfully swatting the offending sailor on the rear with their tail as he slips away. What a strange, wonderful people to find themself among, they think, marveling anew at their situation as the ship sails ever closer to land.
No Longer Active
"Is this it? Okay. Let's go. I am excited to see what the day brings." He says aloud, before catching himself, Ah, I'm talking to myself again. I need to stop doing that. Dmitri starts humming to himself. He's found that it helps keep him focused. And brave. He still has not quite gotten used to being alone, traveling alone. However, the wonderful, increasingly colorful sights and smells have made him more comfortable than he ever felt he could be on his own. And yet, there again, he faults, because he is not alone. He always has his wonderful and patient guide. He breathes in the salty air, humming a song deep in his throat. He walks at a steady beat, constraining his otherwise free-form melody to that rhythm. The village grows ever closer.
Salazar - Human Warlock of the Fiend (1) - The Lucarcian Incident
Shepherd Torrent Brallern Water Genasi Druid (1) - Ekuepool
Celeste Belle - Air Genasi Mutant Blood Hunter (1) - Old West
DM for A Waterdhavian Heist
Rugrin smiles from ear to ear, and pulls some of his long, black hair away from his eyes. Being back south always did that to him, the beauty of the Menagerie Coast and their appreciation for freedom and art was a drug unlike any he had seen his crew take while on leave. The smells, the sights, the music and the people. Rugrin loves it all. "Land guys! Land!" The young dwarf rushes down the stairs, below deck to the rest of the crew rowing. "Row, row, row!" He pulls out a drum from underneath a tall chair and puts it firmly between his thighs. Reaching towards a seal skin bag on his side he pulls out a couple of small drumming mallets wrapped in a cloth. Ceremoniously he unwraps the mallets and joins the droning chant of the rowing crew. Completely focused at his task, all daydreams of late nights of good food and great music at a cozy tavern disappears and makes way for enchanting vibrations of the skin of the drum and the mallets in his hands. There is magic in even the simplest of notes, even the banging of a worn drum. Rugrin smiles.
Blixanix Glitterpain, Goblin Bard - In campaign: Ravnica, City of GuildsThe Soggiest DM - In campaign: Boats, Rocks & RuffiansEira Whitefeather, Human Sorcerer/Warlock - In campaign: Death Inspectors ExpandedRoland "THUNDER HIPPO" Wolfscribe, Human Bloodhunter - In campaign: Core City: A Play-by-post Adventure
Ambre picks up a tool, makes an adjustment to her goggles, and puts them on. She waits a few moments, before taking them back off and banging on the side of it with the palm of her hand. She puts them back on, turns a dial, and giggles with glee as something happens that only she can see. Pushing the goggles to the top of her head so that she can what's in front of her a tad easier.
Pulling out a bizarre looking watch, she pulls out another set of tools and starts messing with it.
Elra Skylash - Human Cleric | Vanzaren Tanidoni - Half Elf Wizard
Mindartis Liadon - Eladrin Barbarian | Naivara Siannodel - Half Elf Ranger
Arrila Evenwood - Half Elf Paladin | Callaphe of Setessa - Human Rogue
Katernin Nemetsk - Aasimar Cleric | Melody - Tiefling Bard
" What were you thinking of doing later? Want to go down to the docks and watch the ships?"