The small boat rocks shakily in the choppy waters, drawing ever closer to its destination in the early hours of the morning. The loud, hurried cries of the captain, shouting from the sea-struck prow to the shiphands, are intermingled with the loud whine of a baby deeper in the hold, creating a discordant cacophony that overwhelms the mind. A storm is drawing into the bay, and the ship rushes to reach its destination before the sea rises against it. 

Your journey has been long, your suffering hard. You've survived these two weeks on this small, cramped boat nearly without food and sleep, and are very much ready to get off of it. You departed the port city of Xha'lin, the pinnacle of the Páo-Xiào Empire, for this rapidly approaching destination -- perched atop a rocky, plant-bare cliff, its stones holding more oysters and barnacles than you can count, a cluster of a few small buildings stands, as if they were huddling -- hiding -- from the cold. 

The ship jerks again, and these thoughts are driven out of your mind as the wind pulls the boat farther away from the shore. You hear the curses of multiple of the crew, all encased in that heavy brogue that seems to come with work on the sea. 

It takes another hour, the storm-clouds drawing ever closer, until the ship makes it to shore, its beams straining and mast creaking as it gently slides up next to a long, lonely dock, its wood ravaged by the waters. The captain, to everyone's surprise, is the first to leave the ship, running out and joyfully kissing the wood of the dock. The rest of you follow, pushing and shoving each other as they try to make it to a small set of ancient-looking stone stairs, crookedly set into the rock. 

You are among this crowd -- a new arrival to this place, a stranger in this land, perhaps. Now, who are you? Why are you here? What are you doing? Let your names and stories fly off your tongue, ss the world hears of those who could save it -- or destroy it.

Why are you here, adventurers? What are you doing in the great land of Ixa'lyn? 

The salt spray slashes across you and your belongings as you ascend towards the town high above, perched on its cliff as a baby bird does in its nest -- certainly with comfort, but also with precarity. For what seems like hours, you climb, watching the lone ship and the beach become smaller and smaller below you, the cliff's maw eventually covering it from view. The storm-clouds gradually roll in, perching above the cliffs and readying their fiery onslaught. Wind slams against you, even huddled in the group, and you find it hard to keep your balance. 

You reach the top of the cliffs -- what seemed like a large, flat rock from down below proves to be a large, grassy plain which slopes downwards into a misty forest several miles away. The shack-town sits in front of you, a hundred or so buildings clumped together as if they were hiding from the wind. Lanterns are already being lit, and you can see several townsfolk rushing towards you. "Get inside!' they shout frantically to you, gesturing in a way to make a hen look like a sensible figure. "Storm's coming!" The masses in front of you begin to break away, running towards the nearest buildings. 

Thunder crackles overhead. The storm's certainly coming. 

Leif, carrying his loaded pack of possessions, tries to determine if any of the larger buildings are Inns, Taverns or Guild Halls. He turns to the other companions he had shared the ship with and comments, "Shall we stick together?  We aren't familiar with the ways of this land yet and I'm sure there are those here waiting to take advantage of unwary newcomers..."

Leif, as you query your companions, at the same time looking for some safe place to rest and hide from the storm, you spot two buildings that might do. The former, a large, ancient building of oak-wood which towers over the one- and two-story houses of the town, appears to be some sort of town hall -- however, the majority of the arrivals have already begun to enter, and you're not sure whether you could find space inside. The latter, you see, is where a few bedraggled figures slowly amble, alighting their last lanterns before entering through a wooden door -- an unremarkable place, like all of the others, faint noise emanating from inside its carved wooden facade. Looking again, you see a small sign, in the shape of a shield, hanging from a rusty iron spoke above the door. "The Sea-Spray" is what it reads, frothing waves meticulously engraved in the wood beneath it.

(OOC: I'm assuming you're speaking to all of the party, right? Just wanted to check in case you all have formed friendships upon the ship. Happy to get this underway! :), y'all.)

[OOC: 2-weeks on a cramped boat, I'd be willing to gamble we formed some bonds.]

Orrin stands tall, stretching to his full nearly eight foot height for the first time in a long time. He rolls his neck and shoulders and leans on his halberd. Nodding to Leif, having gotten to know the man somewhat during their journey, he says, "Aye, let's find shelter. Perhaps The Sea Spray can offer us some rooms larger than a bathtub." He hooks a thumb back toward the tiny ship to indicate his displeasure with the accommodations. 

The wind caught her reddish hair as she stepped off the ship, a stray lock whipping across her freckled cheek. She laughed not because anything was funny, but because laughter was the only thing that could keep her teeth from chattering after two weeks of damp misery. The fiddle case strapped across her back knocked against her shoulder as she made her way up the crooked stone steps, boots slipping on the slick rock.

“By the tides, I’ll kiss the next dry floor I see,” she muttered, half to herself, half to the heavens that seemed intent on drowning them all. When Leif spoke, Tine turned, her green eyes bright despite the exhaustion beneath them. “Aye, sticking together sounds wise. I’ve seen more than one newcomer get their purse lifted in ports like this, and I’d rather not start my stay here penniless and soaked.” She grinned, an infectious, earnest thing that almost dared the storm to try her.

She glanced toward the inn, The Sea-Spray, tilting her head as rain darkened the curls at her temples. “If that place’s got a fire and something that even pretends to be ale, I’ll play a tune or three in thanks. Alright, how’s this for an introduction? Name’s Tine, fiddler by trade, trouble by accident. ” she asked the group with a half-smile, tapping her fiddle case for rhythm before adopting a mock bow before starting towards the inn, her boots splashing through the puddles with the same easy rhythm she gave her music, each step defying the storm above.

"Than Sea-Sprey it is, but if it is too bad I am taking a look at bigger hut" Zofsaadi Ulthek says, his scales dull from long travel in bad conditions.

The Sea-Spray's sign swings back and forth in the gale, the creaks of the iron and wood giving the street a foreboding air. The darkness closes in around you as rain begins to fall, and you slam the wooden door shut behind you, hoping to get a little more protection from the howling storm outside. Inside, a surprisingly large room opens up before you -- people enigmatically but cheerfully talking in accents from all places -- you even catch a little J'Terran in there, slightly raspy from a lifetime of the spices. Lights glimmer, and a fire roars in a large stone fireplace set off in the corner, where people warm up, sprawled across a bearskin rug. 

With a loud "Hello!" and a mug of ale for each of you, a woman, her face worn down by age and by her smiles, comes on up to you. "Hello, ye all! You're certainly a motley crew! What brings you here? Where'd you come from?" At first impression, she seems like the sort of woman that brings a village together -- and that belief's only reinforced as you notice other patrons looking at her, endearing looks on their face. "My name's Mae, and this is my place. Hope ye like it." 

Although she may be a kind woman, she's a talkative one as well. As soon as she's stopped, she's started again, in a manner that would drive even the sanest person mad after a short time. She immediately turns to you, Tine, noticing the instrument you carry on your back. "What's your name, young one?" she queries. "I'd love a fiddler for this bar right now - it'd bring these people a world of good. I'd pay you a little, as well - fancy a gold piece or two for an evening's work?" 

As you tip the ale-mugs, expecting a sweet, nourishing beer to flow down your gullet (yes, it appears they do this here, even this early in the day), you're instead received with a burning, stomach-wrenching drink with a nasty taste -- tearing your mouth apart enough that you have to spit it back into the mug, while masking it as another sip. Sadly, the only comparison you can find for this drink is sewer water -- especially for those who've drunk it (OOC: don't ask). Although Mae might be more than appetizing socially, she certainly can't make a good beer.

(OOC: Bye for today, all!)

Orrin loves the ale! He guzzles it down and can't believe no one else cares for it. "I'll take yours," he says to his campanions.

Eve, standing in their usual awkward self. stand there without many things to say

Crumb, after shuffling into the sea-spray behind the others and trying the drink he quickly takes Orrin up on his offer to accept the undrinkable so called “ale”.

He looks around to see if there’s signs of a kitchen thinking to himself “milk… warm milk… eggs, maybe a biscuit… but, what if it’s as bad as this drink??” But the taste of the ale still lingers in his mouth and he shrugs off the grumbling in his 

“I wonder if storms like this are normal here or if this is out our the ordinary? Even the ship captain seemed a little too excited to exit his own vessel.” Crumb asks.

Quote from Oclair >>

Crumb, after shuffling into the sea-spray behind the others and trying the drink he quickly takes Orrin up on his offer to accept the undrinkable so called “ale”.

He looks around to see if there’s signs of a kitchen thinking to himself “milk… warm milk… eggs, maybe a biscuit… but, what if it’s as bad as this drink??” But the taste of the ale still lingers in his mouth and he shrugs off the grumbling in his 

 

“I wonder if storms like this are normal here or if this is out our the ordinary? Even the ship captain seemed a little too excited to exit his own vessel.” Crumb asks.

 "Hm, they could be, but we should just ask, somebody that we trust"

"Are you afraid of some rain, little man?" Orrin asks, clearly enjoying being in his cups. 

“Ugh I’m finally out o’ that damn boat! I think if I would’a been on that retched thing a minute longer I would’ve died from boredom. Orrin, ya better not drink too much of our ale, we don’t want’ ya all out’a sorts in front of civil people unlike ya’ll. Crumb, d’ya want some o’ the biscuits I brought along for sprout an to snack on? They’re not too stale…”

(OOC: sprout is aspen’s familiar which he’ll occasionally shapeshift into different forms with pact of the chain)

Tine laughed softly as she peeled her soaked cloak from her shoulders, the fabric heavy with rain. The warmth of The Sea-Spray wrapped around her like a familiar song as smoke, salt, and hearthfire blended into something that almost felt like home. She caught Zofsaadi’s remark with a grin over her shoulder. “Bigger hut, smaller storm…either way, we’ll make do,” she teased, brushing a damp curl from her face as she stepped further inside. When Mae bustled over, bright-eyed and brimming with welcome, Tine straightened, shifting her fiddle case. “Tine Dancer, ma’am,” she said with an easy smile. “Fiddler by trade, trouble by accident.” With a playful bow, she added, “I’d be glad to play a tune or three. It seems your place could use a bit of cheer to match that fire.”

She accepted the mug offered to her, taking a careful sip before nodding in approval. “That’ll chase the chill right out,”she said warmly, raising it in thanks before glancing toward Orrin with a spark of humor. “Careful now, big fella, this one’s mine.” Turning to Crumb, she chuckled softly as she set her fiddle case down and unlatched it. “Biscuits, you say? Sounds like just the thing to go with a bit of music. Nothing warms a stormy night like good company and a tune, aye?” The seasick half-elf her companions had known aboard the ship seemed to vanish as confidence took its place. Her posture straightened, her eyes brightened, and she smiled at the gathered patrons stepping up onto the table. “Seems a shame to let thunder have all the music,” she said, her grin widening as she drew the bow across the strings. “Let’s give this storm a proper rhythm.”

Tine began to play, her fiddle and voice rising together, weaving warmth and life through the tavern until even the storm outside seemed to keep time with her song.

(OOC: Rolled a 22 for performance check in the campaign game log)

Aspen searches around in hopes of finding some sort of book or anything remotely shiny. “Leif, d’you have any books in that sack of yours? By the looks of it you’ve got a whole house in there! You’re almost as bad as me when I pack my books with me! And I’d best believe ya better share those melodies with me Tine, I can’t believe you don’t at least write down the chords to them.”

Crumb leans back in his seat and out of his coat pocket he pulls a small piece of wood about half the size of the gnomes fist and a pocket knife from his pack and begins to whittle the tiny wood. “Am I scared of some rain? No not scared.” Answering Orrin. “Just curious why folks worry so much? Even when the sky’s gray and cold there’s things to enjoy.” He says happily swinging his feet back and forth as they float above the floor unable to reach from the seat. 

He turns to Aspen, “If yer offering I’ll take ya up on that biscuit.” 

Tine's voice begins to carry across the tavern, the bard's lyrical voice combining with the precise tones of the strings to shake any dour feelings out of the warm building. By the time she's finished, most of the tavern shouts along with her, a full room of accents -- joined together for some fun -- giving the tune a jolly edge. Taking a brief, highly-welcomed bow and stepping out of the limelight, Mae tosses her four gold pieces, the coins glittering in the tavern's lanterns and jingling a merry tune in her pouch. "Tha's for a jolly good show, that is," she says brightly, awe coating her face. "You're a damn good player, you are. I'd love to see ye around here again."

Aspen's search for books is not in vain, in a tavern of all places -- after a second, she notices a young man tucked away in a corner, reading an old, leather-bound tome. His face is mostly covered by a bush of dark curls, and his clothes distinguish him from the rest -- a dark-blue and black buttoned vest and leather pants which aren't quite the mark of a philosopher, although they're close. He's engrossed in his book, his eyes glued to the letters marching down the page -- even managing to resist Mae's "special" ale when she tries to offer it. From what you'd guess, he went to the wrong building.

Crumb's appetite for adventure (and for a bite or two of a good meal) is also sated -- the clinking of pots and pans behind the bar counter is audible when looked for, and a menu, written in chalk above several large barrels of drink, offers bread, fish, cheese, and other foods.

Orrin, as you begin to drink your third cup, you begin to feel an itch in your throat. Shaking it off proves to be useless -- by your fifth, your throat is burning -- so much that you're not sure you can stomach any more. The room already swims before your eyes, each sound magnified infinitely in your mind. Whispers become shouts as the whole tavern spins on its head, then rights itself, then begins to spin again...

(OOC: Roll a Constitution check.)

Eve and Crumb's conversation also draws some attention to them -- and, sure enough, after a few moments, two bedraggled, dripping mariners trudge towards you two, holding mugs of ale in their hands. "So ye want t'know of the storms, you do?" one asks, setting his cup down next to you. "This wretched place's full of 'em. Once one's ended, there's bound to be another the next day. But there's something else...something strange about them..." He cuts off abruptly, taking a swig of his ale. "The gods must be out to get us, that's all I'll say."

(OOC: Bolding names here just for my own memory. @Arcanmas, I think that could work, although I think I'll keep doing it this way just because it's an old habit :/)

"Why you the'm gods be out to get us?"

"Sorry Aspen, no books, just vellum, papyrus, inks and such for star charts and maps.  Along with some ship working and construction tools, along with specialty chef gear for cooking outdoors. Being on dry land has led to me liking shore bound food stuffs." Leif then grins, "I grew up shipboard among, uh...", the elf pauses for a moment to consider his words, "a clan of 'sailors' for most of my youth, but decided that was not the life for me."

"Besides, there's more to put in your stomach than just fish and sea kelp. Even among the sea elves" He then turns to get Mae's attention, "Excuse me, Mae, but can you tell us about that large oak building out there? Is it an older building than the rest of the town?"

Aspen walks up to the man engrossed in his book. “Ello! Whatcha reading? I’ve been lookin for a library out ‘ere, would ‘ya happen to know where one would be?” Aspen looks over at Orrin and remarks “What did I JUST tell ya Orrin? For the LAST time, I am NOT experienced in necromancy! I only got lucky reviving you ONE time when you took a tip off the bow o’ the ship!”