Sinister Secret of Saltmarsh

An' how 'bout a flame thrower in yer face Brynn-

Whoosh!

The flames erupted through the doorway faster than internal monologues could allow, and there was not a damn thing Brynn could do to deflect it, or absorb the impact. Wide eyed and wide stanced, they'd shift to brace themself for a direct hit against their bicep/shoulder. They just hoped their positioning was enough to take the worst of the hot blast and spare the others.

First, the heat wrapped around them like a warm blanket, but quickly turned molten hot. Suffocating. First came the tingle, then the sting, then the burning. Gritting their teeth hard, Brynn grunted through the pain as the flame ate away their sleeve, licked up their arm and heated parts of their prosthetic red hot. Snap, crackle, pop, went the fire, sizzling leather, wood and flesh alike. That smell... It was like cauterizing their shoulder all over again.

Brynn grabs at it and tears away the burning, melting material, ripping away their sleeve to separate the fire from their body. Their prosthetic smokes, metal joints and facets pulsing hues of red and orange as it cools back to temp. Where it joins at their shoulder, skin is seared. The burns extend out where the flames left their kisses over their collar bone, trapezius and neck. "Aye, even if I'm only 3/4 of a person, I can assure ya, I'm worth more alive than dead." Their hand flexes open and closed, testing for damage. "Harm my girls, my crew... Dead or alive, I'll become yer worst nightmare." They promise. "That research. That intel." They jerk their head in the direction of the searched office and inspected danger door. "I just secured the door protecting it's contents."

Once again, Darixa is faced with many things happening all at once. The fiery blasts had seemed to come out of nowhere, while Cook had already fallen. Although a little worried, she quickly sets her path. First, another chord from her lute and a quick snippet of song directed at Brynn (OOC - Bonus Action, granting Inspiration: once within the next hour, when failing a D20 Test, can roll 1d6 and add the number rolled to the total.): 

'If tempest strikes with all its might,
May you still keep up the fight!' 

Then slinging her lute to her back, she rushes forward to Cook and rests her hand upon his shoulder, casting Cure Wounds. (Restores 14 hp.)  Just a quickly she then runs back to where she had been standing, out of the path of the horrible rays. 

The young Rhenee beauty screams in agony and fury as she is scorched by the narcissistic magicians spell, looking down and realizing her beautiful Rhenee dress is now ruined, giving the disrespectful imbecile a cold glare. "I think you will find you are greatly mistaken Sanbalet, only a fool would draw the ire of a true Rhenee witch. Your witless minions attacked us instead of helping us you moron. Now stand down and you might yet see your precious philospher's stone!" She calls out to him.

Intimidation: 13

Esmeralda then punctuates her demand by furiosuly unleashing a bolt of witch-green eldritch force towards the narcissistic magician.
Lucky Eldritch Blast: 19 Force: 3 

She then prudently moves into full cover by the south wall and quaffs her vial.
Potion of healing: 6

Sanbalet is hit with Esmeralda’s blast and her words, “You are truly a witch?  Then let’s recover the stone and never see one another again!”

He sounds a touch breathless, like the force knocked the wind out of him.

Initiative; Esme, Seri, Hobgoblins, Cook, Slavers, Bryn, Sanbalet, Daraxi

Seri’s turn

Seri begins to call out for Procan's furious, wild strength to heal Cook when Darixa beats her to the punch.  As the big man's eyes open, the words twist in her mouth to summon the now familiar grasping barbed kelp and seaweed, rising from the ground in almost the same area they had before.

Peeking in to observe the results of her spell, she then moves to block the surviving hobgoblin (if he remains un-restrained) from taking position in the doorframe and closes to melee with the slaver wizard, while leaving Cook space to squeeze by and make his attacks.  If the hobgoblin is restrained, Seri instead steps back east to where she had been to give Cook a free shot at Sanbalet.

"Know this, Slaver.  You may or may not slay us this day, but soon enough, the Wave Father's scuttling carrion creatures shall feast on the corpses of all those who dare to shackle free peoples and traffic their flesh.  And all your untold dreamed-of riches shall melt away like sea foam on the wind."

Movement:  First 5' W - Action - then IF hobgoblin is NOT restrained, 5' S  into the doorframe to prevent the hobgoblin from taking that position.  If the hob IS restrained, she moves back 5' E to give Cook loads of space to attack Sanbalet.

Action:  Seri casts Entangle in the 20' square outlined in green below.  So Sanbalet, the Scout and the hobgoblin must all make DC14 STR Saves or be immediately restrained (disadvantage on attacks, advantage on attacks against, no movement).  Area remains difficult terrain for all, but no further risk of being restrained to anyone after the initial targets make or fail their saves.  Takes an Action and a successful DC14 Athletics check to free oneself.

Bonus Action:  None/Speech

All 3 intended targets failed their saves.

From the walls and floor sinuous barbed kelp and seaweed as if directed by eddies and swirls entwine about the individuals beyond the entry…

The hobgoblin with sword drawn lets out a roar of frustration as he cannot seem to take even a step to flee…

Cook you’re suddenly conscious, your turn.

     “You gonna be a good boy, then?” Cook mutters, half coaxing, half warning. “I’ve treats for good boys…”

     It’s the last thing he remembers saying.

     The last warm thing.

     Cook had always had a way with dogs. Mutts most of all, but truth be told, he’d take any stray that’d have him. Two legs, four legs — he’d known both kinds — but it was the four he trusted best.  Dogs were honest.  They gave what they got, and then a bit more besides. No lies. No half-truths. No hidden angles.  Just teeth and tail and truth. Warm. Loyal. Simple.

     Good.

     This dog was none of those things.

The dog is a lie.

     The thought comes as the world tilts.  As the light drains.  As warmth slips from his bones like water through a sieve.

Warmth is a lie.

     Cook falls into it — into the dark, into the cold, into something that isn’t quite nothing. Because the dark isn’t empty.

     It moves.

     It swirls.

     It lives.

     Something slick and sinuous coils through that murk, brushing against what little of Cook remains. Not a body. Not yet. Just a presence. A thought. A fading self.

The hagfish swims.

And Cook… drifts with it.

Or in it.

Or as it.

     There is no edge to the dark. No up. No down. Only the slow, circling pull of something ancient and patient.  Something that has always lived where warmth dies.

Elsewhere…Inside.

     Deeper than bone.  Colder than blood.  Something small takes hold.  A seed. A hook. A slick, vile knot of life that should not be.  An egg…

     It presses in.  Finds purchase.  Fastens.

     Not flesh.  Not yet.  Something more important than flesh.

     It feeds.

     It roots.

     It begins.

Herewhere…again.

Fur is for the surface.

     The thought is not Cook’s.  It slides through him anyway.

We swim deeper.

     Cook tries to hold onto himself — to the docks, to the dogs, to the smell of cooking fires and salt air and stew, to his friends new and old…

     …..but those thoughts are thin now.

     Distant.

     Like voices heard through water.

     The cold is closer.  The dark is truer.

No release.

     The presence curls tighter.

Not while we are within you.

     It is not a voice. Not quite.

     More a certainty.  A knowing.  A pressure behind the eyes that are no longer there.

The hagfish turns.

For a moment — just a moment — it sees him.

And Cook sees it.

     Cook’s eyes snap open.

     Air.

     Light.

     Pain.

     The world crashes back in all at once.

     Cook jerks awake without a sound, breath catching halfway to a gasp. The warmth is wrong. The air is wrong. Everything is…

alive?

     Too alive.

     Danger presses in from all sides. Movement. Sound. Heat.

Prey.

     His fingers twitch.

     His body moves before his thoughts catch up.

     And the strangest (saddest?) thing of all…  There is no dog.

     The dog was, indeed, a lie.

     It takes Cook a moment to come back.  From nothing… to something.  From the cold, crushing depths… to heat, noise, and pain.  His eyes open, but they don’t quite see at first.  Shapes move.  Light stabs.  The world feels too loud.

     Too warm.

     Too alive.

Darixa.

     His gaze finds her first.

     Part of him latches onto that - she brought me back? - something good, something familiar to hold onto.  But another part - colder, quieter - insists differently.

Not her.

The Hagfish.

     The thought slips through him like something slick and unwelcome.

Esme next,

     Voice sharp, words cutting, magic snapping and twisting through the air even as she tries to talk things down.  Contradiction.  Noise.  Too many moving parts.

A voice.

     From beyond the doorway.  Unknown.  Unfamiliar.  Wrong.

     Cook’s head tilts slightly, like something listening through him rather than with him.

     He (it) doesn’t like it. He (it) doesn’t like it at all.

Blue moves.

     It catches his eye. Shifting. Flowing. Waving. For a moment, it isn’t a person at all.  It’s kelp.  Seaweed drifting in deep water.  Slow. Patient.  Pulled by unseen currents.

     Then it’s Seri - there and not-there - moving between him and the voice, then back again, like the tide itself pulling away.

_ _ _

     Cook blinks hard.  Shakes his head.  The world snaps mostly back into place.  Mostly.

     He sees shapes now. People. Enemies. Probably.  Hell if he knows who’s who for certain.

     But one of them must be the voice…. Must be.

     Cook pushes himself to his feet.  The motion comes a touch too fast, too sharp. Darkness surges at the edges of his vision, that cold, deep pull reaching for him again…  He swallows it.  Forces it down.

Back to the depths where it belongs.

     Then he moves.  No hesitation.  No call.  No warning.

     Cook surges forward, closing the distance in a rush of heavy steps, his fists already rising and he swings.

     Again.

     And again.

     Driving toward that voice with blunt, relentless force, like he means to beat it out of existence before it can speak again.

_____

Movement: South!  Or down or whatever - towards Sanbalet.
Action: Attack Sanbalet with an Unarmed Strike for 12 to hit and 7 bludgeoning damage.
Bonus Action: Unarmed Strike him again for 17 to hit and 8 bludgeoning damage.

Rolling each attack roll again since I forgot to factor in them being restrained and thus advantage.  Action attack second roll is an 8 so no help there, Bonus Action second roll is a 8 as well.  I guess me failing to roll with advantage wasn't a disadvantage :D

Sanbalet’s ribs crack as the first fist hits like a cannonball, his cry speckles blood on Cooks face the second fist literally hits the wizards jaw so hard a tip of tongue and several teeth fly free…

The slaver held against the back wall vomits as his drawers soak with a loss of control.

even the hobgoblin stops struggling just staring.

Sanbalet still stands more supported by the entangle.

Brynn’s turn

They exhale, tension easing just a fraction as Cook surges back to his feet. “...There he is.” Brynn mutters, something almost like approval in their tone when he goes all tenderizer mode on the mage.

The faint echo of Darixa’s song lingers with them, steadying. Brynn rolls their shoulder once, settling back into the rhythm of the fight, their focus narrowing again on Sanbalet, broken, barely standing, but still there. They shift their prosthetic, the integrated crossbow locking its bolt into place with a compact series of clicks. They line the shot carefully. Measured. Deliberate.

They fire.

Attack: 11 Adv: 20 Damage: 9 (Non-lethal with the assumption the group will return him to local authorities for justice to be served. There could be more intel they don't know that could be extracted from Sanbalet. Him dying is 'the easy way out'.)

Brynn’s bolt fired from her still hot prosthetic, causes Sanbalet to go limp.  A wisp of smoke off the weapon’s tip.

The soiled slaver appears to have fainted while the hobgoblin sags to the floor (surrendered).

Darixa’s turn (or combat is done for the moment)

With a momentary lull in opponents, Darixa looks from person to person. "Is everyone ok?" she asks. "I can try to heal anyonethat might need it. But let's hurry in case others are on their way." She looks at Esme. "How many slavers had you seen?"

Esmeralda doesn't hear the tanned girl's question at first, still furious over having her dress ruined, releasing some of that fury in the form a vicious Rhennee curse along with another bolt of witch-green eldritch force that slams into the wall next to the narcissistic magician's body. "Okay? What do you think?" She then says angrily, pointing to her Rhen-folk gown. Already having quaffed the magical potion she actually seems fine otherwise. Calming herself down slightly she continues. "The bastard must have sent Thistle back home somehow, I only know what they saw before that. The only slavers they reported in about are the ones before us." She motions to the bodies of the slavers among the seaweed. "While there might be more of them around I can't see why they would not have followed the others to defend their base of operations."

"I would prefer to take a breather before we press on, and when we do I suggest we start with the caves before opening the danger door." She says as she does what she can to fix her dress up again. "Also, I could perhaps make those ones tell us what we want to know about this place." She says with a sly grin, pointing to the still living slavers.

     Cook takes a moment.

     Then another.  Plus a few more besides.

     He stands there, breathing slow and heavy, forcing himself to come back down from something he doesn’t quite understand. He’s no stranger to a scrap, never has been, but what just came over him… that wasn’t the same thing.  That was something else.

     Something unrestrained.  Something that didn’t stop when it should have.

     Cook swallows hard and pushes it down.  Down deep.  Into the depths where it belongs.

     When he finally looks around, he sees bodies and sets to work.  No fuss. No ceremony.  He drags them one by one into the room with the beds, hauling dead weight across the floor with the ease of a man used to hard labor.  Each gets dumped onto a bed in no particular order, with no particular care.  Just out of the way and accounted for.

     Some are breathing.  Some aren’t.  One… he’s not entirely sure about, not with how Esme was glaring at them.  If they do still breathe it may not be for long.

     Still, he works methodically.  First the bodies get moved.  Then the living get checked.  Those that are still breathing are bound tight - wrists, ankles, proper knots.  No chances.

     “I’m fine,” he mutters at some point during this work, when Darixa asks, not quite looking at her. “Blacked out there for a moment, is all. Caught a second wind, so to speak.”

     It sounds reasonable.  He himself almost believed that was all there was to it...

     Once the room is in order, or as close to it as it’s going to get, Cook turns his attention back to the secret door. He studies it for a moment, testing it, looking for some way to secure it.  Bar it.  Wedge it.  Anything to keep whatever lies beyond from catching them unawares if they decide to rest.  He doesn’t like the idea of turning his back on it.

     And lastly, and finally.... The stew.

     Cook turns toward the pot with a faint scowl.  During everything that smell had bothered him.  Overcooked.  Burning.  Ruined.

     He steps in, giving it a critical once-over, as if there’s any saving it at this point.  There isn’t.  Not really.  Still, he takes it down from the heat, if only to stop it from burning worse and fouling the place further.

Darixa looks at Esme as she complains about her ruined dress. It's with concern at first, worried she's seriously hurt. But as she approached and realizes it was just concern about the dress, she's mildly upset at her misplaced priorities. But she tries not to show it. 

Cook says he's fine.  She trusts that at least physically he may be.  So she leaves him alone for now.  

As Esme describes that all the slavers seem accounted for, she wanders the room. "Well, if all seem accounted for, I'm fine with resting a moment before we move on."

She sees that it seems Seri is fine.  But as her eyes land on Brynn they look a little rough. She steps over to them, asking directly in a quieter voice, "You ok? I can help."

Seri assists Cook in bringing in the unconscious or surrendered captives and binding them.  She makes a half-hearted attempt to wedge the secret door shut once everyone is through, but even Procan's guidance is insufficient for the task (Sleight of Hand:  9).

Sensing her dwindled reserves of oceanic magic that she might ordinarily use to heal the wounded, she finds unexpectedly that despite twice summoning the grasping barbed kelp today, she still has a more left than she expected, and a deeper sense of connection to the Wave Father.

Truly, we have made a good start here against the slavers, anathema to Procan.  The Wave Father is pleased.  Though it is just that.  Nothing but a start.

Aloud, she speaks solemnly to her companions.  "I too, like Darixa, have a bit of magical reserve left, more than I had expected, to heal anyone who needs it.  Do you need it, Salt-Blessed One?  I am concerned that the remaining slavers may be escaping to the sea from the caves below, and am eager to give chase, but not if it means being reckless with our own safety.  And it may be better to question these three who remain alive first."

A devout glint flashes in her aquamarine eyes as she continues.  "We are a crew without a captain.  So I will accept the will of the group, but speak my own heart plainly now.  I believe Procan's will to be that death, not imprisonment, is the only fit punishment for slavers.  I know none of you may share my faith, so again, I will not insist, but only say this.  I believe we must slay Sanbalet.  After questioning him, perhaps, but slay him nonetheless."

"It is not whether it is a hard or easy way out for slaver.  It is a simple axiom, as certain as the tides.  Those who served him, perhaps out of fear, may yet redeem themselves, but Sanbalet must die.  I have no desire to bear him back to Saltmarsh to face the uncertain justice of a councilor like Solmor who may just as well seek to partner with him in profiting from flesh-trade as throw him behind bars.  Nor do I have a desire to punish those who deny others freedom for their own gain by shackling them in turn.  Truly, I do not wish anyone jailed, even one like him who surely deserves it more than most.  And that is to say nothing of the danger.  He is a magician whose fiery blasts damaged the Salt-Blessed One's new arm.  We should not leave him alive."

"And yet, I am not the captain but just one of our fledgling crew.  So I will accept our joint decision as a crew.  And I am well aware that in addition to being a slaver, Sanbalet is behind the murder of Darixa's sister Ainura.  So if anyone has a final say, perhaps it should be her."

Having calmed down somewhat over her wounded pride and ruined dress, the young Rhennee beauty too notices Brynn having been given quite a heated welcome herself by the narcissistic magician. "Perhaps have a laydown for a while while D takes care of you." She says with a gentle smile, motioning to the row of beds. 

Esme then listens to Seri's speech, not quite sure what she thinks about it all. She herself held slavers in contepmpt and she definitely was a killer when necessary, but so far she had never executed a prisoner. "Perhaps we culd talk to them before deciding on their fate." She prudently suggests, then moving over to the very cooperative slaver still inside his locker, opening it up. "Time to talk." She says cooly, motioning for the man to sit up so that he can see for himself his defeated leader. "Now, you no doubt heard what Seri here said about what she thinks about slavers and how they should be handled. The more you cooperate and tell us about your organization the more likely it is I can convince her to spare you at least. You can start with telling us how many you are based here and where we can find the rest of you. Also you can tell us about the house above, the more details the better. And if you could draw a full map of it all that would be appreciated too." She calmly explains as she stands over him with a cold dark glare.

Another intimidate if needed: 16 Another roll if advantage due to help or situation: 19

Darixa turns her attention from Brynn just a moment as Seri explains her position on executing Sanbalet. The comment that perhaps she should have the final say weighs on her.  

Esme's words are a welcome respite from her heavy thoughts.  Her eyes flicker over to her as she sets about questioning the man from the locker. Though just briefly, as her attention goes back to making sure Brynn is alright. 

In response to Esme’s interrogation,

There are 4 other slavers who escaped on the boat with a load of smuggled goods (assumed)

The other half of this slave/smuggling operation is the crew of the Sea Ghost, due for a visit sometime this month.

There are undead beyond the Danger door, not sure how many.

Sanbalet-  ”Yes yes we killed the knight she was relentless just a lass who wouldn’t give up, stupid b!#*%!”  (I’m sure he instantly regrets, but too late.)

any other questions or reactions…

     Cook keeps himself busy.

     With the ruined food. With the fouler prisoners. With anything that keeps his mind anchored to the here and now. Letting it drift - letting it swim - didn't seem wise just now.

     He makes a point of checking in with each of the group, but he lingers longest with Brynn and Darixa.  Darixa carries a fresh grief, sharp and sudden.  Brynn carries the weight of wounds, plain to see.

     “Maybe take a quick shut-eye on that end cot, eh?” he suggests gently to Brynn, nodding along with Esme. “Bit of distance from the lot of them... A short rest can do a body a world of good.”  If she agrees, Cook sees to it himself. He fusses a bit finding the least offensive pillow, giving it a shake, pouring a drink from his waterskin into a cup. He offers her rations as well, quiet and practical.  ((Basically a reminder that hit dice can be rolled on a short rest for some healing...))

     No fuss made of it.  Just… done.

     Then Darixa.  “When this is all done,” Cook says quietly, making sure she hears him proper, “we’ll see your sister tended to right. However you think best.”  He glances toward the others, then back to her.  “We’ll carry her out ourselves. No question of it.”

     “The rest can rot where they lay, for all I care but your sister is as much one of us as you are...”

     So Cook stays busy.  Moving. Doing.  Fixing what little can be fixed.  But he’s listening, too.  To the others.  To the questions.  To the answers.  And when Sanbalet makes his final mistake...

     Cook hears that as well.

The dark depths within Cook remain still. Silent. Unmoved by the slaver’s vile words. No ripple. No stir. No anger. Only cold. Only watching.

     But something answers.  Not from the depths.  From closer.  Warmer.  A heat rises in Cook’s chest, sudden and fierce. A low growl slips from his throat before he’s even aware of it, rough and warning.  His head snaps toward the whelp.  Eyes sharp.  Teeth nearly bared.

     That — animal— is a threat.

     Not abstract.  Not distant.  Immediate.  Pack.

The cold thing inside him does nothing. Doesn’t care. Doesn’t understand.

     But Cook does.  Always has.  The pack is life.

     Cook moves.  No thought.  No hesitation.  Just instinct.

     He steps in, placing himself between the slaver and his own, broad shoulders squared, ready to take strike out...  Or take the hit if need be.  

     Pack first.  Always.

_____

Rolled a d20 to decide if the fish or the dog won out and decided Cook's reaction.  Then I realized I hadn't mentally set what was winning for which and had to roll again.  LoL.  Fish had the advantage as it had been in control most recently but the dog in Cook won out...  This time.

     Darixa was surely closer to Sanbalat.  If she chose (chooses) to end the man for the comments he made about her sister then there is no doubt that she would be able to strike before Cook, and her doing so would cause him to rein himself in.  She deserved the kill far more than he.  But if she hesitated or chose not to act, Cook most definitely ends any discussion of Sanbalet’s fate.  They're tied so I'm assuming rolls aren't needed?  But let me know if they are and I will roll...  But Cook would be brutal but efficient.  Something along the lines of rushing to the side of Sanbalat's cot, reaching down and grabbing the man's jaw.  Holding it.  Turning it to one side.  Then quickly raising up one leg to abruptly bring his foot down upon their face, intending to snap their neck with the stomp.

(Assuming that Cook, Darixa or Seri herself slays Sanbalet.)

Seri's gaze remains matter of fact as the slave-trading ringleader meets his end.  "Once we clear the caves below, I shall bring his body to the water and, as I spoke to the snakes, call the small tidal creatures of the shore to feast and scour his bones of flesh as befits a slaver."

She turns to the surviving captives.  "Know this.  Procan abhors any who seek to profit by shackling others and trading in their flesh.  I am no true priest of the Wave Father.  Not yet, and perhaps never.  So your apparent remorse may earn my mercy though perhaps not His."

Her gaze becomes more intense and she checks their bindings and prays softly for Procan's guidance.

"Your erstwhile comrades in the caves below may have fled His wrath for now, but you will tell us this.  The Sea Ghost.  It is a ship you have been signaling from a seaward window of this house?  With the bullseye lantern my companion found?  You will tell us who is aboard this slaver vessel, and everything you know of their operation.  And exactly how, when and what you signal to them so we may choose to do the same when the time arrives."

Seri's Insight plus Guidance on any response from the captives to her demands:  14 + 3 = 17

Then at the clacking noise at the door marked Danger...

Seri's Perception:  18

She turns suddenly towards the barred door.  "Something moves beyond.  Perhaps the undead standing between Sanbalet and his dreams of riches."