Shipwrecked in Saltmarsh

Dain tries to find the office. If he can he’ll ask for a loan of some money. Just enough to buy a big weapon. He says he can pay them back in just a day or two. They know he’s trustworthy from his time working for them. 

Quote from cbaer8 >>

 

 Your characters are now Level 2. Please update your sheets accordingly.

(Including Dain?)

Quote from Blakey >

(Including Dain?)

 

  Yes, Dain also.

    “Don’t worry, they’ll allow a proper burial for Lucky.  We can be persuasive if need be,” Fianna assures her.

Kelnan greets Dain. "With luck, the ones who took you are the same who took my friend. Good luck, I hope we will see you soon."

Turning to the rest of the group, "I think I've worked out the details of a new spell. I should be able to carry Lucky from here if the load is too much," and launches into an excessively detailed technical explanation of the magical intricacies of Floating Disk. It makes little sense to someone only vaguely familiar with arcane magic, and none to anyone else.

     Fianna follows... some of that but nods along sagely at the rest.  “Hopefully we shan’t need carry him much longer. Still, I’m sure that can come in handy in all kinds of ways!”

A grubby boy of about ten, standing outside the barracks (#2 on the map) calls out to the party, soliciting odd jobs. To Dain's question, he gladly provides an answer to the location of the Mining Company Headquarters (#5 on the map) and even volunteers to guide you there personally (while cupping his hand out for a coin or two.)

The party's business with Lucky is across town, however (#27 on the map.) 

“Lucky first, then this other stuff. He’s a total buzzkill in dickering.” Molo waves at the body.

It's a long slog across town, little Molo turning more heads than the spectacle of the party carrying the corpse of a teen boy down the main street. You cross the bridge, and past the vacant, filthy plaza where the weekly market was held just yesterday. A pack of dogs fight over a bit of offal while old women stare at you vacantly from broken upstairs tenement windows. The greasy, cobbled streets are relatively empty of traffic. The only evidence of any real commerce is on the waterfront, where longshoremen toil with cargo.

Climbing the hill toward Katernin's shrine, you take a left turn between Winston's store and the Temple of Procan, and into an old graveyard, marked with wooden markers and a sobering amount of fresh dirt. A hunchbacked half-orc sits outside a lopsided shack, eyeing your arrival. "Yup," he says.

Katernin looks to the half orc. "One of my new friends sacrificed his life to help us. I... couldn't save him in time," she looks truely pained by that truth. "I was hoping... I know I'm practically a stranger here, but I can bury him here. Perform service? Please."

“Yup,” Molo mimics back at the half Orc.

"Yup!" The hunchback grins a mouthful of yellowed teeth. "Five silver, donations welcome on top o' that. I'll take good care of 'im. I don't do services, but you can. No fire nor brimstone, much appreciated." The hunchback bows very slightly.

He eyes the party with curiosity, his eyebrows raising. "Kobold, eh?" he says to Molo. "Ye' heard of Hox? Row 15, number 12," he adds, pointing into the chaotic jumble of mounds and markers, bearing no resemblance to rows or columns. "One of our oldest members. We don't get many kobolds in Saltmarsh - ye' may be the first one since old Hox died three hundred some years ago. I'm curious about 'im. Might 'o been during the second Dwarven era. Curious times."

     Fianna will dip into her pouch, find a gold and give it to the groundskeeper.  "No fire or brimstone. Many thanks."

     She also spares a thought to just how long Half Orcs live... Surely this groundskeeper must only know this Hox by the name on the stone.  Surely...

Quote from cbaer8 >>

"Yup!" The hunchback grins a mouthful of yellowed teeth. "Five silver, donations welcome on top o' that. I'll take good care of 'im. I don't do services, but you can. No fire nor brimstone, much appreciated." The hunchback bows very slightly.

He eyes the party with curiosity, his eyebrows raising. "Kobold, eh?" he says to Molo. "Ye' heard of Hox? Row 15, number 12," he adds, pointing into the chaotic jumble of mounds and markers, bearing no resemblance to rows or columns. "One of our oldest members. We don't get many kobolds in Saltmarsh - ye' may be the first one since old Hox died three hundred some years ago. I'm curious about 'im. Might 'o been during the second Dwarven era. Curious times."

 (I assume Molo has not heard of Hox?)

Quote from nschrock >> (I assume Molo has not heard of Hox?)

(Molo has never heard of Hox.)

Molo will go looking for Hox’s grave, just out of curiosity.

"Thank you, madam!" he says brightly, biting the gold piece and holding it up to catch the light. "My name's Krag. I'll take good care of your boy, here. We'll plant him up the hill a bit, in the new part, if that's acceptable," he waves vaguely to the northeast with one hand, as he pockets the coin with the other. "Nice bit of potberry scrub up that way. He looks like a boy who woulda liked himself some good potberries." He smiles again, showing his old, yellowed tusks.

Molo begins looking for Row 15, number 12, and Hox's grave. Krag, delighted to see Molo searching, practically sprints over to help. "Right over here!" He steers Molo through the weedy lot, including one mound of long-untouched dirt with a partial human skull atop it. Hox's grave is an unremarkable patch of dirt marked with an ancient, blackened, wooden marker that has nearly weathered away. If there are any markings or writing on the old wood, Molo can't see it.

"I don't know a whole lot 'bout Hox. I can find his records if yer interested. May have had a Dwarven bride, I recall, but the records are very thin for that era. I have half a mind to hire a necromancer to speak with some of these older members, but they're generally bad folks an' I don't really need the trouble. Besides, the info may be found in the written records yet. I've compiled quite a lot about some of these folks."

"Speaking of which, I need to learn some info about your boy, here. Name, age, birthplace, et cetera. Are there any blood relations among your party? How did he die?"

     "He died being braver than he believed.  That should be on his stone...  Who do we see about a stone?" Fianna asks.  "I'm not sure we knew his real name.  He was not blood kin of any of us but... We shared some difficulties and we knew him not long but he shall still be missed.:

Molo nods along, but gives an expression of disgust about having married a dwarf. “A dwarf who lays eggs? Bleh.”

Krag bursts out laughing at Molo's comment. His nose starts to run, and he dabs at it with a filthy handkerchief. 

To Fianna's question, he replies, "We don't do much with stones here, but I've got some nice boards cut, free 'o charge." You can see his wooden handiwork throughout the graveyard - functional, yes; "nice", arguable. "If ye' want a fancier marker, you might speak with Jilar at the Carpenters’ Guildhall. She'll make ye' something nice." He gestures toward a new grave, the dirt still yellow and weed-free. Fianna squints at it - it's a large, fancy, carved block of wood, marked "Petra Solmor" with a prayer to Procan below it. Fresh flowers have been left in front of it, together with a small pile of smooth, white stones.