The town of Saltmarsh is a town in crisis. The largest town in the backwater southern region of the prosperous coastal kingdom of Keoland, Saltmarsh had operated under a large degree of freedom for hundreds of years. As Keoland expanded northward and grew stronger, the Keoland Royal Family was content to turn a blind eye to the coastal town and some of the more…unsavory activities taking place there. In recent years however, Keoland has been in decline, and desperate for revenue, the current King, Kimbertos Skotti, has turned his attention towards Saltmarsh, seeking to bring the pirates, smugglers, and black marketeers who operate in the town to heel, and make Saltmarsh a trading capital for all of Greyhawk.
The formerly sleepy coastal town has seen an influx from agents of the Crown, as well as a clan of dwarves who were given Royal license to set up mines in the mineral rich hills around Saltmarsh. Old-timers in the town resent these newcomers, and within the past year there has been a number of clashes between the so-called Traditionalists and the self-proclaimed Loyalists to the Crown who share King Skotti’s hopes that trade will lead to renewed prosperity for the whole kingdom. Elsewhere, the fishing that the town relies upon has been historically bad over the previous month. Some of the old salts swear its been the worst its been for decades, and blame the mining operations for angering Procan, God of the sea and of storms.
Thus, it is a time of tension and transition, of opportunity and intrigue in Saltmarsh. For most of you, though, these concerns seem distant. On this fall night, as a heavy coastal fog descends upon Saltmarsh and the air is misty and heavy with moisture, you all find yourself at the Wicker Goat, the oldest tavern in town, which has become a haven for the dwarves, Crown officers, and other newcomers to town. Some of you may be looking for work, others for a room, food or drink, some perhaps, for just a respite from the weather.
The tavern is currently about half full, the clientele mostly boisterous dwarves, scattered off-duty guardsmen, and a cadre of stubborn locals, who hang onto one corner of the bar, seeming to refusing to surrender it to these newcomers.
Come in, warm up, and welcome to Saltmarsh!
(Go ahead and briefly introduce and describe your character.)
Hugh quietly enters The Wicker Goat, and cuts a path straight forward to the bartender and lays a coin on the counter. “I’ll take a tankard of ye’ finest ale,” he says before leaning in closer and whispering, “Got any fights tonight do ye’?” he asks. Anyone looking at Hugh would see a stocky human male standing around 5’7” with tousled brown hair that seems to be perpetually damp from the mists of Saltmarsh. He has multiple scars on his bulging forearms and face, and wears simple common clothes that seem worn for use. Despite his menacing figure, Hugh seems nice enough to, but keeps to himself in the tavern, silently sipping his tankard at a table by himself.
Tul Shirro walks through the entrance to the Wicker Goat, then she pauses and takes a deep breath. A steadying calm enters her as she remembers one of her father's favorite words of advice - to seek is to suffer. to seek nothing is bliss. This is but one small step, down a path of many small steps she tells her self.
Taking another breath, she straightens her muscular 6'2" frame and starts towards the bar. The flickering lights throw shadows across her greenish-gray skin and reddish brown hair. Her simple clothes might make her look the part of a farmer or angler, but the leather strap across her chest with a neat row of shuriken darts, the nijaken short short on her back, and the nunchuka tucked in her belt at her waist suggest something else.
"An ale, please," she says to the bartender.
As she waits for the mug of ale, she absently runs a finger along the long scar that cuts diagonally across her forehead, and flicks the two small tusks in her mouth with her tongue.
Arvastan looks up in vague curiosity as two more enter the Wicked Goat and talk to the barkeep. Deciding that they don't have the look of hiring captains to them, he sighs and turns back to his ale, tapping his fingers on the bar in some vague approximation of a sea shanty his old crew was fond of. "Can I get another ale when you've the time?" he calls out, gesturing with his empty tankard. He's in no hurry - he never is - more intent on studying the boisterous dwarves, trying to decide if they were worth hassling, heckling, or some other form of him generally making a nuisance of himself. He'd just heard from old man Oweland about the mining and the fishing problems and was more inclined to take up with the locals, whom he had known for generations, than the Crown's men.
Anyone looking at Arvastan in that moment would see a rather tall elvish fellow, though his blue skin and fin-like ears easily mark him as being of the elusive sea-elf peoples. He has bright golden eyes, currently fixed upon the group of dwarves, and he's leaning rather gracefully against the bar amongst the cadre of locals, well-known by the oldest of them and comfortable with them despite his long absence at sea. He's dressed casually in a plain, loose tunic and breeches and worn boots; leaning against the bar next to him is a trident upon which he seems to have hung his dark coat. He has a distinct 'sea-dog' air to him.
The bartender, an older, rake-thin human named Lankus, whose only notable physical characteristic is an impressive gray brush mustache, backs up nervously as Hugh comes to the bar. "No...no trouble tonight, alright Hughie?" He pours Hugh a rather generous tankard, then flicks his eyes toward the corner of the bar, where a handsome, if baby-faced, young man sits with one of the oldest elves you've ever seen. "Royal Councilor's here. On the house."He puts a hand over the top of the mug. "If you don't start any scraps while you're here, that is."
Almost if on cue, the young man looks up. He is clean-shaved, with a mop of unruly red hair on the top of his head with the sides of his head shaved. He is dressed in obviously expensive black scale mail armor that has been buffed and shined to an almost extreme degree. It appears as though he has been trying to grow a small mustache, which still very much looks like a work in progress. When he speaks, his voice has a soft, refined tone of the northern Keoish, a far cry from the broad, rough accent of this part of the kingdom.
"Barkeep, another couple of ales, if you wouldn't mind."
Lankus very visibly ignores him, moving first to the newcomer half-orc, pulling her a pint of the Saltmarsh Ale, then heading to where Arvastan is set up.
"Look at that lot, celebrating like our town isn't in the midst of the worst catch in a generation. Disgraceful, it is.."
He says to the sea elf, and goes to spit on the floor. In that moment, though, he links eyes with what seems to be the leader of the dwarves, a severe woman with impressive honey blonde sideburns that meet in a big tuft of hair on her chin. As he sees her watching, Lankus swallows his gob, and moves away, suddenly busy polishing the glassware.
While all this happens, the young noble still hasn't received his drinks and he is beginning to get agitated, despite the best efforts of his elf companion to calm him.
Dimma Brazzik sits among the boisterous dwarves, frothy ale sloshing up and over the sides of her tankard as she regales them with a tale from her younger days. To Arvastan, and anyone else who notices her, she appears to be averagely built for a dwarf. She wears a chainmail coat covered and a white surcoat emblazoned with the icon of a red double-edged battleaxe. She's plump-faced and as boisterous as the other dwarves, but streaks of silver-grey in her auburn beard betrays her to be in her middle years.
Dimma's acquainted herself with the dwarven company, though her business finds her most often on Saltmarsh's docks fulfilling shipping orders of fish destined for the neighboring Principality of Ulek. She knows all too well about the problems plaguing the city's fishermen -- but that doesn't stop her from enjoying a night of revelry. Feeling the eyes of the sea-elf and the barkeep on her and her companions, she gives the golden-haired dwarf woman a nudge and asks, "Does he give your lot much trouble?"
"...and committing their lives to the truly unspeakable! THAT, my friend, is why you can never trust a mime!" You look over to see an older, balding, red-skinned tiefling standing up from a game of cards with a table full of groaning dwarves throwing their cards down. He rakes in the coins on the table with a laugh. "I need a drink, gentlemen. Play the next hand without me."
Gibson Lemonyellow ("Gib" to his friends [if you could find one]..."Glib" to his detractors) looks to be about 50 years old with white hair and a quickly-receding hairline. He's a bit round in the midsection but carries it well. His clothes are very fine in appearance, although a closer inspection would reveal stains mostly covered by an awkwardly long gold-colored vest, vaguely reminiscent of priestly raiments. That same inspection would also likely reveal that the clothes were made to look expensive but certainly were not in actuality. Grabbing his walking stick from its place next to his chair, he walks with a well-rehearsed limp and shuffle toward the bar.
Flashing a wide, brilliant smile, he shouts, "Lankus! It's a good night! Let's have a round for the house! I've got gold and my friends there won't let me leave with it so I might as well spend it before they can win it back!" He doubles over, laughing at his own wit. An odd talesman on a necklace (two orbs next to each other under what look like two eyes amidst a tangle of something) dangles out of his vest which he then casually tucks back in as he rights himself.
Seeing Tul at the bar, he alters his trajectory slightly to approach her. "Well aren't you a sight for sore eyes? You don't look like a miner... or a fisher... or a farmer... No, you must be looking for something. Or someone...? You know, I've been given the gift of foresight by an ancient, all-powerful entity and I say that you have the aura of one who's looking to take a BIG STEP in the direction of something you're SEEKING! Go ahead, tell me I'm right. I'll tell you what: I KNOW what you're seeking. I can smell it on you. Listen, what you need is an introduction. 'An introduction to who, Gib?' is what you're probably asking yourself. Well I'll tell you! The great and powerful Cumian! The creator. The destroyer. He takes away all your cares and worries and makes sure you're prepared for the end of the world! What do you say? I can tell you're enthralled already! Let's talk about your soul..." and he grabs the seat next to her, much to the dismay of everyone in the vicinity.
Tul takes a small sip of the ale, outwardly calm but inwardly quite happy that no one seems to have taken notice of her. Maybe the town had changed.
But that calm is intruded upon very quickly by this very loud and pushy man.
She takes a breath while listening to his words. She had a crew mate like this one once. The only thing he liked more than the sound of his own voice was the sight of his own reflection.
”What makes you so certain I’m seeking something? When one eye is fixed on the destination you only have one eye to search for the way.”
"Ah! A woman of enlightenment. I love that! I could tell from all the way across the room. It's your aura, you know? It just screams..." He clenches both fists in front of himself while he searches for the word. "...independence." That dazzling smile flashes again. "It's written right there on your face: you're a person who's already found what she wants in life and doesn't need to take any steps to get where she's going. You see, I was given the gift of foresight by an omniscient, omnipresent being so I know these things. It's like a fifth sense or something. So tell me," he shifts in his chair and leans in conspiratorially, "are you ready for the end of the world?"
“Alright,” Hugh says with a slow nod. “I’ll be on my best behavior, thank you, Lankus.”
After receiving his ale, Hugh will sit by himself sipping his tankard. He looks around at others in the tavern... I could take that elf up there he thinks. And that old tiefling. As for that half-orc... yeah, I could take her.
Hugh gives a small smile and chuckle at the thought before calmly returning to his drink.
Exactly like an old crew mate, Tul thinks to herself as she listens to this Gib change tactics. So far he seems merely amusing. That helps. He must view her as easy prey. Non threatening. She can’t help but smile. If they are all like this one, maybe she could make this work.
“I have been taught from an early age to always be ready for the end. Now I believe you are selling something. While I will not make a purchase, you have been amusing so I will let you finish your pitch. But if you truly have the gift of foresight you should know how this encounter will end.”
"Ah! A woman of insight. I love that!" Leaning in to speak quietly again, "I could tell we'd be co-conspirators from the moment I walked over." He winks and goes back to his loud, gregarious self, "I don't believe we've been properly introduced! The name's Gibson Lemonyellow, high priest of the First Church of Cumian. My friends call be 'Gib' so you can call me 'Gib.' It's a funny name, I know! But let me tell you something: The headline matches the story!" He laughs at his own joke once again. He leans in and whispers, "Just between you, me, and Lankus over there, you're sitting at the very epicenter of the coming enlightenment period. With a generous donation to the church of one gold piece, your next drink will be free." Straightening back up after a brief pause, his well-rehearsed monolog continues, "No? Well that's absolutely fair. Enjoy your next round on me anyway and I'll check back in after a few more drinks to see if those purse strings have loosened at all!" He slaps Tul on the shoulder and chuckles as he retrieves his drink from the bar and hobbles over to sit next to Arvastan. He takes a sip, glances over at the elf and quietly mutters, "Tourists...am I right?" and falls silent for the moment.
Arvastan snorts at Gib's comment and salutes him, somewhat sarcastically, with his tankard. "I hope you're fleecing them for all they're worth," he comments before taking a drink. "I've not been in port long this time, but I don't like what they've done with the place," he muses, making a face. The bad fishing and the mining had taken a toll on his benefactors and thus he was automatically predisposed against them.
Excited by rare the prospect of someone engaging him (instead of the other way around), Gib's face lights back up. "Well, friend, believe you me, I have a few things to say about that. But first, I don't believe I've had the precise pleasure of making your acquaintance. The name's Gibson Lemonyellow, high priest of the First Church of Cumian. My friends call me 'Gib' so you can call me 'Gib.'" Gib pauses to gauge the reaction. "It's clear from your expression that you've never heard of said church, but I can tell you that as sure as I stand, er, sit here before you, there is no fleece involved, my friend. While I require coin to continue in my mission, as do all churches, this's a serious matter of conscience, souls, eternity, and the cessation of existence as we know it." He pauses for effect, his jovial manner is gone and has been replaced by seemingly sincere concern. "Have you let go and embraced the void yet, brother?"
Tul shakes her head as she watches Gib move off to sit with the sea-elf. As she hears him begin his pitch again she turns back to her beer and takes another sip and relaxes enough to take in the rest of the patrons in the tavern.
That one, the one the bartender called Hughie, seems sure of himself. Probably overly so. She has had to fight the likes of him before. There was always a burly new member of the crew that wanted to show how tough they were and eventually they would get around to picking a fight with the half-orc. And always saying they would go easy on her because she was a woman. She had never been able to control her temper then.
She watches the royal councilor more closely, curious why he might be here where he is so clearly not welcome. And that thought gives her pause. She still had a long way to go before she was like her father.
The leader of the dwarven miners, Manistrad Copperlocks, snorts as Dimma asks about the strange looks the dwarves are receiving. " That lot? They wouldn't dare." She sips her ale and chuckles softly. "The people here are scared. Scared of progress. Scared of the future. The Copperlocks clan has it easy, Sister. All we have to do is work the mine. I feel sorry for Lord Anders over there. He's the one who has to deal with all those dullards on the Council that want to pretend like things ain't changing." She nods over at the young human noble. "As soon as the mine starts producing, things will smooth over. Gold is the only language the people of Saltmarsh understand."
Lankus makes a face at Tul, as the tiefling moves to Arvastan, indicating his distaste for the fast-talking fellow. "Let me know if he's bothering you, ma'am. He's a known scalawag around these parts. Oy, Glib! I told you to leave them people alone. You're welcome to drink in here, but the second you start spouting that Cumian nonsense, I'm going to call Eliandor." He turns back to the half-orc. "D'ya need a room tonight? The miners have most of the rooms, but there are a few available. 8 silver, but that includes a nice breakfast." Lankus says, almost as an obligation. Unlike the slick Gibson, the tired looking tavernkeeper is not a natural salesperson.
Gibson, and anyone who has been in Saltmarsh any longer than a week or two
Eliandor Fireborn is the Goliath captain of the guard for Saltmarsh -- a typical Goliath, he is feared as a brutal and unsparing combatant, and is particularly hated by those involved in the Saltmarsh's black market. More surprisingly, he is also a bit of a local celebrity due to his facility with languages; he speaks at least six languages that you know of.
It is this point, a big burly human pushes his way into the tavern, and with a deep booming voice, announces to the tavern "Saltmarsh! You are living with an abomination in your very midst! There is a haven for evil here and it must be cleansed!" His face is cracked and weathered, and reflects a lifetime at see, and though he is dressed in priest robes that obscure most of his body, you can tell that he seems to be missing a leg.
Manistrad rolls her eyes at Dimma in an overly exaggerated fashion. "Here we go!"Standing up in her chair, she shouts at the man. "Exactly how has our mine caused all this then, old timer?"
"What? Your mine? Child, your vanity is astounding. Procan cares not for what mortals do underneath the Earth. I'm referring to that abomination Dilpas Manor, which all among you ignore at your peril. This sin is at the heart of your current misfortune!" He speaks as though he's giving a sermon and most people in the tavern listen respectfully until the mention of Dilpas Manor. At this point, there is a noticeable chill in the air. People exchange low glances, and there is an undercurrent of uncomfortable mumbling and people shifting in their seats.
Even Manistrade, who opens her mouth to respond, instead seems to think better of it, and she sits down uncertainly.
"I think he was mostly harmless, but even the harmless can be exhausting," she says. "And yes, thank you. I would like a room, please," she adds and slides 8 silver pieces on to the bar. Looking at the meager number of coins left in her pouch, she reprimands herself yet again for jumping ship without collecting all of her share that was coming to her.
After the priest finishes speaking, she turns back to Lankus.
"Do you know anything of this Dilpas Manor he was talking about?"
Gibson raises his hands in acquiescence at the sound of Lankus' admonishment and stares back into his drink until the door opens. At the old-timer's mention of 'an abomination in [their] midst,' Gib's first reaction was to duck and run for fear his past had caught up with him once more. Hearing some nonsense about Dilpas Manor was a relief. Being foreign to the region and generally staying out of local politics and events as a rule, Gib has no idea what this man is going on about. He does, however, appreciate the man's abrupt approach to his craft. He should consider softening his pitch, though. Offending one's target is a sure way to get run out of town... Gib knows this all too well. With an inaudible chuckle and sigh of relief the tiefling drains the entirety of his mug in one go and slams it on the bar loudly to break the tavern's stunned silence. Standing to his full height, he spins around, points an imperious finger at this hack of a soothsayer and shouts, "Tread lightly, thou prevaricator! Thou slanderer of noble names! This place is protected under the impenetrable shroud of the immortal Cumian until such time as they see fit to bring an end to all existence!" He approaches the burly man and says in a lower voice, "But in the meantime, how about I buy you a drink and we can workshop your sell? I can tell you aren't very experienced with working full rooms. Let's grab that table in the corner and you can tell me all about your problems with whatsit manor and we'll let the air cool for a bit." Gibson looks over his shoulder at Lankus, holds up two fingers, and attempts to gently guide the man toward the table he indicated.
"Aye," Dimma replies to Manistrad, "The poor season isn't helping calm things in the meantime--"
As she replies she is cut off by the burly priest barging into the room. She takes a backseat to Manistrad, listening to the sermon. She tries her best to maintain a straight face, but its difficult for her to suppress a skeptical expression. As Manistrad settles back into her seat, Dimma leans over to whisper a question.
"The source of the bad fishing season, eh?" Dimma says while stroking the hairs on her chin, "That seems like a stretch, but whatever this Dilpas Manor is it's got the townsfolk shivering in their boots. Even you, Copperlocks." She chuckles and takes a swig from her tankard before returning it to the table, "Sounds like serious business. What do you know about that place?"
Based on your passive perception, you get the sense that there was the slightest hesitation in the cleric when he notices you. Its just a momentary flicker, but it still stands out to you.
Manistrade looks at Dimma evenly, only breaking her gaze to chug the rest of her ale. She slowly rubs the back of her hand across her mouth, taking her time before answering. "It's some dumb ghost story these old farts tell greenhorns to frighten them. Its just an abandoned house North of town.The boys and I passed by there a few weeks ago on a surveying trip. There were some strange noises we heard when we were passing by. I told the boys to steer clear" She says a little sheepishly. Seemingly uncomfortable with the silence, she quickly, casually adds. "Its not our job anyway, yeah? Its on his Lordship over there to sort out these folks' problems. We just need to keep the mine running. That's all that matters."
Behind the bar, Lankus mops his forehead with one of his filthy bar rags. As Tul questions him, he turns grim-faced. "It's a cursed place alright. Some kind of wizard lived up there, doing all sorts of weird magic. Disappeared almost twenty years ago now, and the place has been cursed ever since. A few idiots go in to try and claim the wizard's treasure, or for a laugh and they don't come out. But responsible for our trouble The priest there is talking bollocks. Everyone knows who's responsible for the trouble Saltmarsh is in.
He looks directly at the half-orc as he curtly adds "Folks need to leave well enough alone and not go where they're not wanted. And that wizard don't want visitors."He looks to Hugh, and starts to roll up his sleeves. "Hugh, lad. Want to give me a hand and make sure that old Wellgar gets home? No telling where the old sot will end up when he's been drinking. He has services in the morning and needs to sober up anyway, yeah?"
At this point the young noble stands up and approaches Gibson and the old preacher and speaks loudly over the din of the tavern, loud enough for all to hear. " Forgive my intrusion. I'd like to hear more about the Dilpas place as well. This is exactly the sort of thing that King Skotti has asked me to investigate. I myself own a fair few fishing vessels, so the hard times have affected my business as well. Please join me and my retainer at the bar. Perhaps we can help." He grins a toothy grin, and gestures to the bar where the elderly elf awaits, glowering at his employer and the others.
The town of Saltmarsh is a town in crisis. The largest town in the backwater southern region of the prosperous coastal kingdom of Keoland, Saltmarsh had operated under a large degree of freedom for hundreds of years. As Keoland expanded northward and grew stronger, the Keoland Royal Family was content to turn a blind eye to the coastal town and some of the more…unsavory activities taking place there. In recent years however, Keoland has been in decline, and desperate for revenue, the current King, Kimbertos Skotti, has turned his attention towards Saltmarsh, seeking to bring the pirates, smugglers, and black marketeers who operate in the town to heel, and make Saltmarsh a trading capital for all of Greyhawk.
The formerly sleepy coastal town has seen an influx from agents of the Crown, as well as a clan of dwarves who were given Royal license to set up mines in the mineral rich hills around Saltmarsh. Old-timers in the town resent these newcomers, and within the past year there has been a number of clashes between the so-called Traditionalists and the self-proclaimed Loyalists to the Crown who share King Skotti’s hopes that trade will lead to renewed prosperity for the whole kingdom. Elsewhere, the fishing that the town relies upon has been historically bad over the previous month. Some of the old salts swear its been the worst its been for decades, and blame the mining operations for angering Procan, God of the sea and of storms.
Thus, it is a time of tension and transition, of opportunity and intrigue in Saltmarsh. For most of you, though, these concerns seem distant. On this fall night, as a heavy coastal fog descends upon Saltmarsh and the air is misty and heavy with moisture, you all find yourself at the Wicker Goat, the oldest tavern in town, which has become a haven for the dwarves, Crown officers, and other newcomers to town. Some of you may be looking for work, others for a room, food or drink, some perhaps, for just a respite from the weather.
The tavern is currently about half full, the clientele mostly boisterous dwarves, scattered off-duty guardsmen, and a cadre of stubborn locals, who hang onto one corner of the bar, seeming to refusing to surrender it to these newcomers.
Come in, warm up, and welcome to Saltmarsh!
(Go ahead and briefly introduce and describe your character.)
Hugh quietly enters The Wicker Goat, and cuts a path straight forward to the bartender and lays a coin on the counter. “I’ll take a tankard of ye’ finest ale,” he says before leaning in closer and whispering, “Got any fights tonight do ye’?” he asks. Anyone looking at Hugh would see a stocky human male standing around 5’7” with tousled brown hair that seems to be perpetually damp from the mists of Saltmarsh. He has multiple scars on his bulging forearms and face, and wears simple common clothes that seem worn for use. Despite his menacing figure, Hugh seems nice enough to, but keeps to himself in the tavern, silently sipping his tankard at a table by himself.
Alton Thorngage- (Klein’s One Shot String Adventure)
Holden Stonefist-(A Tale of Mercenaries)
Fenrick Wolfsbane- (Icewind Dale: Rime of the Frostmaiden)
DMing-Ctleath13’s Lost Mines of Phandelver and Ctleath13’s Out of the Abyss
Tul Shirro walks through the entrance to the Wicker Goat, then she pauses and takes a deep breath. A steadying calm enters her as she remembers one of her father's favorite words of advice - to seek is to suffer. to seek nothing is bliss. This is but one small step, down a path of many small steps she tells her self.
Taking another breath, she straightens her muscular 6'2" frame and starts towards the bar. The flickering lights throw shadows across her greenish-gray skin and reddish brown hair. Her simple clothes might make her look the part of a farmer or angler, but the leather strap across her chest with a neat row of shuriken darts, the nijaken short short on her back, and the nunchuka tucked in her belt at her waist suggest something else.
"An ale, please," she says to the bartender.
As she waits for the mug of ale, she absently runs a finger along the long scar that cuts diagonally across her forehead, and flicks the two small tusks in her mouth with her tongue.
Arvastan looks up in vague curiosity as two more enter the Wicked Goat and talk to the barkeep. Deciding that they don't have the look of hiring captains to them, he sighs and turns back to his ale, tapping his fingers on the bar in some vague approximation of a sea shanty his old crew was fond of. "Can I get another ale when you've the time?" he calls out, gesturing with his empty tankard. He's in no hurry - he never is - more intent on studying the boisterous dwarves, trying to decide if they were worth hassling, heckling, or some other form of him generally making a nuisance of himself. He'd just heard from old man Oweland about the mining and the fishing problems and was more inclined to take up with the locals, whom he had known for generations, than the Crown's men.
Anyone looking at Arvastan in that moment would see a rather tall elvish fellow, though his blue skin and fin-like ears easily mark him as being of the elusive sea-elf peoples. He has bright golden eyes, currently fixed upon the group of dwarves, and he's leaning rather gracefully against the bar amongst the cadre of locals, well-known by the oldest of them and comfortable with them despite his long absence at sea. He's dressed casually in a plain, loose tunic and breeches and worn boots; leaning against the bar next to him is a trident upon which he seems to have hung his dark coat. He has a distinct 'sea-dog' air to him.
No Longer ActiveThe bartender, an older, rake-thin human named Lankus, whose only notable physical characteristic is an impressive gray brush mustache, backs up nervously as Hugh comes to the bar. "No...no trouble tonight, alright Hughie?" He pours Hugh a rather generous tankard, then flicks his eyes toward the corner of the bar, where a handsome, if baby-faced, young man sits with one of the oldest elves you've ever seen. "Royal Councilor's here. On the house." He puts a hand over the top of the mug. "If you don't start any scraps while you're here, that is."
Almost if on cue, the young man looks up. He is clean-shaved, with a mop of unruly red hair on the top of his head with the sides of his head shaved. He is dressed in obviously expensive black scale mail armor that has been buffed and shined to an almost extreme degree. It appears as though he has been trying to grow a small mustache, which still very much looks like a work in progress. When he speaks, his voice has a soft, refined tone of the northern Keoish, a far cry from the broad, rough accent of this part of the kingdom.
"Barkeep, another couple of ales, if you wouldn't mind."
Lankus very visibly ignores him, moving first to the newcomer half-orc, pulling her a pint of the Saltmarsh Ale, then heading to where Arvastan is set up.
"Look at that lot, celebrating like our town isn't in the midst of the worst catch in a generation. Disgraceful, it is.."
He says to the sea elf, and goes to spit on the floor. In that moment, though, he links eyes with what seems to be the leader of the dwarves, a severe woman with impressive honey blonde sideburns that meet in a big tuft of hair on her chin. As he sees her watching, Lankus swallows his gob, and moves away, suddenly busy polishing the glassware.
While all this happens, the young noble still hasn't received his drinks and he is beginning to get agitated, despite the best efforts of his elf companion to calm him.
Dimma Brazzik sits among the boisterous dwarves, frothy ale sloshing up and over the sides of her tankard as she regales them with a tale from her younger days. To Arvastan, and anyone else who notices her, she appears to be averagely built for a dwarf. She wears a chainmail coat covered and a white surcoat emblazoned with the icon of a red double-edged battleaxe. She's plump-faced and as boisterous as the other dwarves, but streaks of silver-grey in her auburn beard betrays her to be in her middle years.
Dimma's acquainted herself with the dwarven company, though her business finds her most often on Saltmarsh's docks fulfilling shipping orders of fish destined for the neighboring Principality of Ulek. She knows all too well about the problems plaguing the city's fishermen -- but that doesn't stop her from enjoying a night of revelry. Feeling the eyes of the sea-elf and the barkeep on her and her companions, she gives the golden-haired dwarf woman a nudge and asks, "Does he give your lot much trouble?"
"...and committing their lives to the truly unspeakable! THAT, my friend, is why you can never trust a mime!" You look over to see an older, balding, red-skinned tiefling standing up from a game of cards with a table full of groaning dwarves throwing their cards down. He rakes in the coins on the table with a laugh. "I need a drink, gentlemen. Play the next hand without me."
Gibson Lemonyellow ("Gib" to his friends [if you could find one]..."Glib" to his detractors) looks to be about 50 years old with white hair and a quickly-receding hairline. He's a bit round in the midsection but carries it well. His clothes are very fine in appearance, although a closer inspection would reveal stains mostly covered by an awkwardly long gold-colored vest, vaguely reminiscent of priestly raiments. That same inspection would also likely reveal that the clothes were made to look expensive but certainly were not in actuality. Grabbing his walking stick from its place next to his chair, he walks with a well-rehearsed limp and shuffle toward the bar.
Flashing a wide, brilliant smile, he shouts, "Lankus! It's a good night! Let's have a round for the house! I've got gold and my friends there won't let me leave with it so I might as well spend it before they can win it back!" He doubles over, laughing at his own wit. An odd talesman on a necklace (two orbs next to each other under what look like two eyes amidst a tangle of something) dangles out of his vest which he then casually tucks back in as he rights himself.
Seeing Tul at the bar, he alters his trajectory slightly to approach her. "Well aren't you a sight for sore eyes? You don't look like a miner... or a fisher... or a farmer... No, you must be looking for something. Or someone...? You know, I've been given the gift of foresight by an ancient, all-powerful entity and I say that you have the aura of one who's looking to take a BIG STEP in the direction of something you're SEEKING! Go ahead, tell me I'm right. I'll tell you what: I KNOW what you're seeking. I can smell it on you. Listen, what you need is an introduction. 'An introduction to who, Gib?' is what you're probably asking yourself. Well I'll tell you! The great and powerful Cumian! The creator. The destroyer. He takes away all your cares and worries and makes sure you're prepared for the end of the world! What do you say? I can tell you're enthralled already! Let's talk about your soul..." and he grabs the seat next to her, much to the dismay of everyone in the vicinity.
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Neria Tallfellow (Halfling Rogue) - Curse of the Crimson Throne with Ashen_Age
Tul takes a small sip of the ale, outwardly calm but inwardly quite happy that no one seems to have taken notice of her. Maybe the town had changed.
But that calm is intruded upon very quickly by this very loud and pushy man.
She takes a breath while listening to his words. She had a crew mate like this one once. The only thing he liked more than the sound of his own voice was the sight of his own reflection.
”What makes you so certain I’m seeking something? When one eye is fixed on the destination you only have one eye to search for the way.”
"Ah! A woman of enlightenment. I love that! I could tell from all the way across the room. It's your aura, you know? It just screams..." He clenches both fists in front of himself while he searches for the word. "...independence." That dazzling smile flashes again. "It's written right there on your face: you're a person who's already found what she wants in life and doesn't need to take any steps to get where she's going. You see, I was given the gift of foresight by an omniscient, omnipresent being so I know these things. It's like a fifth sense or something. So tell me," he shifts in his chair and leans in conspiratorially, "are you ready for the end of the world?"
Characters currently being ruined on this forum:
Neria Tallfellow (Halfling Rogue) - Curse of the Crimson Throne with Ashen_Age
“Alright,” Hugh says with a slow nod. “I’ll be on my best behavior, thank you, Lankus.”
After receiving his ale, Hugh will sit by himself sipping his tankard. He looks around at others in the tavern... I could take that elf up there he thinks. And that old tiefling. As for that half-orc... yeah, I could take her.
Hugh gives a small smile and chuckle at the thought before calmly returning to his drink.
Alton Thorngage- (Klein’s One Shot String Adventure)
Holden Stonefist-(A Tale of Mercenaries)
Fenrick Wolfsbane- (Icewind Dale: Rime of the Frostmaiden)
DMing-Ctleath13’s Lost Mines of Phandelver and Ctleath13’s Out of the Abyss
Exactly like an old crew mate, Tul thinks to herself as she listens to this Gib change tactics. So far he seems merely amusing. That helps. He must view her as easy prey. Non threatening. She can’t help but smile. If they are all like this one, maybe she could make this work.
“I have been taught from an early age to always be ready for the end. Now I believe you are selling something. While I will not make a purchase, you have been amusing so I will let you finish your pitch. But if you truly have the gift of foresight you should know how this encounter will end.”
"Ah! A woman of insight. I love that!" Leaning in to speak quietly again, "I could tell we'd be co-conspirators from the moment I walked over." He winks and goes back to his loud, gregarious self, "I don't believe we've been properly introduced! The name's Gibson Lemonyellow, high priest of the First Church of Cumian. My friends call be 'Gib' so you can call me 'Gib.' It's a funny name, I know! But let me tell you something: The headline matches the story!" He laughs at his own joke once again. He leans in and whispers, "Just between you, me, and Lankus over there, you're sitting at the very epicenter of the coming enlightenment period. With a generous donation to the church of one gold piece, your next drink will be free." Straightening back up after a brief pause, his well-rehearsed monolog continues, "No? Well that's absolutely fair. Enjoy your next round on me anyway and I'll check back in after a few more drinks to see if those purse strings have loosened at all!" He slaps Tul on the shoulder and chuckles as he retrieves his drink from the bar and hobbles over to sit next to Arvastan. He takes a sip, glances over at the elf and quietly mutters, "Tourists...am I right?" and falls silent for the moment.
Characters currently being ruined on this forum:
Neria Tallfellow (Halfling Rogue) - Curse of the Crimson Throne with Ashen_Age
(Mobile)
Arvastan snorts at Gib's comment and salutes him, somewhat sarcastically, with his tankard. "I hope you're fleecing them for all they're worth," he comments before taking a drink. "I've not been in port long this time, but I don't like what they've done with the place," he muses, making a face. The bad fishing and the mining had taken a toll on his benefactors and thus he was automatically predisposed against them.
No Longer ActiveExcited by rare the prospect of someone engaging him (instead of the other way around), Gib's face lights back up. "Well, friend, believe you me, I have a few things to say about that. But first, I don't believe I've had the precise pleasure of making your acquaintance. The name's Gibson Lemonyellow, high priest of the First Church of Cumian. My friends call me 'Gib' so you can call me 'Gib.'" Gib pauses to gauge the reaction. "It's clear from your expression that you've never heard of said church, but I can tell you that as sure as I stand, er, sit here before you, there is no fleece involved, my friend. While I require coin to continue in my mission, as do all churches, this's a serious matter of conscience, souls, eternity, and the cessation of existence as we know it." He pauses for effect, his jovial manner is gone and has been replaced by seemingly sincere concern. "Have you let go and embraced the void yet, brother?"
Characters currently being ruined on this forum:
Neria Tallfellow (Halfling Rogue) - Curse of the Crimson Throne with Ashen_Age
Tul shakes her head as she watches Gib move off to sit with the sea-elf. As she hears him begin his pitch again she turns back to her beer and takes another sip and relaxes enough to take in the rest of the patrons in the tavern.
That one, the one the bartender called Hughie, seems sure of himself. Probably overly so. She has had to fight the likes of him before. There was always a burly new member of the crew that wanted to show how tough they were and eventually they would get around to picking a fight with the half-orc. And always saying they would go easy on her because she was a woman. She had never been able to control her temper then.
She watches the royal councilor more closely, curious why he might be here where he is so clearly not welcome. And that thought gives her pause. She still had a long way to go before she was like her father.
The leader of the dwarven miners, Manistrad Copperlocks, snorts as Dimma asks about the strange looks the dwarves are receiving. " That lot? They wouldn't dare." She sips her ale and chuckles softly. "The people here are scared. Scared of progress. Scared of the future. The Copperlocks clan has it easy, Sister. All we have to do is work the mine. I feel sorry for Lord Anders over there. He's the one who has to deal with all those dullards on the Council that want to pretend like things ain't changing." She nods over at the young human noble. "As soon as the mine starts producing, things will smooth over. Gold is the only language the people of Saltmarsh understand."
Lankus makes a face at Tul, as the tiefling moves to Arvastan, indicating his distaste for the fast-talking fellow. "Let me know if he's bothering you, ma'am. He's a known scalawag around these parts. Oy, Glib! I told you to leave them people alone. You're welcome to drink in here, but the second you start spouting that Cumian nonsense, I'm going to call Eliandor." He turns back to the half-orc. "D'ya need a room tonight? The miners have most of the rooms, but there are a few available. 8 silver, but that includes a nice breakfast." Lankus says, almost as an obligation. Unlike the slick Gibson, the tired looking tavernkeeper is not a natural salesperson.
Gibson, and anyone who has been in Saltmarsh any longer than a week or two
Eliandor Fireborn is the Goliath captain of the guard for Saltmarsh -- a typical Goliath, he is feared as a brutal and unsparing combatant, and is particularly hated by those involved in the Saltmarsh's black market. More surprisingly, he is also a bit of a local celebrity due to his facility with languages; he speaks at least six languages that you know of.
It is this point, a big burly human pushes his way into the tavern, and with a deep booming voice, announces to the tavern "Saltmarsh! You are living with an abomination in your very midst! There is a haven for evil here and it must be cleansed!" His face is cracked and weathered, and reflects a lifetime at see, and though he is dressed in priest robes that obscure most of his body, you can tell that he seems to be missing a leg.
Manistrad rolls her eyes at Dimma in an overly exaggerated fashion. "Here we go!" Standing up in her chair, she shouts at the man. "Exactly how has our mine caused all this then, old timer?"
"What? Your mine? Child, your vanity is astounding. Procan cares not for what mortals do underneath the Earth. I'm referring to that abomination Dilpas Manor, which all among you ignore at your peril. This sin is at the heart of your current misfortune!" He speaks as though he's giving a sermon and most people in the tavern listen respectfully until the mention of Dilpas Manor. At this point, there is a noticeable chill in the air. People exchange low glances, and there is an undercurrent of uncomfortable mumbling and people shifting in their seats.
Even Manistrade, who opens her mouth to respond, instead seems to think better of it, and she sits down uncertainly.
What do you do?
Tul nods her thanks to Lankus.
"I think he was mostly harmless, but even the harmless can be exhausting," she says. "And yes, thank you. I would like a room, please," she adds and slides 8 silver pieces on to the bar. Looking at the meager number of coins left in her pouch, she reprimands herself yet again for jumping ship without collecting all of her share that was coming to her.
After the priest finishes speaking, she turns back to Lankus.
"Do you know anything of this Dilpas Manor he was talking about?"
Gibson raises his hands in acquiescence at the sound of Lankus' admonishment and stares back into his drink until the door opens. At the old-timer's mention of 'an abomination in [their] midst,' Gib's first reaction was to duck and run for fear his past had caught up with him once more. Hearing some nonsense about Dilpas Manor was a relief. Being foreign to the region and generally staying out of local politics and events as a rule, Gib has no idea what this man is going on about. He does, however, appreciate the man's abrupt approach to his craft. He should consider softening his pitch, though. Offending one's target is a sure way to get run out of town... Gib knows this all too well. With an inaudible chuckle and sigh of relief the tiefling drains the entirety of his mug in one go and slams it on the bar loudly to break the tavern's stunned silence. Standing to his full height, he spins around, points an imperious finger at this hack of a soothsayer and shouts, "Tread lightly, thou prevaricator! Thou slanderer of noble names! This place is protected under the impenetrable shroud of the immortal Cumian until such time as they see fit to bring an end to all existence!" He approaches the burly man and says in a lower voice, "But in the meantime, how about I buy you a drink and we can workshop your sell? I can tell you aren't very experienced with working full rooms. Let's grab that table in the corner and you can tell me all about your problems with whatsit manor and we'll let the air cool for a bit." Gibson looks over his shoulder at Lankus, holds up two fingers, and attempts to gently guide the man toward the table he indicated.
Characters currently being ruined on this forum:
Neria Tallfellow (Halfling Rogue) - Curse of the Crimson Throne with Ashen_Age
"Aye," Dimma replies to Manistrad, "The poor season isn't helping calm things in the meantime--"
As she replies she is cut off by the burly priest barging into the room. She takes a backseat to Manistrad, listening to the sermon. She tries her best to maintain a straight face, but its difficult for her to suppress a skeptical expression. As Manistrad settles back into her seat, Dimma leans over to whisper a question.
"The source of the bad fishing season, eh?" Dimma says while stroking the hairs on her chin, "That seems like a stretch, but whatever this Dilpas Manor is it's got the townsfolk shivering in their boots. Even you, Copperlocks." She chuckles and takes a swig from her tankard before returning it to the table, "Sounds like serious business. What do you know about that place?"
Tul only
Based on your passive perception, you get the sense that there was the slightest hesitation in the cleric when he notices you. Its just a momentary flicker, but it still stands out to you.
Manistrade looks at Dimma evenly, only breaking her gaze to chug the rest of her ale. She slowly rubs the back of her hand across her mouth, taking her time before answering. "It's some dumb ghost story these old farts tell greenhorns to frighten them. Its just an abandoned house North of town. The boys and I passed by there a few weeks ago on a surveying trip. There were some strange noises we heard when we were passing by. I told the boys to steer clear" She says a little sheepishly. Seemingly uncomfortable with the silence, she quickly, casually adds. "Its not our job anyway, yeah? Its on his Lordship over there to sort out these folks' problems. We just need to keep the mine running. That's all that matters."
Behind the bar, Lankus mops his forehead with one of his filthy bar rags. As Tul questions him, he turns grim-faced. "It's a cursed place alright. Some kind of wizard lived up there, doing all sorts of weird magic. Disappeared almost twenty years ago now, and the place has been cursed ever since. A few idiots go in to try and claim the wizard's treasure, or for a laugh and they don't come out. But responsible for our trouble The priest there is talking bollocks. Everyone knows who's responsible for the trouble Saltmarsh is in.
He looks directly at the half-orc as he curtly adds "Folks need to leave well enough alone and not go where they're not wanted. And that wizard don't want visitors." He looks to Hugh, and starts to roll up his sleeves. "Hugh, lad. Want to give me a hand and make sure that old Wellgar gets home? No telling where the old sot will end up when he's been drinking. He has services in the morning and needs to sober up anyway, yeah?"
At this point the young noble stands up and approaches Gibson and the old preacher and speaks loudly over the din of the tavern, loud enough for all to hear. " Forgive my intrusion. I'd like to hear more about the Dilpas place as well. This is exactly the sort of thing that King Skotti has asked me to investigate. I myself own a fair few fishing vessels, so the hard times have affected my business as well. Please join me and my retainer at the bar. Perhaps we can help." He grins a toothy grin, and gestures to the bar where the elderly elf awaits, glowering at his employer and the others.