Saltmarsh is a nondescript fishing village tucked away on the southern coast of the Kingdom of Keoland. About a week ago, you caught wind of a rumor, and the perfect opportunity to begin your adventuring career: four miles east of Saltmarsh, just inland of the old coast road, stands a haunted house. Until twenty years ago, it had been the residence of an aged alchemist of sinister reputation. Even then, you've heard, locals have avoided the house because of its owner’s mysterious activities. Now, two decades after the unexplained disappearance of its occupant, the house has taken on an even greater air of evil and mystery.
Dilapidated and long abandoned, the house presents an unwholesome appearance. The rumors included tales of those hardy souls who have infrequently sought entry pursuing hints of a secret hoard of alchemical gold - all returning with naught save grim tales of decaying chambers presided over by monstrous perils. Indeed, such is the reputation of the house that the fields around it, though prime agricultural land, remain untended and rank with weeds. For two decades, the haunted house near Saltmarsh has sat, its ill reputation festering.
Well, you decided, what a more perfect way to earn a name for yourself? For years, the tales of the haunted house near Saltmarsh have circulated through the region - you've finally caught wind of it. Though most of the stories are rightfully taken as warnings to avoid the place, rumors persist of a great treasure hidden in its walls. What relics and other valuables did that old alchemist keep in the creaking floorboards and cracked plaster walls of his home?
This is where our adventure begins. It started with a rumor - then, you got all of your companions together, and a journey to Saltmarsh was made. You all decided to brave the old house and plunder it's secrets for yourself. Thus begins:
The ocean breeze carried the wisps of smoke up and out, circling around the head of the tall, furry figure leaned against a tree on the outskirts of Saltmarsh. The locals openly gawked, not even bothering to avert their gazes and open-mouthed expressions. Wilmot smiled, taking another puff of the herb, before sharing its aromatic essence with the world as he exhaled. It puzzled him why those passers-by were so surprised by the sweet, but pungent smell of his herb. His naivete not allowing him to realize it was his 7-and-a-half-foot tall figure that was actually drawing the attention. Happily, he took another long toke from the fired herb, drinking in its calming essence. Behind him, he could hear the others, their voices animated with the excitement of their ilk. The horned tiefling. The snake-kin. The follower of Helm. The bastard elfling. And the others. All talking about the manor. The haunted house. The adventure that lay ahead.
Wilmot took another long toke, smiling at a couple of gaping passers-by. "Praise the Dweller on the Horizon," he says, exhaling a plume of aromatic smoke. "Fharlanghn guide you, my friends." He chuckles heartily in his deep baritone voice as the couple quickens its steps to get past the gentle giant. Using his thumb and forefinger, he snubs the fire from his herb, returning the remainder to his pouch. His long red, dreadlocked hair adding to his impressive height. His soft red-orange-brown fur, loopy ears and almost bovine-like face adding to the stare-inducing appearance.
He smacks his lips as the herb's final essence disappears, allowing once again the salty taste of the sea wind find its way to him. "No wonder they call it Saltmarsh," he thinks to himself. "A bitter taste, this place."
Wilmot turns to the others, leaning on his long, black oaken staff. "So, my friends, are we done with the talk? Our destiny can only be achieved if we walk toward it."
The people gawking at the firbolg would normally have irked Klaus Reinhardt, paladin of Helm. He had expected adoration from the commoners who he had come to aid. After all, it was his mandate to protect those not blessed with those gifts which made him cut a fine figure as a Vigilant Eye of the God. Klaus had made the journey to the coast with the initial expectation that his height, broad shoulders, and lantern jaw would be duly noted and appreciated.
However, the ocean breeze did less to accentuate the knight's blond hair than remind him that his immaculate chain mail would suffer the indignity of rust if he tarried in the area for long. Therefore, Klaus attempted to affect the stoic demeanor of a knight who had seen his share of battle and rough living. A tall order, considering Klaus had just finished his novitiate and his greatest test of his spirit had been to not betray his dismay that he should have listened to his retainers, who had advised wearing a leather jerkin or a gambeson rather than the chain mail and the thick cloth tabard covering it which now flapped in the breeze a bit too loudly. Klaus would not hear of proudly wearing the armor he had only recently been granted after being knighted. Klaus also balked at his retainers' suggestion that they accompany him to the reputedly haunted manor. Klaus turned them away, citing his obligation to protect the innocent and the defenseless, of which he considered his retainers to be the latter. In truth, Rolo was as handy with an axe, mace, or club as any neophyte of Helm could ever hope to be. Rolo just had the good sense to keep his mouth shut about it.
The only concession Klaus made is that of letting his majordomo Rolo keep his plumed helm for safekeeping on the offchance that it be lost in any excitement. Klaus expected to either show these yokels that they had nothing to fear from the house, and if they did have anything to fear, they need not fear it for very long. Indeed, Klaus was eager to get on with the business of disabusing these peasants of their fears or in the alternative, bringing any unholy terrors to swift justice. Besides, the coffers of the order would benefit from any treasure collected, and Helm would no doubt bless any investment made in silvering a blade of his loyal servant. A shining blade would at the least impress the rabble, even if it didn't have any nearby demons to slice.
Klaus dismissed Rolo with a wave. Turning to face the crowd, Klaus flashed his most winning smile and said, "Away, good Rolo! Stand back, ladies and gentlemen. Attend your eyes and prepare to give thanks for the protection of Lord Helm, the Vigilant One! It is in his name that I shall grant you deliverance from your fears!"
Klaus hoped that his bold declarations gave him some attention without much of it being focused on his impractical armor.
"At least I talked his lordship out of wearing that ridiculous helmet", muttered Rolo, leading the horses.
Archibald Weatherbottom looked on as the two more physically endowed companions as they addressed the crowd. While Archibald was used to being the center of attention in small gatherings, he was a little out of his element in this larger arena. As they spoke, he made his way around the crowd making conversation with anyone that would listen. This wasn't to difficult to accomplish. With his sun-tanned half-elf complexion, shaggy red hair, and dashing smile, he was able to engage a few gentlemen and more than a few ladies in discussion of the haunted house. While it seemed like many of the tales were varied, one element of the story did seem consistent: the promise of treasure. This Archibald was in dire need of.
Over the last 4 years Archie had galivanted around the countryside squandering his family inheritance. You see he was used to a certain lifestyle. This eventually led him to the coast of the Azure Sea. Needing work, he made friends with the captain of the Barracuda's Maul. Using his particular set of skills, Archibald became the ship's navigator and translator. Unfortunately his navigating skills weren't as good as his translating. This in turn lead the Maul into the path of a notorious captain, the Dread Pirate Hobert. After the ship was pillaged and it's crew cast into the ocean, Archibald clung to a piece of wreckage. For 3 days he listed at sea until he was rescued by a passing merchant ship. Quite waterlogged and defeated, he made his way back to Saltmarsh and stumbled to the local tavern. Swindling his way from meal to bed, Archibald has come to know Klaus, Wilmot, and a few other individuals whose names escape him at the moment.
Making his way back to Wilmot he says "Ya....not much to get out these folk. Well, maybe out few of the ladies..." as he looks toward a voluptuous, albeit slightly toothless, trio of milk maids. "But as you said my furry friend, no time to waste! Destiny, (and hopefully some good coin) await. Shall we?"
Gracy gave Wimot a quick nod and stepped out of the shadow where he had been watching the streets for....well anything. Sliding out in front of the party, he cut a lean, hungry figure, clad from head to toe in dark leathers and worn salt-stained cloak and boots. Soundlessly he pushed ahead, eyes roaming, scanning for traps, ambushes or anything else out of the ordinary.
His blades were blackened and tucked away, hard to spot but easily accessible. The short bow was slung along the quiver, carefully strapped in place to prevent rattling. But despite the array of weaponry tucked away on his person, Gracy preferred to keep his eyes open, his mouth closed, and avoid trouble if possible - at least until the time and place of his choosing.
This little excursion was a perfect example of risk-reward. He'd lead them up to the house, poke around a bit and let the big guys do the heavy lifting if they found anything that needed smashing. Gracy would keep his eyes open for anything shiny and stay one step ahead of any trouble that came their way. Easy-peasy.
At a first glance, the figure resting directly in a swath of sunlight atop a nearby hill could, perhaps, be mistaken for a human in extremely light clothing. Long, dark-black hair is pulled taught into a braid that hangs to the figure’s waist, while scant, unrestrictive gold-and-purple sashes allow for a fair amount of decency while exposing as much deeply tanned, almost grey skin to the unrelenting sun as possible. The woman exudes a demeanor of awe and beauty; she moves with snake-like fluidity and grace that divulges the true nature of her bloodline. A closer inspection shows that instead of hands, she has mottled claws that progress into green, snakeskin-like scales which progress up until her elbows before merging into regular skin. She guards this feature by profusely wrapping her forearms in white bands and wristwraps that are popular among practitioners of her style of combat. She tends to offput direct eye contact when greeting strangers due to two brilliantly green, vertically-slitted eyes. Similarly, she only speaks in the presence of people whom she trusts - two protruding, adder-like fangs and a forked tongue make the Yuan-Ti an obvious standout in any social confrontation.
Most people fear Yuan-Ti, and they are right to do so. The vast majority are driven only by their compulsion to destroy and enslave others, propelled forward by cannibalistic and ritualistic ceremonies that are fabled to progress a single Yuan-Ti upward in their strict caste system, devoid of any remorse or guilt for their actions Zmeya is an exception. Like most Yuan-Ti Purelbloods, second lowest in the pyramid of citizens dwelling the island homes that inhabit the seas near Saltmarsh and beyond, Zmeya had to fight for survival and prove her worth above the other members in her clan, or else she would have ended up on the sacrificial alter, like so many of her kin. Through all that remorseless cruelty, Zmeya uncharacteristically developed a strong sense of compassion and empathy for the victims of the society she hails from. But still, survival needed to be fought for, and a sign of weakness would mean death.
Around a month ago, a merchant ship found itself on the shore of her home island. Her brethren wasted no time in preparing to capture and enslave the landlocked humans and humanoids, but Zmeya could no longer face the grueling task of murder and enslavement. She escaped the confines of her clan and pleaded with the merchants to set sail from the island and flee. And so they did, gawking at the strangeness of a Yuan-Ti.
Now, Zmeya finds herself in a foreign land, struggling to understand the basic morality and functions of structured society. She had only been told stories of humans, elves, and dwarves from the elders of her clan, and seeing them with her own eyes was a jarring sight compared to the twisted perceptions the elders had painted them to be. It didn’t help that nearly everyone she has come across was instantly terrified of her appearance, making learning and earning a living a difficult challenge. So, Zmeya now returns back to the skill which she has relied on her entire life - fighting.
After she finds solace in the warmth of the sun - Yuan-Ti are cold blooded, figuratively and literally - she returns to the group, content to observe and watch before attempting a sentence.
Our story begins in the fishing village of Saltmarsh, along the coast of the Azure Sea. It is here that you have made your journey based off the rumors of a haunted house near the sleepy fishing town. Take a look at the map above, the Haunted House is about 4 miles south of Saltmarsh. I have both of these pictures in the Discord channel as well.
AREA 8 - THE EMPTY NEST
Partially supported by stilts driven into the harbor waters, this rickety tavern is purportedly a haven for smugglers, mercenaries, assassins and even pirates. Perfect. You all might fit right in? The owner, Kreb Shenker takes coin from anyone and asks no questions. That's good. Troublemakers are thrown out the door, over the railing, and into the reeking harbor. You've all heard of that this is the best place for a rowdy night of drinking and brawling. The town guard comes here only if called.
This is where our adventure begins - The Empty Nest, and a rumor of a haunted house filled with riches. Through a few customer's drunken stupor, you were able to discern the stories and the location on the House.
This could be the start of something big, you hope.
Archibald makes his way around the Empty Nest telling fantastical tails of when he was on the Sea of Azure hoping to get a free meal or drink from his stories. If he is also able to garner any info using his talkative talents, he'd share it with his fellow adventures/explorers. (FYI, this is my first time doing an official PbP on DnD Beyond, so I'm not entirely certain what to do as far as rolls and such.)
For all his concern about appearances, Krause mutters a prayer to Helm with sincerity. “Lord Helm, make mine hands thy sword and shield to guard the weak. Sharpen my mind as you sharpen thy blade. Fortify my will as you hath reinforced your shield. I vow to keep my honor, my word, and my resolve to stand between the wolves and the sheep.”
Klaus, then becoming conscious of his appearance again, tightens the strap of his heater shield and throws his shoulders back. No one ever became a paragon with bad posture.
He regards the other adventurers in the party. He realizes he is a long way from the page haircuts, liturgies, and armories of The Vigilant Eyes. He is in a strange land, with even stranger companions. A giant...thing...that smokes and talks, the progeny of an elf and human, the spawn of a serpent and... well, better to not assume when one can not say with certainty. At least they all look to know their business with their kit. Rolo always said that actions speak louder than words, and truer. ”Rolo really should have aspired to be more than a glorified horsegroom”, Klaus muses to himself.
Part of Klaus hopes the rumors of a haunted house are superstitious claptrap. More of him hopes it is a testing ground where he will not be found wanting.
Wilmot sits awkwardly in one of the chairs, his knees brushing up against the bottom of the table. He drinks in the scene around him, the cacophony of conversations swelling and receding. He smiles absent-mindedly as he watches Archibald flit about the tavern like a hummingbird looking for a late afternoon snack. On one of the half-elf’s circuits past his table, he extends his long arm, clasping his arm briefly. “Hey Archie, next lap around the place, would you grab me a mead,” he says, dropping a couple of coin in his hand. “Get yourself something, too. Learn anything, little bird?”
Hiramat enters the Empty Nest, he's late, he hates being late, but nothing can be done about it now. He eyes his new companions and thinks to himself "so, these are my new battle brothers, Tempus grant us strength". He pulls up his hood closer to his face, it's an involuntary action that happens anytime he enters a new public space, like it or not, his kind isn't often welcomed with open arms. For a second, a flash of excitement and hope springs up in him, here he is, with companions to protect, the promise of battle, comradery, laughter, but then his memories of his failure, his brothers dying, and deep shame came over him. He pushes it all down, the good and the bad, and takes a seat at the table and orders an ale, nodding to Wilmot, Klaus, and Archibald. At least there isn't a gnome with a lisp he thinks to himself, and quietly chuckles.
Archibald takes the coin. "Sure thing, Sure thing Big Willy!" Archibald takes the coin and gives a nod to Hiramat as he makes his way to the bar. Looking at the slightly overwhelmed barkeep he places the coin on the bar. "One mead my good sir! And....you can keep the change if you have any good stories about that haunted house nearby..."
Gracy settles into the shadows near the back of the bar, carefully positioned so he can see as much of the room as possible. Seeing the armored Tiefling enter the bar he locks eyes with the warrior and then flicks his ever so slightly to indicate Wilmot's table. He liked and respected the big guy's size and skill, but wasn't always sure about his craft for more subtle moments like this.
The dark clothed man preferred to stay unnoticed, and sitting with the menagerie who had come into the tavern wouldn't help that at all. At least they had managed to stagger their arrival to the tavern in a reasonable fashion. Nothing shut down chatter - or the information it contained - like a large party of strangers crashing into a quiet pub.
The slender human didn't have many skills, he was slight of build and not as fast as many others in his line of work. He wasn't particularly good looking or charming either - people didn't dislike him, he just was never quite sure what to say in social situations. But he never missed anything. From where he sat he could watch the lips of half the patrons in the bar and see what they were saying. Well, if they were speaking Common he could. Otherwise, it was just nonsense. Or Draconic of course. That had been drilled into his head. Repeatedly. With force.
Between that and his ability to notice the slightest changes in body language, Gracy was reasonably sure he'd learn everything that needed to be learned from his perch in the corner. And as a bonus, he could keep an eye on the rest of the crew and make sure no one was looking at them with evil intent.
Seeing the tiefling enter, Klaus relaxes slightly. Maybe strapping on a shield in the middle of a tavern was a bit much. Maybe he could learn a thing or two from Gracy's practiced nonchalance. One could be ready for contingencies without making it so obvious, Klaus told himself.
In spite of himself, youthful impatience compelled Klaus to speak: "Hiramat makes it a complete company, I take it? If so, shall we get to this business?"
Archibald:The barkeep looks at you wearily. "Oi. Sure. I've got a story. Knew a fella once who went up there. Confessed to having wandered in the back door of the house, y'see, a couple of years before, hoping to acquire some food. Poor bastard. Heard about free wine in the cellar, started to descend the stairs, heard ghastly shrieks and piercing wails, and ran, frightened out of his wits. So he sez. House has a back door by a well. Never heard from the guy after dat."
Archibald makes his way back to Wilmot and the others. He hands Wilmot his drink. "Well fellas, it turns out that ole haint has a back door ya see. Some old coot went in looking for food and got scared by some creaky boards. Seems like easy pikins'. When should we be leaving?"
Glancing around, Zmeya is relieved to have such a peculiar assortment of companions. Passing eyes were more likely to linger on the tiefling or pinkish firbolg and resume their activities before acknowledging the strangeness of her own figure. After a moment of trepidation, she moves to accompany the group at the table, slightly disconcerted at the precarious lodging the establishment was nestled upon.
What a strange place this was. Zmeya previously avoided the bars and crowded areas out of fear of being known, and it is obvious by the apprehensive look on her face that this is her first time experiencing the rowdy din of the Empty Nest. The elder Yuan-Ti Anathemas had woven tales of the putrid and inferior meatbags she now finds herself among, and for once, she finds those tales to contain an inkling of truth. She gives a vomiting sailor a wide berth before joining the table, noticing Gracy's strategic concealment and nod towards the group. Combat had dictated most of her life, and she was keen on the poise of those pugnacious enough to spring to battle at the drop of a feather. Klaus's behavior was no exception - his shield and armor was constantly on display. Certainly, he must be compensating for some insecurity. If not of physical might, it was of mental valor, and she had been instructed that mental weakness could fall even the mightiest of warriors.
"Have you found anything else of interest?" she asks to the returning Archibald, speaking with a strangely exotic accent that causes the expected alveolar syllables to become drawn out, much like how you would expect a snake to speak. In her current state, she wasn't one to prance around and ask for information on the task of hand. She could leave that to the more charismatic members of their impromptu group. She had been taught that knowledge was power, and being well-armed was crucial to their intended task at hand - investigating the haunted house. "Rumors are oftentimes faulty. If it is possible, we could attempt to find a more first-hand account of the house, but something tells me the 'old coot' is no longer of the living." Old coot? She'd never heard that term before in the brief snippets of Common she'd picked up from humanoid sailors. Must be a regional difference.
The southern road to the house winds through the rocky coastal terrain, often offering a view of the sea below. Low clouds press upon you; occasional patches of sunlight appear out over the water. A stiff wind blows in off the waves, carrying the briny stink of churning salt water. It's about a 4 mile walk to the mansion, and as you travel, a small crowd of fearfully curious commoners trail behind you - muttering curious questions to themselves.
"It cannot stand! An unholy place so close to civilization!"one of them says in hushed whispers.
"Accounts of wailing and flashing lights disturb the mind and heart!"another one says.
They all follow and observe you as you travel, but they're not annoying. They're simply curious as to your intentions.
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COMING SOON
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CRISPYDM PRESENTS:
GHOSTS OF SALTMARSH
Saltmarsh is a nondescript fishing village tucked away on the southern coast of the Kingdom of Keoland. About a week ago, you caught wind of a rumor, and the perfect opportunity to begin your adventuring career: four miles east of Saltmarsh, just inland of the old coast road, stands a haunted house. Until twenty years ago, it had been the residence of an aged alchemist of sinister reputation. Even then, you've heard, locals have avoided the house because of its owner’s mysterious activities. Now, two decades after the unexplained disappearance of its occupant, the house has taken on an even greater air of evil and mystery.
Dilapidated and long abandoned, the house presents an unwholesome appearance. The rumors included tales of those hardy souls who have infrequently sought entry pursuing hints of a secret hoard of alchemical gold - all returning with naught save grim tales of decaying chambers presided over by monstrous perils. Indeed, such is the reputation of the house that the fields around it, though prime agricultural land, remain untended and rank with weeds. For two decades, the haunted house near Saltmarsh has sat, its ill reputation festering.
Well, you decided, what a more perfect way to earn a name for yourself? For years, the tales of the haunted house near Saltmarsh have circulated through the region - you've finally caught wind of it. Though most of the stories are rightfully taken as warnings to avoid the place, rumors persist of a great treasure hidden in its walls. What relics and other valuables did that old alchemist keep in the creaking floorboards and cracked plaster walls of his home?
This is where our adventure begins. It started with a rumor - then, you got all of your companions together, and a journey to Saltmarsh was made. You all decided to brave the old house and plunder it's secrets for yourself. Thus begins:
EPISODE ONE: THE SINISTER SECRET OF SALTMARSH
The ocean breeze carried the wisps of smoke up and out, circling around the head of the tall, furry figure leaned against a tree on the outskirts of Saltmarsh. The locals openly gawked, not even bothering to avert their gazes and open-mouthed expressions. Wilmot smiled, taking another puff of the herb, before sharing its aromatic essence with the world as he exhaled. It puzzled him why those passers-by were so surprised by the sweet, but pungent smell of his herb. His naivete not allowing him to realize it was his 7-and-a-half-foot tall figure that was actually drawing the attention. Happily, he took another long toke from the fired herb, drinking in its calming essence. Behind him, he could hear the others, their voices animated with the excitement of their ilk. The horned tiefling. The snake-kin. The follower of Helm. The bastard elfling. And the others. All talking about the manor. The haunted house. The adventure that lay ahead.
Wilmot took another long toke, smiling at a couple of gaping passers-by. "Praise the Dweller on the Horizon," he says, exhaling a plume of aromatic smoke. "Fharlanghn guide you, my friends." He chuckles heartily in his deep baritone voice as the couple quickens its steps to get past the gentle giant. Using his thumb and forefinger, he snubs the fire from his herb, returning the remainder to his pouch. His long red, dreadlocked hair adding to his impressive height. His soft red-orange-brown fur, loopy ears and almost bovine-like face adding to the stare-inducing appearance.
He smacks his lips as the herb's final essence disappears, allowing once again the salty taste of the sea wind find its way to him. "No wonder they call it Saltmarsh," he thinks to himself. "A bitter taste, this place."
Wilmot turns to the others, leaning on his long, black oaken staff. "So, my friends, are we done with the talk? Our destiny can only be achieved if we walk toward it."
Corrin Kettlewhistle: Halfling Life Cleric (Curse of Strahd)
Kip Dalton: Human Lore Bard (Waterdeep Dragon Heist)
Debauchery Dalliance: Half-Drow Oath of Conquest Paladin (White Plume Mountain)
The people gawking at the firbolg would normally have irked Klaus Reinhardt, paladin of Helm. He had expected adoration from the commoners who he had come to aid. After all, it was his mandate to protect those not blessed with those gifts which made him cut a fine figure as a Vigilant Eye of the God. Klaus had made the journey to the coast with the initial expectation that his height, broad shoulders, and lantern jaw would be duly noted and appreciated.
However, the ocean breeze did less to accentuate the knight's blond hair than remind him that his immaculate chain mail would suffer the indignity of rust if he tarried in the area for long. Therefore, Klaus attempted to affect the stoic demeanor of a knight who had seen his share of battle and rough living. A tall order, considering Klaus had just finished his novitiate and his greatest test of his spirit had been to not betray his dismay that he should have listened to his retainers, who had advised wearing a leather jerkin or a gambeson rather than the chain mail and the thick cloth tabard covering it which now flapped in the breeze a bit too loudly. Klaus would not hear of proudly wearing the armor he had only recently been granted after being knighted. Klaus also balked at his retainers' suggestion that they accompany him to the reputedly haunted manor. Klaus turned them away, citing his obligation to protect the innocent and the defenseless, of which he considered his retainers to be the latter. In truth, Rolo was as handy with an axe, mace, or club as any neophyte of Helm could ever hope to be. Rolo just had the good sense to keep his mouth shut about it.
The only concession Klaus made is that of letting his majordomo Rolo keep his plumed helm for safekeeping on the offchance that it be lost in any excitement. Klaus expected to either show these yokels that they had nothing to fear from the house, and if they did have anything to fear, they need not fear it for very long. Indeed, Klaus was eager to get on with the business of disabusing these peasants of their fears or in the alternative, bringing any unholy terrors to swift justice. Besides, the coffers of the order would benefit from any treasure collected, and Helm would no doubt bless any investment made in silvering a blade of his loyal servant. A shining blade would at the least impress the rabble, even if it didn't have any nearby demons to slice.
Klaus dismissed Rolo with a wave. Turning to face the crowd, Klaus flashed his most winning smile and said, "Away, good Rolo! Stand back, ladies and gentlemen. Attend your eyes and prepare to give thanks for the protection of Lord Helm, the Vigilant One! It is in his name that I shall grant you deliverance from your fears!"
Klaus hoped that his bold declarations gave him some attention without much of it being focused on his impractical armor.
"At least I talked his lordship out of wearing that ridiculous helmet", muttered Rolo, leading the horses.
Archibald Weatherbottom looked on as the two more physically endowed companions as they addressed the crowd. While Archibald was used to being the center of attention in small gatherings, he was a little out of his element in this larger arena. As they spoke, he made his way around the crowd making conversation with anyone that would listen. This wasn't to difficult to accomplish. With his sun-tanned half-elf complexion, shaggy red hair, and dashing smile, he was able to engage a few gentlemen and more than a few ladies in discussion of the haunted house. While it seemed like many of the tales were varied, one element of the story did seem consistent: the promise of treasure. This Archibald was in dire need of.
Over the last 4 years Archie had galivanted around the countryside squandering his family inheritance. You see he was used to a certain lifestyle. This eventually led him to the coast of the Azure Sea. Needing work, he made friends with the captain of the Barracuda's Maul. Using his particular set of skills, Archibald became the ship's navigator and translator. Unfortunately his navigating skills weren't as good as his translating. This in turn lead the Maul into the path of a notorious captain, the Dread Pirate Hobert. After the ship was pillaged and it's crew cast into the ocean, Archibald clung to a piece of wreckage. For 3 days he listed at sea until he was rescued by a passing merchant ship. Quite waterlogged and defeated, he made his way back to Saltmarsh and stumbled to the local tavern. Swindling his way from meal to bed, Archibald has come to know Klaus, Wilmot, and a few other individuals whose names escape him at the moment.
Making his way back to Wilmot he says "Ya....not much to get out these folk. Well, maybe out few of the ladies..." as he looks toward a voluptuous, albeit slightly toothless, trio of milk maids. "But as you said my furry friend, no time to waste! Destiny, (and hopefully some good coin) await. Shall we?"
Gracy gave Wimot a quick nod and stepped out of the shadow where he had been watching the streets for....well anything. Sliding out in front of the party, he cut a lean, hungry figure, clad from head to toe in dark leathers and worn salt-stained cloak and boots. Soundlessly he pushed ahead, eyes roaming, scanning for traps, ambushes or anything else out of the ordinary.
His blades were blackened and tucked away, hard to spot but easily accessible. The short bow was slung along the quiver, carefully strapped in place to prevent rattling. But despite the array of weaponry tucked away on his person, Gracy preferred to keep his eyes open, his mouth closed, and avoid trouble if possible - at least until the time and place of his choosing.
This little excursion was a perfect example of risk-reward. He'd lead them up to the house, poke around a bit and let the big guys do the heavy lifting if they found anything that needed smashing. Gracy would keep his eyes open for anything shiny and stay one step ahead of any trouble that came their way. Easy-peasy.
At a first glance, the figure resting directly in a swath of sunlight atop a nearby hill could, perhaps, be mistaken for a human in extremely light clothing. Long, dark-black hair is pulled taught into a braid that hangs to the figure’s waist, while scant, unrestrictive gold-and-purple sashes allow for a fair amount of decency while exposing as much deeply tanned, almost grey skin to the unrelenting sun as possible. The woman exudes a demeanor of awe and beauty; she moves with snake-like fluidity and grace that divulges the true nature of her bloodline. A closer inspection shows that instead of hands, she has mottled claws that progress into green, snakeskin-like scales which progress up until her elbows before merging into regular skin. She guards this feature by profusely wrapping her forearms in white bands and wristwraps that are popular among practitioners of her style of combat. She tends to offput direct eye contact when greeting strangers due to two brilliantly green, vertically-slitted eyes. Similarly, she only speaks in the presence of people whom she trusts - two protruding, adder-like fangs and a forked tongue make the Yuan-Ti an obvious standout in any social confrontation.
Most people fear Yuan-Ti, and they are right to do so. The vast majority are driven only by their compulsion to destroy and enslave others, propelled forward by cannibalistic and ritualistic ceremonies that are fabled to progress a single Yuan-Ti upward in their strict caste system, devoid of any remorse or guilt for their actions Zmeya is an exception. Like most Yuan-Ti Purelbloods, second lowest in the pyramid of citizens dwelling the island homes that inhabit the seas near Saltmarsh and beyond, Zmeya had to fight for survival and prove her worth above the other members in her clan, or else she would have ended up on the sacrificial alter, like so many of her kin. Through all that remorseless cruelty, Zmeya uncharacteristically developed a strong sense of compassion and empathy for the victims of the society she hails from. But still, survival needed to be fought for, and a sign of weakness would mean death.
Around a month ago, a merchant ship found itself on the shore of her home island. Her brethren wasted no time in preparing to capture and enslave the landlocked humans and humanoids, but Zmeya could no longer face the grueling task of murder and enslavement. She escaped the confines of her clan and pleaded with the merchants to set sail from the island and flee. And so they did, gawking at the strangeness of a Yuan-Ti.
Now, Zmeya finds herself in a foreign land, struggling to understand the basic morality and functions of structured society. She had only been told stories of humans, elves, and dwarves from the elders of her clan, and seeing them with her own eyes was a jarring sight compared to the twisted perceptions the elders had painted them to be. It didn’t help that nearly everyone she has come across was instantly terrified of her appearance, making learning and earning a living a difficult challenge. So, Zmeya now returns back to the skill which she has relied on her entire life - fighting.
After she finds solace in the warmth of the sun - Yuan-Ti are cold blooded, figuratively and literally - she returns to the group, content to observe and watch before attempting a sentence.
EPISODE ONE: THE SINISTER SECRET OF SALTMARSH
Our story begins in the fishing village of Saltmarsh, along the coast of the Azure Sea. It is here that you have made your journey based off the rumors of a haunted house near the sleepy fishing town. Take a look at the map above, the Haunted House is about 4 miles south of Saltmarsh. I have both of these pictures in the Discord channel as well.
AREA 8 - THE EMPTY NEST
Partially supported by stilts driven into the harbor waters, this rickety tavern is purportedly a haven for smugglers, mercenaries, assassins and even pirates. Perfect. You all might fit right in? The owner, Kreb Shenker takes coin from anyone and asks no questions. That's good. Troublemakers are thrown out the door, over the railing, and into the reeking harbor. You've all heard of that this is the best place for a rowdy night of drinking and brawling. The town guard comes here only if called.
This is where our adventure begins - The Empty Nest, and a rumor of a haunted house filled with riches. Through a few customer's drunken stupor, you were able to discern the stories and the location on the House.
This could be the start of something big, you hope.
Archibald makes his way around the Empty Nest telling fantastical tails of when he was on the Sea of Azure hoping to get a free meal or drink from his stories. If he is also able to garner any info using his talkative talents, he'd share it with his fellow adventures/explorers. (FYI, this is my first time doing an official PbP on DnD Beyond, so I'm not entirely certain what to do as far as rolls and such.)
For all his concern about appearances, Krause mutters a prayer to Helm with sincerity. “Lord Helm, make mine hands thy sword and shield to guard the weak. Sharpen my mind as you sharpen thy blade. Fortify my will as you hath reinforced your shield. I vow to keep my honor, my word, and my resolve to stand between the wolves and the sheep.”
Klaus, then becoming conscious of his appearance again, tightens the strap of his heater shield and throws his shoulders back. No one ever became a paragon with bad posture.
He regards the other adventurers in the party. He realizes he is a long way from the page haircuts, liturgies, and armories of The Vigilant Eyes. He is in a strange land, with even stranger companions. A giant...thing...that smokes and talks, the progeny of an elf and human, the spawn of a serpent and... well, better to not assume when one can not say with certainty. At least they all look to know their business with their kit. Rolo always said that actions speak louder than words, and truer. ”Rolo really should have aspired to be more than a glorified horsegroom”, Klaus muses to himself.
Part of Klaus hopes the rumors of a haunted house are superstitious claptrap. More of him hopes it is a testing ground where he will not be found wanting.
(Don't worry, all rolls and such will be explain. We're going to ease you guys into this.)
Wilmot sits awkwardly in one of the chairs, his knees brushing up against the bottom of the table. He drinks in the scene around him, the cacophony of conversations swelling and receding. He smiles absent-mindedly as he watches Archibald flit about the tavern like a hummingbird looking for a late afternoon snack. On one of the half-elf’s circuits past his table, he extends his long arm, clasping his arm briefly. “Hey Archie, next lap around the place, would you grab me a mead,” he says, dropping a couple of coin in his hand. “Get yourself something, too. Learn anything, little bird?”
Corrin Kettlewhistle: Halfling Life Cleric (Curse of Strahd)
Kip Dalton: Human Lore Bard (Waterdeep Dragon Heist)
Debauchery Dalliance: Half-Drow Oath of Conquest Paladin (White Plume Mountain)
Hiramat enters the Empty Nest, he's late, he hates being late, but nothing can be done about it now. He eyes his new companions and thinks to himself "so, these are my new battle brothers, Tempus grant us strength". He pulls up his hood closer to his face, it's an involuntary action that happens anytime he enters a new public space, like it or not, his kind isn't often welcomed with open arms. For a second, a flash of excitement and hope springs up in him, here he is, with companions to protect, the promise of battle, comradery, laughter, but then his memories of his failure, his brothers dying, and deep shame came over him. He pushes it all down, the good and the bad, and takes a seat at the table and orders an ale, nodding to Wilmot, Klaus, and Archibald. At least there isn't a gnome with a lisp he thinks to himself, and quietly chuckles.
Archibald takes the coin. "Sure thing, Sure thing Big Willy!" Archibald takes the coin and gives a nod to Hiramat as he makes his way to the bar. Looking at the slightly overwhelmed barkeep he places the coin on the bar. "One mead my good sir! And....you can keep the change if you have any good stories about that haunted house nearby..."
Gracy settles into the shadows near the back of the bar, carefully positioned so he can see as much of the room as possible. Seeing the armored Tiefling enter the bar he locks eyes with the warrior and then flicks his ever so slightly to indicate Wilmot's table. He liked and respected the big guy's size and skill, but wasn't always sure about his craft for more subtle moments like this.
The dark clothed man preferred to stay unnoticed, and sitting with the menagerie who had come into the tavern wouldn't help that at all. At least they had managed to stagger their arrival to the tavern in a reasonable fashion. Nothing shut down chatter - or the information it contained - like a large party of strangers crashing into a quiet pub.
The slender human didn't have many skills, he was slight of build and not as fast as many others in his line of work. He wasn't particularly good looking or charming either - people didn't dislike him, he just was never quite sure what to say in social situations. But he never missed anything. From where he sat he could watch the lips of half the patrons in the bar and see what they were saying. Well, if they were speaking Common he could. Otherwise, it was just nonsense. Or Draconic of course. That had been drilled into his head. Repeatedly. With force.
Between that and his ability to notice the slightest changes in body language, Gracy was reasonably sure he'd learn everything that needed to be learned from his perch in the corner. And as a bonus, he could keep an eye on the rest of the crew and make sure no one was looking at them with evil intent.
Seeing the tiefling enter, Klaus relaxes slightly. Maybe strapping on a shield in the middle of a tavern was a bit much. Maybe he could learn a thing or two from Gracy's practiced nonchalance. One could be ready for contingencies without making it so obvious, Klaus told himself.
In spite of himself, youthful impatience compelled Klaus to speak: "Hiramat makes it a complete company, I take it? If so, shall we get to this business?"
Archibald: The barkeep looks at you wearily. "Oi. Sure. I've got a story. Knew a fella once who went up there. Confessed to having wandered in the back door of the house, y'see, a couple of years before, hoping to acquire some food. Poor bastard. Heard about free wine in the cellar, started to descend the stairs, heard ghastly shrieks and piercing wails, and ran, frightened out of his wits. So he sez. House has a back door by a well. Never heard from the guy after dat."
The barkeep keeps the change.
Archibald makes his way back to Wilmot and the others. He hands Wilmot his drink. "Well fellas, it turns out that ole haint has a back door ya see. Some old coot went in looking for food and got scared by some creaky boards. Seems like easy pikins'. When should we be leaving?"
Glancing around, Zmeya is relieved to have such a peculiar assortment of companions. Passing eyes were more likely to linger on the tiefling or pinkish firbolg and resume their activities before acknowledging the strangeness of her own figure. After a moment of trepidation, she moves to accompany the group at the table, slightly disconcerted at the precarious lodging the establishment was nestled upon.
What a strange place this was. Zmeya previously avoided the bars and crowded areas out of fear of being known, and it is obvious by the apprehensive look on her face that this is her first time experiencing the rowdy din of the Empty Nest. The elder Yuan-Ti Anathemas had woven tales of the putrid and inferior meatbags she now finds herself among, and for once, she finds those tales to contain an inkling of truth. She gives a vomiting sailor a wide berth before joining the table, noticing Gracy's strategic concealment and nod towards the group. Combat had dictated most of her life, and she was keen on the poise of those pugnacious enough to spring to battle at the drop of a feather. Klaus's behavior was no exception - his shield and armor was constantly on display. Certainly, he must be compensating for some insecurity. If not of physical might, it was of mental valor, and she had been instructed that mental weakness could fall even the mightiest of warriors.
"Have you found anything else of interest?" she asks to the returning Archibald, speaking with a strangely exotic accent that causes the expected alveolar syllables to become drawn out, much like how you would expect a snake to speak. In her current state, she wasn't one to prance around and ask for information on the task of hand. She could leave that to the more charismatic members of their impromptu group. She had been taught that knowledge was power, and being well-armed was crucial to their intended task at hand - investigating the haunted house. "Rumors are oftentimes faulty. If it is possible, we could attempt to find a more first-hand account of the house, but something tells me the 'old coot' is no longer of the living." Old coot? She'd never heard that term before in the brief snippets of Common she'd picked up from humanoid sailors. Must be a regional difference.
The southern road to the house winds through the rocky coastal terrain, often offering a view of the sea below. Low clouds press upon you; occasional patches of sunlight appear out over the water. A stiff wind blows in off the waves, carrying the briny stink of churning salt water. It's about a 4 mile walk to the mansion, and as you travel, a small crowd of fearfully curious commoners trail behind you - muttering curious questions to themselves.
"It cannot stand! An unholy place so close to civilization!" one of them says in hushed whispers.
"Accounts of wailing and flashing lights disturb the mind and heart!" another one says.
They all follow and observe you as you travel, but they're not annoying. They're simply curious as to your intentions.