Piracy and island hopping in the Hundred Horizons of Hesper, core of the Six Elements!
This group is already assembled, and we're just setting up camp here. Adventuring will be underway soon, so enjoy the show!
Players (that's you, Kahle and Greg), let's get started where each of you describes your character. Don't feel like you have to lock everything down just yet, but let's start to see who our heroes are. Meanwhile, I'll start figuring out how to run things on my end (links, dice rollers, etc.). I look forward to seeing your responses!
1. The sun, called Ruat, does not move through the sky, but rather sits at the horizon is what is designated "west". So the world of Hesper has no day or night, but perpetual evening.
- With no day/night cycle, a "day" is comprised of three 8-hour periods called watches. Cultures within the Hundred Horizons vary in their response to this: smaller communities may choose a common "rest watch", as it is often called, but the more cosmopolitan settlements stagger their rests such that at any point in the day, roughly a third of the population could be sleeping.
- Traveling eastward simulates the setting of the sun. Waters where the sun is touching the horizon are called the Setwaters, and the point where it disappears completely is the Duskline.
- Tradition holds that traveling beyond the Hundred Horizons will eventually lead to one of the Elemental Planes, though this has never been confirmed. Those who are heard from again report encountering nothing but open waters before they eventually turned around.
2. The Hundred Horizons of Hesper is a collection of nine large islands, with several smaller ones scattered about.
- A "horizon" is a unit of measurement, equaling a distance of roughly three miles. The "Hundred Horizons" refers to the distance along the 300 mile east-west spread of the region.
- Each of the nine islands is named after one of the Aerugo, goddesses of the region. According to legend, each is trapped within the island bearing her name.
- While there are many who believe the stories to be true, even the infidels are familiar with them. Long-term time scales are deeply couched in Hesper's mythology. A 24-day period is called a legend, and each day within it reflects a portion of the story.
On his pilgrimage to the main island as a youth, Atloonde and his group were attacked and kidnapped by slavers. There, chained to an oar, he grew into adulthood. Though many in his situation gave in to their despair, Atloonde could not. He raged against his oppressors, making every step a difficult one. Before long, he began to fight his fellow prisoners as well. Though he didn't know it, his problematic attitude was very near to sending him to his grave. Instead however, he met another prisoner- a monk- who taught him how to find peace in the storm. Not long afterwards, a huge storm hit and tore the shop to pieces. Now, free, but adrift, he yearns to journey to the main island to start his training. Shame, however, keeps him finding reasons to put it off.
Uncanny Orienteering: Cannot be lost by nonmagical means; difficult terrain doesn't slow group travel; speed +10; alone I can move stealthily at a normal pace
Heart of Darkness: People see in your eyes that you've gone through unimaginable horror and that you're no stranger to darkness. Though they might fear you, commoners will extend you every courtesy. If they don't believe that you will harm them, they will even take up arms to fight alongside you if you are facing an enemy alone. (Of course, per DM Evan, and per RPing... maybe dice rolling, too... see the part about DM Evan)
Weapons: Mace and Light Crossbow
Cantrips: Chill Touch, Spare the Dying, Sacred Flame, Toll the Dead, Thaumaturgy
Lv 1 Spells: Featherfall, Longstrider, Healing Word, Bane, Detect Magic
I'll be editing this with updates as I make more about him.
“Tighten the ropes on the starboard side!” bellowed Hraptha.
“Aye sir!” the small crew screamed, spitting and sputtering from the sea water cascading over the sides of the ship.
The storm continued to pummel the sides of the ship. Below deck, the six children, each of whom were rescued from fates worse than death, to be enslaved on a pirates ship, quivered and whimpered. Water and wind made their appearance through a few exposed slats in the ceiling, but never enough to cause outright alarm.
“Donorvan, hold tight!!!” Hraptha shrieked, as the first mate clawed at the deck, searching for a hand hold, or rope to tie his wrist too.
A wave crashed on the deck, and when the waters ran off the side, Donorvan was gone.
Hraptha abandoned his post, shoving another of the crew toward the helm, silently ordering the crew member to stand firm, or he knew what would happen next.
Scanning the waters, Hraptha saw Donorvan’s shadow in the water, fighting to stay on the surface. He leapt down the stairs to the main deck, reached for the below deck hatch, wrenched it open, and stepped down.
“One of you! Now!”
A shaky-footed young lad of no more than ten, gray-pale skin damp from the storm, stepped forward, away from the five other youths, all but one younger than he. His long mangy brown hair tossed in the wind and his wide eyes, fearful but daring, cut into the captain.
Without a word, Hraptha yanked the boy by his arm, up onto the deck, and began tying rope around his waist.
“Now, you’re quite the brave one,” Hraptha shouted through the crashing sounds of the waves, “and I need you to fetch me my first mate back from this storm.” He pointed to the shadow of Donorvan about 30 yards out, still kicking and fighting against the waves.
Panic seized the boys body for enough seconds that he didn’t notice another crewmember tie the rope securely to the mast, and before he came too, Hraptha had taken the boys small frame and thrown the boy out with a commanding, “Now swim to him, so we can reel you both in.”
But the words were lost on this young boy’s pointed, gray ears.
He only felt his body rise and saw the swirling waves approaching. The clouds of the storm made it so dark… He’d never been under a sky so dark.
The froth of the churning waves swallowed him whole, and his body froze from the cold, where it had only been nerves before.
He couldn’t move.
Desperately he tried to move his arms, but nothing would move. Then, he felt the rope around his waist, as it slipped away. The sensation snapped him out of his petrification, and he reached for the rope, but it whipped away from him with unnatural speed, even in these waters. A rush of wind picked up in his ears, even though he was still sure he was underwater. He felt himself being pulled down, against his own attempts to swim upward.
The rope went slack and floated to the surface. “Too hasty with the knot” thought Hraptha. Donorvan was more than 60 yards out before he could fetch another child… But he had to try.
This time, with tighter knot, the rope was let out, the boy thrown, and by some miracle, in minutes Donorvan and the other boy were back on the boat. The storm was subsiding quickly. Quicker than it should have.
Hraptha moved swiftly back up to the helm after a quick nod to Donorvan, who sprung to action, shepherding the boy back down into the lower deck, and began inspecting damages to the ship.
Not once did he look backward, but Hraptha’s heart ached knowing that his own son, rescued from death, had just been lost at sea because of his incompetence… Donorvan was the only one on the crew who knew why they had bought that slave child. He brought his fist down with might in-between two spokes of the helm, and then collected himself. Now, that whole venture was a waste. But he couldn’t go back for a slave boy in front of the crew. His wide brown eyes grew dark and stared on toward the end of the storm clouds. The sunlight was already glinting off the steady water, and he felt the wind at his back. Perhaps this is the way it was meant to be then…
5 years later
“Are we prepared on deck, admiral?” barked Lewiston Chethter.
Dark clouds approached from Duskline. They had traveled too far, and now a storm was approaching… great. Final preperations were made, and the boat and it’s merchant crew, well-suited for this kind of event, braced for impact from inside contained portions of the advanced ship.
Lewiston could hear the waves as the slapped and beat upon the ship from all sides. He was calculating the damages, both to the ship, and potentially the cargo below. Wringing his hands, he didn’t notice a knock on the cabin door. The knock came a second time and it was much harder and accompanied by a deep scream of “Help!”
Lewiston ran to the door, expecting one of his men had accidentally stayed out on deck for too long. The calculations for damages increased in his mind. But when he flung the door back, in stepped a naked, hulking figure, standing almost a head taller than him. It’s skin was gray, and it had deep-set, intense eyes surrounded by pale yellow splotches. It’s arms and legs appeared to be covered partially by scales. Long, wild brown hair hung half way down it’s body. Strung around it’s body by a rope made of seaweed, hung a dark lantern, with a black candle, which was lit and seemed to burn with a green flame. As it began to speak, Lewiston threw up, and fainted.
The half-orc turned and slammed the door shut. Finally, free from the storm that had captured him… that had for months captured his mind and used his physical frame to wreak havoc and storm upon ship after ship. He knew it would not leave quickly. So, he hunkered down in a corner, waiting for the human on the floor, covered in vomit, to wake up.
One month later.
The half-orc, referred to as Tramoric by the humans on the merchant ship, stepped on to dry land for the first time in what felt like 25 years, but what he had come to learn must have only been less than a year. The healer on the ship had spoken to him about the gods, and something in that resonated with him. He would set off to learn about the gods… and hopefully he would discover what had happened to him out there, under the water.
The peal of a distant bell signaling a new watch carries on a cold eastern wind, accompanied by a fog that screens Ruat’s fervent light. The all too familiar chill grates against the sea current, teasing it up into choppy waves that crash against the rocky shores of Canaille.
The bleak weather has little effect on Marjatta, a sleepy coastal outpost tucked away from the more cosmopolitan centers of the island. Lights mundane and magical spark up to supplement the blotted sun, and residents don cloaks before continuing about their business. Roustabouts carry crates of exotic merchandise from ships in the ramshackle harbor to the bazaar, where a bard in a grey and white uniform tacks parchments to a thick central post and sings of far-off events that nobody seems to care about. Shoppers clutch at their coin purses as children chase through the crowd, stopping only to investigate a mariner dozing against a stone wall. As they open his duffel, a shrill, disembodied screech fills the immediate area, and the man magically jumps back to consciousness, ready to lambast the little thieves. A pair of guardsmen—mercenaries of the Forked Picket, by the looks of them—pay the incident little heed, their attention on the fresh produce and the conspicuously dressed women advertising their own commodities. It’s been a while since you’ve visited Marjatta, but it seems like little has changed.
A traveler whistles a sprightly tune as he wanders about, an advertisement all its own for deckhands, though you’ve never learned enough of the obfuscating musical language to learn the particulars of the proposed voyage. It catches the attention of many hopefuls, however, many of whom are turned away; this man seems to be choosy in his pick of crew…
A scuffle breaks out in the tavern—the Smashed Skull, it’s called, if memory serves. The fight is forced onto the street, where two men roll over and pummel each other. You see a tiefling woman slip out of the door behind them, hastily wrap a shawl around her horns and shoulders, and move away from the scene as she magically fades from view. Before she is completely invisible, you see something flash on her belt that seems familiar…
The crowd parts to make way for a funeral dirge. The mourners carry torches and a litter so festooned with ornament and offerings to that the deceased must certainly have been a prominent member of the community. As the parade moves toward the harbor for a burial at sea, you can hear many onlookers whisper, “This is the third time in as many weeks…”, “First at Sam’s Eddy, and now here?” and “When will they rid us of that beast?” The crowd then closes behind the procession, murmurings and confusion giving way to more immediate concerns…
(I've set the scene, go ahead and determine how/why you meet in this moment, and feel free to explore!)
No matter how many ports or Islands he visited, Atloonde never seemed to Tire of the exciting outpouring of life he found in each. To most crew members, each port seemed much like the next with only a few details to differentiate. Atloonde could not feel that way. Each Harbor had its own flavor-Flavors that needed to be tested and tried and savored one by one. From the moment they hit the dock he rushed from site to site trying to drink it all in. He found himself sitting at the feet of a bard, soaking in his tales until no other listeners but himself stood nearby. He browsed the market, marveling at all the different varieties of fish and trinkets the new tide of boats had brought in. Every sight seemed to hold him like a spell and he was as giddy as a child. So intent was he on these distractions that he never noticed the group of men following him in the shadows.
Grumpily, through one open eye, Tramoric watched as the man sleeping not 10 feet from him, gathered his things and recast a spell on his knapsack so he could get some more shut-eye. Tramoric opened his other eye and scanned the area, noticing the Teifling, and taking note of what he could remember of where he'd seen the symbol on her belt. (Religion? 6 ) After a moment of contemplation on this, he looked down to his alms box. A single silver piece lay there. Four hours, and just a single silver piece... But then, he was clearly a doomsnatched, and people were hesitant to approach usually. Things hadn't changed much at this port in the last few years.
As the area began to clear out, a curious sight occurred to him. A son of Tarascine's was here in the port. Curious he thought to himself. He quickly snatched up the silver piece and placed the alms box amongst his other priestly equipments. He needed to get more incense, but a silver probably wasn't going to cut it. His rituals might be interrupted by this in the next few days if he couldn't find a way to scrounge up some money.
As he looked back toward the Taraskind, he noticed a group of thugs approaching. Silently, Tramoric prepared to put the fear of the gods into them, should they approach the Taraskind with murderous intent. (If they start to attack, I've prepared the Bane spell.) Tramoric waited silently, still appearing to meditate nearby. Finally a chance to use the powers granted him by the gods for the good and protection of another.
Tramoric wracks his memory to place that particular iconography, but it escapes him. It was in fact a dagger, but the ornamentation seemed less religious and more magical... (Way to use the dice roller!)
“Well, well,” a voice behind Atloonde crooned. “I see you got your chains off…” It was a voice from a forgotten age, cool and crystalline, but carrying a razor edge that had not dulled over the years. “Didn’t I always tell you to wear them proudly?”
The last time Atloonde had seen Reyf’s face, he’d been smashing it against a bulkhead. The zenjir still bore the scoring on his iridescent pate, and the cracks in the chain sprouting from his left cheek still threatened to craze and crumble away, fading off into Kiths knew where. He also still bore the smile that resembled that of a hungry merbat.
Back in their slaving days, Reyf had indeed always said to take pride in their chains. “It’s a symbol of how strong and dangerous we are,” was his mantra, and always with the implication that he, being the only slave on the ship to be born with chains, was the most dangerous of them all. Well, Atloonde had disabused him of that notion… more times than he could count at the moment. He could likely do so again, except for the quartet of ruffians flanking the vengeful zenjir. They slowly circled him about, drawing scimitars and looking for trouble…
(Unless Atloonde's got some tricky persuasion up his sleeve, roll initiative! FYI, even teamed up, you are outnumbered, and this could be a rough first combat encounter. Be wise in your actions!)
[I've got Bane prepared, incase one of those thugs tries to swing. The second I notice intent to swing, I'm casting it on the two scimitar weilders closest, and the main guy talking - is he also a Taraskind?]
Tramoric watches as the thugs encircle the young Taraskind, and he thinks on his options. I don't know if there are guards around here, but I could shout for them anyway.
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Initiative rolls for Reyf: 3 and the Bandits: 18
The Initiative order is as follows:
Reyf: 17, Atloonde: 13, Bandits 10, Tramoric 9
Here's a quick mockup of the scene (please excuse the crudity of the model :) ). Atloonde (A), his back to a seafood vendor's kiosk, is surrounded by Reyf (R) and the Bandits (B1-B4). Much of the crowd, seeing the impending violence, has either run away or cowered behind the buildings and kiosks, except for the sleeping mariner (S). The guards' attention has been drawn from their complacency, and may soon enter the scene. Tramoric (T) whispers a litany to Lissom and extends his hand, casting bane on Reyf, B2 and B3.
Charisma saves: Reyf 13, B2 4, B3 9. (I'm not sure what Tramoric's save DC is, but I think they all succeeded...)
His feral smile broadening, Reyf steps forward (now adjacent to Atloonde and B2) and slashes at Atloonde. 5. It's a hit, and Atloonde takes 7 damage. His cutlass slides between Atloonde's scales, pinking the taraskind's arm...
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
That's a hit! In the interest of time (and immediately undone should you disapprove), I'm going to take the liberty of rolling damage for you, and toss in a bonus action unarmed strike.
Unarmed Strike: 8. Another hit! Quarterstaff Damage: 8, and the Unarmed Strike: 3.
Eyeing that damaged cheek-chain, Atloonde realized he hadn't hit Reyf hard enough before. He struck at the same target, sweeping his quarterstaff at the fool's head, and knocking the zenjir sideways. Shards of crystalline chain and flesh caught the lamplight as they flew through the air, and Atloonde's foot caught Reyf in the chest and knocked him to the ground.
The sudden outburst of deadly violence froze the other attackers in their tracks, as they regarded the triumphant taraskind standing over his victim. A disturbing amount of silvery fluid oozed from Reyf's shattered face, and the bandits share glances with each other that seem to say, "We've already been paid, let's get out of here before before the authorities arrive." They disengaged, parting ways as quickly as they could.
Scant seconds after blades were drawn, the bladeless victim stood alone, poised for any reaction, over his lifeless attacker. Tramoric feels the tension in the air gradually dissipate...
Atloonde looked down at Reyf's corpse and as he did, the voice of Master kit began to speak in his mind.
"This rage you have, it is a wild storm. While a storm can harm your enemies , so too will they harm you as well. Find peace, Young Atloonde. Find your peace before all the safe harbors of your mind are destroyed by the storm."
The monk was dead a year now but it seemed the old man's training had not perished. Looking down at Reyfs body, he felt a sharp tinge of Shame. Not shame for killing the bastard but for the way he had let his emotions rule him. It seemed the idiot had won one last victory in his death.
Luckily, shame gave way to satisfaction quickly. Atloonde could remember seeing Rayf on the ship, beating another prisoner. Since he had made it so clear that he loved his chains, the guards afforded him extra privileges. Those privileges generally were meant to cause the other prisoners pain. The guards took a perverse pleasure and seeing one of their own hurt them. Rayf, for his own part, had loved it as well. He remembered seeing the purple man meeting an old prisoner to death. Another time, on the oars next to a newly captured youth, he had strived to take away all hope from the boy with his cruel words. The boy lasted 2 days. One night he had found his foot free and had proceeded 2 jump Into the Depths with a cannonball tied to his feet. Atloonde thought that the chains being unlocked wasn't Rafe, instead probably the captain, who likes to play his sick jokes even more then the foul prisoner.
Forcibly breaking his attention from the corpse on the ground, the taraskind noticed a large figure standing where the thugs had been, obviously having rushed to Aid him. He bowed his head in a formal gesture.
"There's not many who would help a stranger being attacked by that many thugs. My thanks."
"What's all this?" Tiefling guards had finally arrived on the scene, well armored and brandishing glaives. Their tails twitched with apprehension as they took in the dead zenjir in his own shimmering pool of blood. "Why have you killed this man?"
For the most part, the denizens of Marjatta got back to its business, but there were enough interested in watching the aftermath of your fight that a rough circle isolated you from the crowd. The two guards, also inside the circle, waited for an explanation...
Welcome to
Sisters of the Unsetting Sun
Piracy and island hopping in the Hundred Horizons of Hesper, core of the Six Elements!
This group is already assembled, and we're just setting up camp here. Adventuring will be underway soon, so enjoy the show!
Players (that's you, Kahle and Greg), let's get started where each of you describes your character. Don't feel like you have to lock everything down just yet, but let's start to see who our heroes are. Meanwhile, I'll start figuring out how to run things on my end (links, dice rollers, etc.). I look forward to seeing your responses!
Key features of the setting:
1. The sun, called Ruat, does not move through the sky, but rather sits at the horizon is what is designated "west". So the world of Hesper has no day or night, but perpetual evening.
- With no day/night cycle, a "day" is comprised of three 8-hour periods called watches. Cultures within the Hundred Horizons vary in their response to this: smaller communities may choose a common "rest watch", as it is often called, but the more cosmopolitan settlements stagger their rests such that at any point in the day, roughly a third of the population could be sleeping.
- Traveling eastward simulates the setting of the sun. Waters where the sun is touching the horizon are called the Setwaters, and the point where it disappears completely is the Duskline.
- Tradition holds that traveling beyond the Hundred Horizons will eventually lead to one of the Elemental Planes, though this has never been confirmed. Those who are heard from again report encountering nothing but open waters before they eventually turned around.
2. The Hundred Horizons of Hesper is a collection of nine large islands, with several smaller ones scattered about.
- A "horizon" is a unit of measurement, equaling a distance of roughly three miles. The "Hundred Horizons" refers to the distance along the 300 mile east-west spread of the region.
- Each of the nine islands is named after one of the Aerugo, goddesses of the region. According to legend, each is trapped within the island bearing her name.
- While there are many who believe the stories to be true, even the infidels are familiar with them. Long-term time scales are deeply couched in Hesper's mythology. A 24-day period is called a legend, and each day within it reflects a portion of the story.
Atloonde, Taraskind monk.
On his pilgrimage to the main island as a youth, Atloonde and his group were attacked and kidnapped by slavers. There, chained to an oar, he grew into adulthood. Though many in his situation gave in to their despair, Atloonde could not. He raged against his oppressors, making every step a difficult one. Before long, he began to fight his fellow prisoners as well. Though he didn't know it, his problematic attitude was very near to sending him to his grave. Instead however, he met another prisoner- a monk- who taught him how to find peace in the storm. Not long afterwards, a huge storm hit and tore the shop to pieces. Now, free, but adrift, he yearns to journey to the main island to start his training. Shame, however, keeps him finding reasons to put it off.
Tramoric De Valla - Doomsnatched Half-Orc - Passage Cleric - Haunted One Background
STR 15 (+2) | DEX 12 (+1) | CON 14 (+2) | INT 8 (-1) | WIS 15 (+2) | CHA 11 (0)
Saving Throws: Wis/Cha | Skills: Religion, Insight, Medicine, Survival, Intimidation | Languages: Common, Orc, Goblin, Primordial | Tools: Land & Water Vehicles, Navigators Tools
Spell Ability: Wis | Save DC: 12 | Spell Atk: +4
HP: 10 | AC: 14 (Leather Armor, Shield) | Initiative: +1 | Speed: 40ft
Uncanny Orienteering: Cannot be lost by nonmagical means; difficult terrain doesn't slow group travel; speed +10; alone I can move stealthily at a normal pace
Heart of Darkness: People see in your eyes that you've gone through unimaginable horror and that you're no stranger to darkness. Though they might fear you, commoners will extend you every courtesy. If they don't believe that you will harm them, they will even take up arms to fight alongside you if you are facing an enemy alone. (Of course, per DM Evan, and per RPing... maybe dice rolling, too... see the part about DM Evan)
Weapons: Mace and Light Crossbow
Cantrips: Chill Touch, Spare the Dying, Sacred Flame, Toll the Dead, Thaumaturgy
Lv 1 Spells: Featherfall, Longstrider, Healing Word, Bane, Detect Magic
I'll be editing this with updates as I make more about him.
Looks great guys! I'll cook something up and we can set sail! (Figuratively or literally, depending on you...) :)
Make sure and get me your stats, be they a form fillable pdf or a handwritten and scanned one.
Also, decide if/how you have already met up, or if we need to fold that into the adventure.
So, shall our characters meet in the story, before the story, or should we do an intro sequence where we meet, and then get on with the story?
“Tighten the ropes on the starboard side!” bellowed Hraptha.
“Aye sir!” the small crew screamed, spitting and sputtering from the sea water cascading over the sides of the ship.
The storm continued to pummel the sides of the ship. Below deck, the six children, each of whom were rescued from fates worse than death, to be enslaved on a pirates ship, quivered and whimpered. Water and wind made their appearance through a few exposed slats in the ceiling, but never enough to cause outright alarm.
“Donorvan, hold tight!!!” Hraptha shrieked, as the first mate clawed at the deck, searching for a hand hold, or rope to tie his wrist too.
A wave crashed on the deck, and when the waters ran off the side, Donorvan was gone.
Hraptha abandoned his post, shoving another of the crew toward the helm, silently ordering the crew member to stand firm, or he knew what would happen next.
Scanning the waters, Hraptha saw Donorvan’s shadow in the water, fighting to stay on the surface. He leapt down the stairs to the main deck, reached for the below deck hatch, wrenched it open, and stepped down.
“One of you! Now!”
A shaky-footed young lad of no more than ten, gray-pale skin damp from the storm, stepped forward, away from the five other youths, all but one younger than he. His long mangy brown hair tossed in the wind and his wide eyes, fearful but daring, cut into the captain.
Without a word, Hraptha yanked the boy by his arm, up onto the deck, and began tying rope around his waist.
“Now, you’re quite the brave one,” Hraptha shouted through the crashing sounds of the waves, “and I need you to fetch me my first mate back from this storm.” He pointed to the shadow of Donorvan about 30 yards out, still kicking and fighting against the waves.
Panic seized the boys body for enough seconds that he didn’t notice another crewmember tie the rope securely to the mast, and before he came too, Hraptha had taken the boys small frame and thrown the boy out with a commanding, “Now swim to him, so we can reel you both in.”
But the words were lost on this young boy’s pointed, gray ears.
He only felt his body rise and saw the swirling waves approaching. The clouds of the storm made it so dark… He’d never been under a sky so dark.
The froth of the churning waves swallowed him whole, and his body froze from the cold, where it had only been nerves before.
He couldn’t move.
Desperately he tried to move his arms, but nothing would move. Then, he felt the rope around his waist, as it slipped away. The sensation snapped him out of his petrification, and he reached for the rope, but it whipped away from him with unnatural speed, even in these waters. A rush of wind picked up in his ears, even though he was still sure he was underwater. He felt himself being pulled down, against his own attempts to swim upward.
The rope went slack and floated to the surface. “Too hasty with the knot” thought Hraptha. Donorvan was more than 60 yards out before he could fetch another child… But he had to try.
This time, with tighter knot, the rope was let out, the boy thrown, and by some miracle, in minutes Donorvan and the other boy were back on the boat. The storm was subsiding quickly. Quicker than it should have.
Hraptha moved swiftly back up to the helm after a quick nod to Donorvan, who sprung to action, shepherding the boy back down into the lower deck, and began inspecting damages to the ship.
Not once did he look backward, but Hraptha’s heart ached knowing that his own son, rescued from death, had just been lost at sea because of his incompetence… Donorvan was the only one on the crew who knew why they had bought that slave child. He brought his fist down with might in-between two spokes of the helm, and then collected himself. Now, that whole venture was a waste. But he couldn’t go back for a slave boy in front of the crew. His wide brown eyes grew dark and stared on toward the end of the storm clouds. The sunlight was already glinting off the steady water, and he felt the wind at his back. Perhaps this is the way it was meant to be then…
5 years later
“Are we prepared on deck, admiral?” barked Lewiston Chethter.
Dark clouds approached from Duskline. They had traveled too far, and now a storm was approaching… great. Final preperations were made, and the boat and it’s merchant crew, well-suited for this kind of event, braced for impact from inside contained portions of the advanced ship.
Lewiston could hear the waves as the slapped and beat upon the ship from all sides. He was calculating the damages, both to the ship, and potentially the cargo below. Wringing his hands, he didn’t notice a knock on the cabin door. The knock came a second time and it was much harder and accompanied by a deep scream of “Help!”
Lewiston ran to the door, expecting one of his men had accidentally stayed out on deck for too long. The calculations for damages increased in his mind. But when he flung the door back, in stepped a naked, hulking figure, standing almost a head taller than him. It’s skin was gray, and it had deep-set, intense eyes surrounded by pale yellow splotches. It’s arms and legs appeared to be covered partially by scales. Long, wild brown hair hung half way down it’s body. Strung around it’s body by a rope made of seaweed, hung a dark lantern, with a black candle, which was lit and seemed to burn with a green flame. As it began to speak, Lewiston threw up, and fainted.
The half-orc turned and slammed the door shut. Finally, free from the storm that had captured him… that had for months captured his mind and used his physical frame to wreak havoc and storm upon ship after ship. He knew it would not leave quickly. So, he hunkered down in a corner, waiting for the human on the floor, covered in vomit, to wake up.
One month later.
The half-orc, referred to as Tramoric by the humans on the merchant ship, stepped on to dry land for the first time in what felt like 25 years, but what he had come to learn must have only been less than a year. The healer on the ship had spoken to him about the gods, and something in that resonated with him. He would set off to learn about the gods… and hopefully he would discover what had happened to him out there, under the water.
I think we should do an Intro
The peal of a distant bell signaling a new watch carries on a cold eastern wind, accompanied by a fog that screens Ruat’s fervent light. The all too familiar chill grates against the sea current, teasing it up into choppy waves that crash against the rocky shores of Canaille.
The bleak weather has little effect on Marjatta, a sleepy coastal outpost tucked away from the more cosmopolitan centers of the island. Lights mundane and magical spark up to supplement the blotted sun, and residents don cloaks before continuing about their business. Roustabouts carry crates of exotic merchandise from ships in the ramshackle harbor to the bazaar, where a bard in a grey and white uniform tacks parchments to a thick central post and sings of far-off events that nobody seems to care about. Shoppers clutch at their coin purses as children chase through the crowd, stopping only to investigate a mariner dozing against a stone wall. As they open his duffel, a shrill, disembodied screech fills the immediate area, and the man magically jumps back to consciousness, ready to lambast the little thieves. A pair of guardsmen—mercenaries of the Forked Picket, by the looks of them—pay the incident little heed, their attention on the fresh produce and the conspicuously dressed women advertising their own commodities. It’s been a while since you’ve visited Marjatta, but it seems like little has changed.
A traveler whistles a sprightly tune as he wanders about, an advertisement all its own for deckhands, though you’ve never learned enough of the obfuscating musical language to learn the particulars of the proposed voyage. It catches the attention of many hopefuls, however, many of whom are turned away; this man seems to be choosy in his pick of crew…
A scuffle breaks out in the tavern—the Smashed Skull, it’s called, if memory serves. The fight is forced onto the street, where two men roll over and pummel each other. You see a tiefling woman slip out of the door behind them, hastily wrap a shawl around her horns and shoulders, and move away from the scene as she magically fades from view. Before she is completely invisible, you see something flash on her belt that seems familiar…
The crowd parts to make way for a funeral dirge. The mourners carry torches and a litter so festooned with ornament and offerings to that the deceased must certainly have been a prominent member of the community. As the parade moves toward the harbor for a burial at sea, you can hear many onlookers whisper, “This is the third time in as many weeks…”, “First at Sam’s Eddy, and now here?” and “When will they rid us of that beast?” The crowd then closes behind the procession, murmurings and confusion giving way to more immediate concerns…
(I've set the scene, go ahead and determine how/why you meet in this moment, and feel free to explore!)
Random aside, here are my stats.
Ac 15. Hp 10. Ini 2.
Str12. Dex15. Con14. Int8. Wis16. Cha10.
Trained in acrobatics and insight.
Uses a quarter staff.
No matter how many ports or Islands he visited, Atloonde never seemed to Tire of the exciting outpouring of life he found in each. To most crew members, each port seemed much like the next with only a few details to differentiate. Atloonde could not feel that way. Each Harbor had its own flavor-Flavors that needed to be tested and tried and savored one by one. From the moment they hit the dock he rushed from site to site trying to drink it all in. He found himself sitting at the feet of a bard, soaking in his tales until no other listeners but himself stood nearby. He browsed the market, marveling at all the different varieties of fish and trinkets the new tide of boats had brought in. Every sight seemed to hold him like a spell and he was as giddy as a child. So intent was he on these distractions that he never noticed the group of men following him in the shadows.
Grumpily, through one open eye, Tramoric watched as the man sleeping not 10 feet from him, gathered his things and recast a spell on his knapsack so he could get some more shut-eye. Tramoric opened his other eye and scanned the area, noticing the Teifling, and taking note of what he could remember of where he'd seen the symbol on her belt. (Religion? 6 ) After a moment of contemplation on this, he looked down to his alms box. A single silver piece lay there. Four hours, and just a single silver piece... But then, he was clearly a doomsnatched, and people were hesitant to approach usually. Things hadn't changed much at this port in the last few years.
As the area began to clear out, a curious sight occurred to him. A son of Tarascine's was here in the port. Curious he thought to himself. He quickly snatched up the silver piece and placed the alms box amongst his other priestly equipments. He needed to get more incense, but a silver probably wasn't going to cut it. His rituals might be interrupted by this in the next few days if he couldn't find a way to scrounge up some money.
As he looked back toward the Taraskind, he noticed a group of thugs approaching. Silently, Tramoric prepared to put the fear of the gods into them, should they approach the Taraskind with murderous intent. (If they start to attack, I've prepared the Bane spell.) Tramoric waited silently, still appearing to meditate nearby. Finally a chance to use the powers granted him by the gods for the good and protection of another.
Tramoric wracks his memory to place that particular iconography, but it escapes him. It was in fact a dagger, but the ornamentation seemed less religious and more magical... (Way to use the dice roller!)
“Well, well,” a voice behind Atloonde crooned. “I see you got your chains off…” It was a voice from a forgotten age, cool and crystalline, but carrying a razor edge that had not dulled over the years. “Didn’t I always tell you to wear them proudly?”
The last time Atloonde had seen Reyf’s face, he’d been smashing it against a bulkhead. The zenjir still bore the scoring on his iridescent pate, and the cracks in the chain sprouting from his left cheek still threatened to craze and crumble away, fading off into Kiths knew where. He also still bore the smile that resembled that of a hungry merbat.
Back in their slaving days, Reyf had indeed always said to take pride in their chains. “It’s a symbol of how strong and dangerous we are,” was his mantra, and always with the implication that he, being the only slave on the ship to be born with chains, was the most dangerous of them all. Well, Atloonde had disabused him of that notion… more times than he could count at the moment. He could likely do so again, except for the quartet of ruffians flanking the vengeful zenjir. They slowly circled him about, drawing scimitars and looking for trouble…
(Unless Atloonde's got some tricky persuasion up his sleeve, roll initiative! FYI, even teamed up, you are outnumbered, and this could be a rough first combat encounter. Be wise in your actions!)
Initiative: 9
[I've got Bane prepared, incase one of those thugs tries to swing. The second I notice intent to swing, I'm casting it on the two scimitar weilders closest, and the main guy talking - is he also a Taraskind?]
Tramoric watches as the thugs encircle the young Taraskind, and he thinks on his options. I don't know if there are guards around here, but I could shout for them anyway.
Initiative rolls for Reyf: 3 and the Bandits: 18
The Initiative order is as follows:
Reyf: 17, Atloonde: 13, Bandits 10, Tramoric 9
Here's a quick mockup of the scene (please excuse the crudity of the model :) ). Atloonde (A), his back to a seafood vendor's kiosk, is surrounded by Reyf (R) and the Bandits (B1-B4). Much of the crowd, seeing the impending violence, has either run away or cowered behind the buildings and kiosks, except for the sleeping mariner (S). The guards' attention has been drawn from their complacency, and may soon enter the scene. Tramoric (T) whispers a litany to Lissom and extends his hand, casting bane on Reyf, B2 and B3.
Charisma saves: Reyf 13, B2 4, B3 9. (I'm not sure what Tramoric's save DC is, but I think they all succeeded...)
His feral smile broadening, Reyf steps forward (now adjacent to Atloonde and B2) and slashes at Atloonde. 5. It's a hit, and Atloonde takes 7 damage. His cutlass slides between Atloonde's scales, pinking the taraskind's arm...
Atloonde bellows in rage and charges toward Reyf. He swings his quarter staff at the maniacs head. 14.
That's a hit! In the interest of time (and immediately undone should you disapprove), I'm going to take the liberty of rolling damage for you, and toss in a bonus action unarmed strike.
Unarmed Strike: 8. Another hit!
Quarterstaff Damage: 8, and the Unarmed Strike: 3.
Eyeing that damaged cheek-chain, Atloonde realized he hadn't hit Reyf hard enough before. He struck at the same target, sweeping his quarterstaff at the fool's head, and knocking the zenjir sideways. Shards of crystalline chain and flesh caught the lamplight as they flew through the air, and Atloonde's foot caught Reyf in the chest and knocked him to the ground.
The sudden outburst of deadly violence froze the other attackers in their tracks, as they regarded the triumphant taraskind standing over his victim. A disturbing amount of silvery fluid oozed from Reyf's shattered face, and the bandits share glances with each other that seem to say, "We've already been paid, let's get out of here before before the authorities arrive." They disengaged, parting ways as quickly as they could.
Scant seconds after blades were drawn, the bladeless victim stood alone, poised for any reaction, over his lifeless attacker. Tramoric feels the tension in the air gradually dissipate...
Atloonde looked down at Reyf's corpse and as he did, the voice of Master kit began to speak in his mind.
"This rage you have, it is a wild storm. While a storm can harm your enemies , so too will they harm you as well. Find peace, Young Atloonde. Find your peace before all the safe harbors of your mind are destroyed by the storm."
The monk was dead a year now but it seemed the old man's training had not perished. Looking down at Reyfs body, he felt a sharp tinge of Shame. Not shame for killing the bastard but for the way he had let his emotions rule him. It seemed the idiot had won one last victory in his death.
Luckily, shame gave way to satisfaction quickly. Atloonde could remember seeing Rayf on the ship, beating another prisoner. Since he had made it so clear that he loved his chains, the guards afforded him extra privileges. Those privileges generally were meant to cause the other prisoners pain. The guards took a perverse pleasure and seeing one of their own hurt them. Rayf, for his own part, had loved it as well. He remembered seeing the purple man meeting an old prisoner to death. Another time, on the oars next to a newly captured youth, he had strived to take away all hope from the boy with his cruel words. The boy lasted 2 days. One night he had found his foot free and had proceeded 2 jump Into the Depths with a cannonball tied to his feet. Atloonde thought that the chains being unlocked wasn't Rafe, instead probably the captain, who likes to play his sick jokes even more then the foul prisoner.
Forcibly breaking his attention from the corpse on the ground, the taraskind noticed a large figure standing where the thugs had been, obviously having rushed to Aid him. He bowed his head in a formal gesture.
"There's not many who would help a stranger being attacked by that many thugs. My thanks."
"What's all this?" Tiefling guards had finally arrived on the scene, well armored and brandishing glaives. Their tails twitched with apprehension as they took in the dead zenjir in his own shimmering pool of blood. "Why have you killed this man?"
For the most part, the denizens of Marjatta got back to its business, but there were enough interested in watching the aftermath of your fight that a rough circle isolated you from the crowd. The two guards, also inside the circle, waited for an explanation...
Atloonde bowed low.
"I am sorry, sir, but this street thug attacked me and I got a little carried away defending myself."