Starday | 1st week of Coldeven | 1200 hours | Docks -> Empty Net | Request from Councilor Solmor | drizzle wind cold | poor catch | bad mood | recent increase in shark population |
It’s been a long tough week. Every fishermen’s haul has been scarce. Bosses been working hard and pushing harder. Laborers are laid off, fightings on the rise. Captain of the guard Eliander Fireborn has issued an increased guard presence around town. Councilor Gellin Primewater has called for a special town meeting to discuss funding a fisherman’s aid, drawing from the wages currently paying for the town guards.
Meanwhile young Councilor Anders Solmor has sent a request via messenger to each of you regarding a package and confidential information, to be received at the Empty Net promptly at high noon.
Not quite what she had hoped for, but she was confident mood would change when she had situated herself properly. The young raven-haired beauty had found a seat at the Empty Net tavern, sitting straight in her chair, wearing her business look and stance to keep any suitors away, for now. She had certainly been surprised by the message delivered, pleasantly so. She knew that her enterprise needed the support from the locals, some in particular, and a Councilor being in your debt could prove quite useful.
The young raven-haired beauty wears a long dark dress of Rhenee style and origin, seeming somehwat out of place with the local clientele, but she seems quite unbothered by the looks she draws, even ignoring any ogling from the local ruffians, simply giving them a cold glare should they dare venture too near her, otherwise keeping her dark grey eyes at the door, waiting for the Councilor
Meanwhile a tiny fae flies around from one table to another, being quite chirpy and sociable, particularly homing in on anyone in need of a cheering up, something she quickly seems to notice, calming and reassuring them that both weather and catches will improve within long.
“…One by one they come pouring out like that and one by one I send them sprawling to the ground!Jab, hook, jab, jab, uppercut - each blow sent another of the red headed eejits tumbling to the grass spitting blood and teeth and not knowing what happened!I don’t know how many such devil spawn Mrs. O’Halloran had but she was sending each and every last one of them out the kitchen door to attack me until I had them piled up waist high unconscious or wishing they were so…”
Cook paused in his story to taste test the All Day Soup he had bubbling away in his oversized put.Needed some spicing up.He grabbed pinches of this and pinches of that seemingly at random, tossing them into the brew and started to give it a good mixing as he turned back to his audience.
“Where was I?” He asks and then blinks a couple times quickly before chuckling.“Guess they heard that one before…”Cooks not offended that whoever he had been talking to had drifted away sometime during the telling of the story, surely he had to get back to work before their boss got too angry at the missing or back aboard ship before it pulled away.Such was life on the docks, it’s either all hustle or bustle or all sitting around and doing a whole lot of nothing.It all depended on the waves and the fish and storms and all that.
Speaking of all that, or thinking of it at least, Cook gave a glance up at the sky, using one oversized hand to shade his eyes as he did so.Judging by the position of the sun and all he figured it was about time, more or less, that he be off.He gave one last glance up and down the dock to see if any customers were hurrying his way, finding none he set about closing up his wagon - a couple flames were tamped down to the bare minimum, a couple meat pies put up on the shelving, a couple scraps tossed out to the several mutts and hounds which always lazed about, and shutters were drawn and locked.
“You scamps keep an eye on the place, eh?” Cook says aloud to the dogs as he finished up securing the wagon and started heading off toward his appointment.The dogs didn’t understand him per se, oh no, but they knew where the food was so they wouldn’t stray too far unless Cook called for them to do so.
Councilor Solmor had “requested his presence” so Cook figured he had to be present.
Councilor Anders Solmor - Cook wasn’t exactly sure which one of the highfaluting mucky-mucks he was but he was one of them and it wouldn’t be a good idea to just be blowing them off.Besides, it’s not every day that a messenger is sent to Cook like he was someone fancy or special or something.Besides, the traffic on the docks has been low all week and while he normally would be loath to close up during lunchtime it didn’t look like he’d be missing much business by doing so today.Besides, perhaps Councilor Muckety-Muck will be buying a round or two.Besides, it’ll be nice to get out of the cold and the drizzle, with the wind as it is not even the cooking fires is keeping him warm…
Besides, besides, besides…. Cooks mind in a constant internal dialogue as he makes his way to the Empty Net and unconsciously whistles (poorly) a tune.
As Cook hurries through the door he immediately spots a couple people he knows well enough to at least nod to or to give a wave and he dutifully does so as their eyes meet.What his eyes don’t immediately meet, however, is this Councilor fella.“Of course he’ll keep me waiting,” he grumbles to himself and heads over to the counter to order himself a mug of something that’ll help him warm up as he waits.
Somewhere above the western Azure Sea, a sudden buffeting cross-gust of wind shears itself from the prevalent southwesterly gale and bears northwest.
Past little-charted blue depths and sporadic ships of all manner. Those crewed by the Keolish royal navy and those of other coastal nations, ships crewed by privateers, or pirates, or seafarers far stranger, ruffling their full-bellied sails before sweeping onward. Past Monmurg the wind blows, causing the banners of the Sea Princes flying there to flutter and snap restlessly, then across the Bay of Javan, swirling towards land. Towards Saltmarsh.
Rushing past the coastal hill where the Temple of Procan waits, chilling the bearded visage of the priest there in a rough caress as he stands gazing to the horizon, before veering west to the harbor. Shouldering against the hulls of the ships at dock as they rock gently in wavelets by the docks. Over the dockside, bustling with sailors and commerce and music, though perhaps not as bustling as it should be. Then on to the tavern, The Empty Net, where it shoves open the entry door with a force both firm and measured to prevent it from slamming against the wall with its momentum.
In perfect time for Sera'ele Eventide to step inside without having to reach or break her stride. (Mage Hand).
As Seri turns and glances almost absently behind her (and the door closes seemingly on its own), a single tattoo, unlike the multitude adorning most sailors, peeks briefly from her shoulder. A vibrant dragonfly, stark against skin that is somehow at once both watery pale and suntanned. Seri's silvery-blue hair, appearing just soaked by an ocean swim despite being dry, covers the dragonfly quickly once more as she turns back to survey the tavern's interior and clientele. A driftwood buckler shield hangs at her back, emblazoned with a gold and coral trident piercing a cresting wave, and she bears a strange, dark studded leather armor, appearing fashioned from the skin and sinew of some marine mammal, bound by tough strands of kelp.
Yet despite her exotic appearance as a slender aquatic half-elf, pretty without coming close to being beautiful, Seri's most striking feature remains her nearly unblinking eyes, dark pupils drowning in deep turquoise irises like tiny black specks of rock awash in a sunlit sea.
While she has had occasion to visit landbound watering holes on shore leave during her tour of duty, her upbringing by priests as an acolyte of Procan has hardly made Seri a regular tavern-goer. Nevertheless, Seri steps to the bar to order a tot of rum before surveying The Empty Net.
It is of course impossible to miss the lovely raven-haired Rhenee woman, and Seri certainly recalls nibbling on the perfectly adequate fare offered up by the dockside cart of the gregarious, burly Cook, with his ever-present pack of dogs. Neither seem to be among the fishermen, sailors and dockworkers who typically frequent The Empty Net. Both seem to be waiting for something... (Passive Insight: 16)
Aye, and just what is it that I am waiting for?Seri suppresses a shiver of foreboding as she recalls the message her lost mother had left for her at the Temple of Procan in Seaton up the coast. She did not rightly know why she had wished to come to Saltmarsh after her inquiries in Seaton had turned up nothing. Perhaps a hunch borne on the sea wind? The priests certainly had been as reluctant to let her go as she had been eager to depart once more.
The summons from councilor Solmor had provided the perfect excuse. Seri feels free and unburdened to be outside cloistered halls again. Free to pursue Procan's far blue horizon as she had while serving as Navigator aboard the Dragonfly. Yet who else had Solmor summoned?
Seri steps up to within earshot of where she can address both the massive Cook and the Rhenee beauty, who seems to have a strange and friendly fey friend flying around her. As often, the half-elven acolyte appears solemn and serious even when she smiles, as she does now.
"I am Sera'ele Eventide, acolyte at the Temple of Procan in Seaton and once Navigator aboard the privateer vessel Dragonfly, called 'Seri' by most. I sense you each have been summoned by Councilor Solmor as I have? In truth, I do not think the summons was meant for me by name. Yet I am who my Temple has sent. If you too are answering Solmor's call, then I cannot help but wonder, why us? I recall seeing you, Cook, before here in Saltmarsh during my shore leave from the Dragonfly, yet we three seem as different from each other as a swordfish from a sea lion from a kraken."
Cook half turns from the bar to look at the lass with the strident tone.He blinks at the blue hair and the unique skin tone of the girl.Yeah, he’s seen her on the docks once or twice.Not a regular, mind ya, but memorable.
Sera-what? he is thinking to himself and then nods when she indicated Seri is enough.Well that’s a relief.Cook glances over towards the other odd duck in the bar, the one altogether too put together and haughty looking to not stand out.He supposes she’s the other one this Seri is including in her little announcement there but he’s not sure at all who is the swordfish, the sea lion or the kraken…
“They do all swim in the same waters though, don’t they girl?” Cook says in a bit of a raised voice to make sure she can hear him and raising his mug up in a bit of a salute and motioning that she is welcome to come over and join him at the counter.
“TheDragonfly, you say?Why that’s a name I ain’t heard in an age…. My memory ain’t quite what it used to be but it seems to me that…”Cook trails off, however, and instead changes the subject.
“You got summoned by ye old Councilor Fancypants too, have ya?Well you may as well gather over here until he arrives.Those sort like to keep us common people waiting just to show them who is important, ya know?Not that I suppose I’d exactly use common to describe ya…” He includes the dark haired one in that correction as well, if she has joined them.
“I haven’t the foggiest of foggiest what the pow-wow could be about.I don’t imagine I am going to like it, never much like anything the government types want, but I am growing more and more curious…”
When the messenger had arrived, Darixa had wearily looked at the note as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. 'Better get moving if I'm going to make it,' she thinks to herself. Quickly to her feet, she takes just a moment to brush through her hair and put on her loose-fitting top, soft pants, and broad belt with a couple of daggers. She grabs her lute, slings it across her back and just like that is ready to go out. At the last moment, she picks up her sturdy leather jacket. 'Just in case,'she thinks. The rest can just stay put.
She makes her way quickly, though without running, along the docks. She stays alert for anyone she might know, though there are few at this hour about. Those with work had already headed out. And those without were still sleeping off their revelries. At least, that was her experience. Playing music in the taverns to earn a few coins, she had heard the complaints about the poor fishing. And she knew Saltmarsh had become a bit more somber than usual. Having not eaten yet, she figured Cook would be good for a quick bite on her way. But as she approached his little food wagon, she found that it was all closed up. "Nooo!" she complains to herself. Well, and to the couple of strays that were still hanging about. "A fine day for Cook to close up early!"
There's nothing for it but to press on to the Empty Net. She could get food there, but she might have to part with some of her coins for that. Ah well, it couldn't be helped. It wasn't too much farther along until she finally reached the entrance. 'Councilor Anders Solmor, wonder what he's going to look like? Can't imagine I've run into him before. Hope this isn't some sort of ploy,' she is thinking as she steps inside the place.
Stepping inside is a young human woman with rather messy long dark brown hair. With heavily tanned skin and rich brown eyes, she starts to look about the place, a smile on her face. She confidently steps over to the bar, giving a quick wave to the person working there, likely someone she'd met before. "Looking for a Councilor Solmor," she says. "Strangely enough, I've had a note saying I should meet him here. It's not noon already is it? I didn't miss him?"
As the bald bearded man with the leather apron enters the Empty Net, Esme quickly decides it would be unlikely this would be the Councilor, still her dark grey eyes discreetly follow him over to the bar counter, waiting for a sign. The tiny chirpy fae on the other hand quickly joins him, hovering over the bar with a bright smile. "You smell of food, tasty food, I'm Primrose, who are you, are you a chef, do you have any specialities?"She quickly and cheerily peppers the man with questions.
Esme's attention is again drawn to the door as the blue-haired elf enters, her full lips curving into a small curious smile, listening as the elf seems to address herself as well as the bald bearded man assailed by Primrose at the bar. She stays silent for now, trying to make sense of what she hears. If there was indeed others summoned here by Councilman Solmor she wondered if it really was about the same business. According to the message she had recieved her business was about a package and confidential information, a kind of meeting she herself certainly wouldn't discuss with anyone else until she was quite positive they were supposed to know. She is also a bit disturbed about the elf sensing she was there to meet with the Councilor, perhaps she knew things that she hadn't let on yet, but it could also be a bluff. Either way, it simply seemed too unlikely that the Councilman would send message to the Procan temple in Seaton about this package business. As the bald bearded man with the leather apron admits he too is here to meet with the Councilman, Esme is even more confounded but decides to watch and listen for now.
As the young woman with rather messy long dark brown hair enters the tavern and asks for Councilman Solmor, Esme grows even more curious, her eyes widening, wondering if this was some kind of prank played on her now. The tiny chirpy fae however is less than discreet. "This is such an amazing coincidence, Esme is also here to meet with a Councilman, aren't you Esme?" She calls over to the young raven-haired Rhenee beauty still sitting at her table and giving the fae a strained smile. "Yes, yes I am, but I wasn't aware there would be others involved, let's not assume we are all here for the same business, yes." She says with calm confidence and a clear Rhenee accent. "I'm fairly sure you haven't missed Councilman Solmor." She turns and says to the young woman with rather messy long dark brown hair. "But please join me while we are apparently all waiting for the same person to arrive." She adds, motioning to the free seats at her table. "I am indeed Esmeralda. I just arrived so I would much appreciate if you would share something about Saltmarsh? Is it usual for a Councilman to summon people to a meeting at a place like this?" She says with a small amused smile. "You have a lute? I'm Primrose. What's your name? Can you play something? Please, please, please." The tiny chirpy fae now peppers the young woman with rather messy long dark brown hair with her unfiltered attention.
Cook’s face splits into a grin the moment he spots the familiar mess of brown hair. He half-rises from his stool, one broad arm already lifting to wave her over.
“Hey, girl! Down here!” he calls, voice carrying easily over the tavern murmur.
At nearly the same moment, that high, chirping buzz of the little flying one—flitting about earlier—cut through the air as it tries to catch her attention as well.
As the group gathers into the same patch of floor, more or less, Cook leans slightly toward Seri and mutters “Rather odd assortment the councilor’s collecting, wouldn’t you say?”
He straightens as Esmeralda speaks, giving her a sideways look as he listens.
“What’s usual for a councilman ain’t something I’d know much about,” Cook replies, scratching at his beard. “But I can tell you I ain't never been summoned by one before.”
He takes a slow pull from his mug, then gestures vaguely at the lot of them.
“If we are all here for the same reason it has to be for a strange one...”
The drizzle had settled into the kind of miserable dockside damp that crept through boots and into bone. Brynn Breakwater barely noticed anymore. They're compact and sturdy, built from years of dockside labour rather than formal training. Their dark hair is worn in a practical undercut, the longer portion occasionally tied back to keep it clear of tools and rigging. Freckles dust their nose and cheeks, and faint grease smudges or sawdust are rarely far from their skin. Intricate tattoos wind across one side of their scalp and down along the neck in stylized waves, knotwork, and dockside symbols that hint at Saltmarsh’s maritime culture. Several small piercings line one ear and their nose.
The shipwright was packing it in for the day. The job had taken longer than expected... one of the fishing boats had come in with a warped rib along the hull where too much strain had been put on tired timber. Brynn had spent the better part of the morning bracing it, planing the worst of the bend out of the wood and reinforcing the joint so it might survive another season of hard water. It wasn’t pretty work, but it would hold.
They wiped their hands on a rag already stained with tar and sawdust, and rolled their shoulders, feeling the familiar stiffness that came from hours bent over someone else’s problems. Now it was time for something warm. Thus, Brynn had naturally headed straight for Cook’s cart afterward. A hot meal, on the house, had been the plan. Instead they found the wagon shuttered and locked. And the dogs.
Brynncrouched near the cart, holding their prosthetic arm just out of reach while three of Cook’s mutts bounced excitedly around it. “Alright, alright...” Brynnmuttered, wiggling the brass fingers. The dogs went still for half a heartbeat, then one lunged. Brynntossed the arm. The dogs immediately tackled the prosthetic like it was the greatest prize the docks had ever known.
While the dogs celebrated their 'victory', Brynn slipped around the back of the wagon. They were halfway through testing the latch when the realization hit. Locked. Brynnsighed. “Well sir, that’s just rude.” A slender tool is slipped from their belt with deft fingers, and disappeared into the latch. As if they may have done this many times before, the mechanism gave a soft click not long after. (Sleight of Hand: 24 rolled for RP to see if they would make it in. Will note Kaemgen and I are familiar with RPing with each other, and this is just RP fun, with no hostile/pvp intentions. Purely scene setting/fluff for character personalities/relationships and my own self amusement.)
Brynn slid the shutter open just enough to slip inside, helped themselves to a bowl of whatever Cook had left simmering, and set it aside. Then they paused. They glanced over the wagon with a critical eye. A loose bracket on the frame. A warped hinge. One of the heat vents sitting crooked. Their eye twitches. Didn't they just adjust that vent last week? They couldn't just leave these things as is, even if they were down a hand. So, a few less quicker than usual adjustments, a pair of tightened bolts and a small brass reinforcement plate later, the wagon looked sturdier than it had a few minutes before. “Fair trade.” They muttered as they settled in to enjoy their helping of food.
Satisfied for the time being with a job well done, Brynnleaned out the back door to bribe the dogs with cleaning their bowl and spoon to get their arm back. Once their prosthetic was recovered from the slobber-covered celebration, they return the dishes and lock up behind them. Then with a healthy dose of little self-satisfaction, they stride their way to the Empty Net.
Brynnshoulder pushed through the door of the Empty Net with their dripping prosthetic in hand. It doesn't take long, or much, for them to catch the familiar sight of the Cook at the bar. From there, a grin pulls onto their lips. Despite the damp weather, and their usual gait, the shipwright moves with the hustle and bustle of the place to mask as much of the sound of wet footsteps as they can. (Stealth: 15) Coming up quietly behind him, a moist brass finger is slipped into Cook's ear as they step to the opposite side of him. As he looks one way or the other, they take his apron to wipe off their prosthetic. "Next time leave a 'doggy bag' out fer yer favourite b-" Clunk. The shipwright slapped their prosthetic onto the counter before sliding onto a stool. "Or I'll put a boot on that wagon." They run their freed hand through their damp hair, a wide shit eating grin plastered on their face. Brynn gets to adjusting, and repairing, their chewed prosthetic.
Only after a couple curses and screw turns later, Brynn finally thinks to look up. Their dark eyes glanced at others nearby. Here they were, bulldozing their way in like they owned the place, cause when you fix things one can develop a sense of ownership, and probably interrupting. Though, without shame or skipping a beat, Brynn's signature grin remains and they give a casual two fingered salute in greeting to the gathered/gathering women. They're pretty sure they're familiar with at least two of them.
The large, stocky man that was Cook gave a sudden, schoolgirlish squirm when the wet, metallic finger slipped into his ear. If he had any dignity left, it was only because he somehow managed not to squeal.
“Brynn!” he barked, the growl in his voice carrying far less heat than the tone suggested.
He twisted this way and that before finally spotting her, the dopy grin spreading across his face proof that this was neither the first—nor likely the last—time she’d managed to sneak up on him like that.
“As if you couldn’t dismantle any lock I could afford to put on the place,” he shot back.
But as he said it, his eyes followed the movement of her prosthetic arm as she set it down on the bar. His grin faded into a frown.
“Don’t tell me those fleabags were chewing on you again,” he muttered, clearly chagrined.
It just wasn’t right. Bad enough a sweet thing like her had to lose the arm in the first place—but his dogs treating it like a chew toy? The thought set a brief, useless flare of anger in his chest. Not that he’d ever actually punish the mutts for it. They didn’t know any better. Still, he didn't like it.
When Brynn finally glanced up from whatever she was adjusting in the arm’s mechanism, Cook hurried through a round of introductions. He did his best with the names—mangling a pronunciation here or there—but well enough that the intent was clear. The flying chatterbox was omitted for the moment, since it wasn’t immediately in sight and would no doubt introduce itself loudly soon enough.
“It seems we all got invited here by Councilor Solmor,” Cook finished, gesturing vaguely at the small gathering. “Though none of us know why or what for.”
"Hey Cook!"Darixa calls back as she hears. She shifts over closer to him even as Primroseis calling back to 'Esme'. Soon though the fae is peppering her with questions. "Oh! And who are you to ask all these questions?" She laughs, clearly not all that concerned. "I am Darixa. And do I have a lute?" she says playing as though she's surprised to be carrying one. "Hey! I do!" She moves the lute so that she's holding it in her hands. "I suppose a cute little thing like you might convince me to play something. We'll see."
She shoots a questioning look to Cook though, not quite sure what's going on. "Is that right that a whole bunch of us were brought here by the Councilor? And here I thought he was looking for a date!"
Somehow amidst this barrage, Darixa catches the quick salute from Brynn. But her attention soon falls on the blue-haired elf who is also talking with Cook. Given her distinctive look, it's not hard to recall seeing her before about Saltmarsh. It takes a bit longer to recall a name. "You're here for Councilor Solmor too?"
Brynnglanced sideways as Cook’s frown settled in. For a moment the tools in their hand paused. Then they snorted. “Relax, old man. I started it.” They did bait them after all. A screw tightened with a quick twist of the driver. Brynn flicked a bit of slobber from one of the brass fingers with a practised motion. “I waved it at ’em like a prize and tossed it right into the pack. Couldn’t blame ’em for thinking it was fair game.” They gave the prosthetic a final inspection, flexing the joints experimentally. “Besides… keeps ’em sharp.” A soft metallic click sounded as the last plate was reseated.
Brynnlifted the arm, turned it once in the light, then slid the harness strap across their shoulder with practised ease. The fittings settled against their frame with the familiar sequence of tiny mechanical sounds, click, slide, click, before the brass fingers flexed once more. “See?” they added, opening and closing the hand. “Good as new.” Only then did Brynnlean back casually on the stool, glancing around the gathered group with renewed curiosity.
Cook’s quick introductions had landed well enough. Brynnrecognized at least a couple faces, Seri from the docks and Darixa from somewhere between taverns and dockside chatter, while the finely dressed woman and her floating companion were new. They wave them over.
Cook’s question still hung in the air. Brynntilted their head slightly toward him, stray bangs falling. “Oh, I’m here on official business.” They say with perfect seriousness. Then they raise their newly reattached prosthetic hand. “The Councilor asked me to give him a hand.” The grin returned immediately after, crooked and unapologetic. Brynn drummed the brass fingers lightly on the counter. “Figured I’d bring the good one.”
Their gaze shifted between the others now, curiosity replacing the mischief. “So what’s the story then?” Brynn added. “We all get summons from the same Councilor on the same miserable day and end up here together?” One eyebrow lifts. “That either means someone’s in trouble… or someone’s about to offer work.”
Though, without shame or skipping a beat, Brynn's signature grin remains and they give a casual two fingered salute in greeting to the gathered/gathering women. They're pretty sure they're familiar with at least two of them.
Seri turns, turquoise eyes wide, as one of Procan's chosen saunters into the empty net like the Dragonfly nicely making way on a beam reach upon following seas. She even remembers their given name despite only having met them in passing, Brynn, who the Wave Father had gifted with a shipwright's talent in exchange for their arm. A sacred trade. Seri remembers Captain Thorne of the Dragonfly inspecting the work Brynn had done to restore the ship's leaking jolly boat when when last docked at Saltmarsh. Good work, this, the captain had grunted, the highest possible praise from him.
(More praise than Seri had ever gotten when she had attempted to channel Procan's wild power with her own penchant for mending).
"Welcome, Brynn Salt-Blessed," Seri breathes reverently with a deep incline of her head. "You may remember me as Seri, Navigator of the Dragonfly when last we met dockside. I know not Councilor Solmor's purpose in calling us here, yet I am glad that one of Procan's chosen graces us all."
But her attention soon falls on the blue-haired elfwho is also talking with Cook. Given her distinctive look, it's not hard to recall seeing her before about Saltmarsh. It takes a bit longer to recall a name. "You're here for Councilor Solmor too?"
Seri's gaze shifts to the tanned woman with dark brown hair and her smile changes, no longer reverent, but friendly, respectful and collegial.
"Speak of Navigators and another appears. It is good to see you, Darixa. May the Wave Father speed your course to the horizon. I know not whether Solmor intends us to remain shore-bound or set sail, but indeed it seems he has summoned us all. Though for me, he only requested that Procan's Temple here in Saltmarsh send someone. Having none to spare, the priest here contacted his peer in Seaton up the coast, who in turn sent me."
The aquatic half-elf relates this last part off-handedly, though a hint of barely suppressed eagerness makes it clear she had wanted to come, sent or not.
"I'm Primrose." The tiny chirpy fae repeats with a wide warm smile to the tanned young woman with the long dark brown hair as if that would answer her question. "You think I'm cute?" She goes on, her smile going even wider, holding her hands together. The tiny fae then claps her hands excitedly as the tanned young woman says she would consider playing something, flying closer to give her a quick kiss of gratitude on her cheek before flying off to cheer the other patron's up about weather and catches. She never stays too long at the same table though, her attention span being somewhat lacking.
Her offer of seats at the table being ignored had briefly but badly stung the Rhenee's pride, she wasn't used to being ignored, in fact she was used to more attention than she wanted. She merely nods in agreement with the observation from the one they called the Cook, she herself still somewhat doubted they were summoned here on the same business. Her business with the Councilor was about a package and confidential information but it seemed the others weren't even privy to why they were summoned here.
As the tattooed one-armed one enters the tavern, Esme again decides it would be unlikely for this to be Councilor Solmor, although admittedly she had no idea how a councilman in these parts of Flanaess would look like. Her full lips again curve slightly into an amused smile at the banter between the two at the bar, and she gives the latest arrival a small smile and a nod as the cook introduces her. The others all seemed to know each other, even the blue-haired elf from Seaton, which made her think the four of them was perhaps here on their own business with the councilman. Either way, the young Rhenee had her own enterprise to take care of, and as the Councilman had them all waiting she might as well get to know the locals. She would need both a chef and someone to help her with entertainment in time, but first thing first, so as the one-armed one waves her over she slowly rises from her seat and walks closer to the bar, giving the other a small curious smile.
"I might be the one to offer you work Brynn." Esmeralda says with her rhenee accent and a mysterious smile as she walks quite close to the tattooed one. "I arrived here just last night as I recently acquired the deed to an old vessel of gnomish design in your harbour. I'm hoping to refurbish it into a place for pleasure and entertainment but I would need the help from someone handy to do that. Now am I right in thinking you might be such a person?" She says, her slender fingers moving gently and gracefully along the prosthetic as if trying to sense if it would hold up to her needs.
You are at the Empty Net, tavern of choice of the roughest down and outers in all of Saltmarsh. There are cat-calls and lewd looks in abundance, many reaching to ‘touch’ the fairy. The mood shifts once the Cook arrives. A young looking elf with an eyepatch and half a shaved head, who has been quietly nursing a ceramic pint, looks up and waves in yer direction, “Aye now been waitin' for you lot. I'm Gordon, sent by young master Solmor. This here's for you lot. I'm instructed to return with a yes or no.” On a seat next to his is a teak-wood box (shoebox size).
In the Box.
A contract with spots to sign, ink and quill, and a pouch containing five Azurite. The contract calls for a thorough investigation of a derelict mansion four miles east of town just off the old coastal road. Sources indicate the site is being used by a Sea Prince slaver crew. If so any discreet information gathering would be greatly appreciated. Your discretion in this matter is vitally important to Councilor Solmor, thank you. Also included is a detailed chart noting tide and depth along the coast between Seaton and Saltmarsh.
Kreb Shenker,“Drinks ain’t free an seats are fer drinkin, what’ll ya have else beat it.” Several men are snickering and watching closely.
Kreb Shenker’s Bar —STILL SERVING ALL DAY EVERYDAY— 2 cp dented tin cup of ‘Thinner’ 1 sp wood mug of 'Scrub’ (foamy earthy beer) 2 sp ceramic pint of Blood-wine (Bloody-Mary) 2 sp Pickled egg, salted herring, pepper cheese
*smoke weed chew liquor available on request. or The Hagfish Challenge Finish one cup of Hag’s tank Your drinks are free
The tiny chirpy fae would be innocently unconcerned with the behaviour of the patrons, although she would always move on to anyone not already in a good mood, and if her mere presence had made all and everyone already in a good mood she would consider her task completed and disappear, for now.
"To be continued." The young Rhenee beauty says with a playful tap on the prosthetic and a small smile before walking over to the one-eyed elf and taking a seat beside him and the teak box, opening it and quickly reading through the drawn up contract before signing it and peeking briefly at the chart, then handing both to the next member of the group that the councilor put together. So this councilor wanted this handed discreetly, how interesting. Well that would cost him something extra at a later date. In order to gain the necessary leverage she would of course need to actually investigate this derelict mansion.
The composition of the group still didn't quite make sense to her but the others would likely have skills more pertinent to their mission than lute-playing, navigation and cooking. She herself was perhaps the most unlikely member of the team, but the Rhenee knew she was if nothing else versatile, and the prospect of some investigation even sounded a bit exciting now. She picks up one of the azurites from the pouch and pockets it, giving the one-eyed elf a nod to show that it was a yes from her at least. She then returns to the bar and her other business with Brynn, ordering a pint of Blood-wine, mostly to make the proprietor shut up. "Now, where were we?" She says, returning her full attention to Brynn.
“Old man?” Cook scoffed at Brynn. “Why, if I were ten years younger—”
He trailed off mid-sentence, realizing a moment too late that he’d just proven her point.
When Brynn finished reattaching her arm and lifted it to show it was good as new, Cook instinctively started to reach out and touch it. He caught himself halfway there and pulled his hand back, covering the hesitation with a forced smile and a half step away.
“Yeah, yeah. You’re a wonder,” he muttered, making sure to coat the words in enough grumpiness that they didn’t sound like praise.
The chatter among the others drifted past him as Cook’s attention wandered to the rest of the tavern and its usual clientele. Not the politest crowd at the best of times—and another odd thing about the councilor’s summons.
Why here?
Cook spent a quiet minute scanning the room, fixing the worst of the lot with long, warning looks—especially any who sat a little too close to their group or let their eyes linger too long on the ladies.
“Wait. What?” Cook suddenly cut in, snapping out of his silent watch.
He turned toward Esmeralda, narrowing his eyes as he leaned slightly closer.
“Brynn ain’t working on no pleasure boat,” he said darkly.
Before the misunderstanding could go any further, a young elf with an eyepatch and half a shaved head approached and caught the group’s attention. He explained he’d been sent by “Young Master” Solmor. Cook figured that must be the councilor’s man, so his focus shifted immediately.
“Eh. Someone read it aloud,” Cook said as he took the paper from Esmeralda—only to pass it along again without even glancing at it. “No sense passing it from one to the other all night.”
He did not volunteer to do the reading himself.
While someone hopefully handled that task, Cook drifted back to the bar and fixed Kreb Shenker with a familiar, unimpressed glare.
“Quit being a nuisance and bring me a cup of the Hag’s Tank,” Cook grumbled. Then, after a beat, he added, “And it’ll be for the drinks I already offed as well, eh…”
This gets everyone’s undivided attention as Kreb nods to Cook and raises up a tin cup scoops out a cup full of ‘Hag’s water’ and brings it to, the Cook.
There’s lots of chatter and money quickly changing hands. Someone start chanting, “Chug chug chug”
Cook please make a CON save.
”1” violent retching (apply the poisoned condition), 11 or lower choking and puking, 16 you manage to keep it down, 21+ no problem, “20” you slam it down to cheers and groans (reputation grows)
“Wish me luck,” Cook calls out to the crowd, already regretting the decision.
Under his breath he mutters a quick plea to the spirits of nature, asking—very politely—that the muck sloshing in his cup taste even half as good as it looks. ((Druidcraft to try and make it taste better.))
Then he throws Brynn a quick wink.
Cook downs the Hag’s Tank like a misbegotten shot.
For a moment, nothing happens.
Then the swill hits his stomach.
It roils. It churns. It argues violently with his guts and bowels in what can only be described as a historic struggle between drunken foulness and a man’s dignity and pride. The battle is fierce, though mercifully shorter than it feels. ((Con save: 19))
In the end…
Cook wins.
He slams the empty cup onto the bar with enough force to nearly dent the wood, then throws both fists into the air in triumph.
“Gods abound, that isnasty!”
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Starday | 1st week of Coldeven | 1200 hours | Docks -> Empty Net | Request from Councilor Solmor | drizzle wind cold | poor catch | bad mood | recent increase in shark population |
It’s been a long tough week. Every fishermen’s haul has been scarce. Bosses been working hard and pushing harder. Laborers are laid off, fightings on the rise. Captain of the guard Eliander Fireborn has issued an increased guard presence around town. Councilor Gellin Primewater has called for a special town meeting to discuss funding a fisherman’s aid, drawing from the wages currently paying for the town guards.
Meanwhile young Councilor Anders Solmor has sent a request via messenger to each of you regarding a package and confidential information, to be received at the Empty Net promptly at high noon.
Ever wonder what it would be like to be a bear?
So this was Saltmarsh...
Not quite what she had hoped for, but she was confident mood would change when she had situated herself properly. The young raven-haired beauty had found a seat at the Empty Net tavern, sitting straight in her chair, wearing her business look and stance to keep any suitors away, for now. She had certainly been surprised by the message delivered, pleasantly so. She knew that her enterprise needed the support from the locals, some in particular, and a Councilor being in your debt could prove quite useful.
The young raven-haired beauty wears a long dark dress of Rhenee style and origin, seeming somehwat out of place with the local clientele, but she seems quite unbothered by the looks she draws, even ignoring any ogling from the local ruffians, simply giving them a cold glare should they dare venture too near her, otherwise keeping her dark grey eyes at the door, waiting for the Councilor
Meanwhile a tiny fae flies around from one table to another, being quite chirpy and sociable, particularly homing in on anyone in need of a cheering up, something she quickly seems to notice, calming and reassuring them that both weather and catches will improve within long.
Cook paused in his story to taste test the All Day Soup he had bubbling away in his oversized put. Needed some spicing up. He grabbed pinches of this and pinches of that seemingly at random, tossing them into the brew and started to give it a good mixing as he turned back to his audience.
“Where was I?” He asks and then blinks a couple times quickly before chuckling. “Guess they heard that one before…” Cooks not offended that whoever he had been talking to had drifted away sometime during the telling of the story, surely he had to get back to work before their boss got too angry at the missing or back aboard ship before it pulled away. Such was life on the docks, it’s either all hustle or bustle or all sitting around and doing a whole lot of nothing. It all depended on the waves and the fish and storms and all that.
Speaking of all that, or thinking of it at least, Cook gave a glance up at the sky, using one oversized hand to shade his eyes as he did so. Judging by the position of the sun and all he figured it was about time, more or less, that he be off. He gave one last glance up and down the dock to see if any customers were hurrying his way, finding none he set about closing up his wagon - a couple flames were tamped down to the bare minimum, a couple meat pies put up on the shelving, a couple scraps tossed out to the several mutts and hounds which always lazed about, and shutters were drawn and locked.
“You scamps keep an eye on the place, eh?” Cook says aloud to the dogs as he finished up securing the wagon and started heading off toward his appointment. The dogs didn’t understand him per se, oh no, but they knew where the food was so they wouldn’t stray too far unless Cook called for them to do so.
Councilor Solmor had “requested his presence” so Cook figured he had to be present.
Councilor Anders Solmor - Cook wasn’t exactly sure which one of the highfaluting mucky-mucks he was but he was one of them and it wouldn’t be a good idea to just be blowing them off. Besides, it’s not every day that a messenger is sent to Cook like he was someone fancy or special or something. Besides, the traffic on the docks has been low all week and while he normally would be loath to close up during lunchtime it didn’t look like he’d be missing much business by doing so today. Besides, perhaps Councilor Muckety-Muck will be buying a round or two. Besides, it’ll be nice to get out of the cold and the drizzle, with the wind as it is not even the cooking fires is keeping him warm…
Besides, besides, besides…. Cooks mind in a constant internal dialogue as he makes his way to the Empty Net and unconsciously whistles (poorly) a tune.
As Cook hurries through the door he immediately spots a couple people he knows well enough to at least nod to or to give a wave and he dutifully does so as their eyes meet. What his eyes don’t immediately meet, however, is this Councilor fella. “Of course he’ll keep me waiting,” he grumbles to himself and heads over to the counter to order himself a mug of something that’ll help him warm up as he waits.
Somewhere above the western Azure Sea, a sudden buffeting cross-gust of wind shears itself from the prevalent southwesterly gale and bears northwest.
Past little-charted blue depths and sporadic ships of all manner. Those crewed by the Keolish royal navy and those of other coastal nations, ships crewed by privateers, or pirates, or seafarers far stranger, ruffling their full-bellied sails before sweeping onward. Past Monmurg the wind blows, causing the banners of the Sea Princes flying there to flutter and snap restlessly, then across the Bay of Javan, swirling towards land. Towards Saltmarsh.
Rushing past the coastal hill where the Temple of Procan waits, chilling the bearded visage of the priest there in a rough caress as he stands gazing to the horizon, before veering west to the harbor. Shouldering against the hulls of the ships at dock as they rock gently in wavelets by the docks. Over the dockside, bustling with sailors and commerce and music, though perhaps not as bustling as it should be. Then on to the tavern, The Empty Net, where it shoves open the entry door with a force both firm and measured to prevent it from slamming against the wall with its momentum.
In perfect time for Sera'ele Eventide to step inside without having to reach or break her stride. (Mage Hand).
As Seri turns and glances almost absently behind her (and the door closes seemingly on its own), a single tattoo, unlike the multitude adorning most sailors, peeks briefly from her shoulder. A vibrant dragonfly, stark against skin that is somehow at once both watery pale and suntanned. Seri's silvery-blue hair, appearing just soaked by an ocean swim despite being dry, covers the dragonfly quickly once more as she turns back to survey the tavern's interior and clientele. A driftwood buckler shield hangs at her back, emblazoned with a gold and coral trident piercing a cresting wave, and she bears a strange, dark studded leather armor, appearing fashioned from the skin and sinew of some marine mammal, bound by tough strands of kelp.
Yet despite her exotic appearance as a slender aquatic half-elf, pretty without coming close to being beautiful, Seri's most striking feature remains her nearly unblinking eyes, dark pupils drowning in deep turquoise irises like tiny black specks of rock awash in a sunlit sea.
While she has had occasion to visit landbound watering holes on shore leave during her tour of duty, her upbringing by priests as an acolyte of Procan has hardly made Seri a regular tavern-goer. Nevertheless, Seri steps to the bar to order a tot of rum before surveying The Empty Net.
It is of course impossible to miss the lovely raven-haired Rhenee woman, and Seri certainly recalls nibbling on the perfectly adequate fare offered up by the dockside cart of the gregarious, burly Cook, with his ever-present pack of dogs. Neither seem to be among the fishermen, sailors and dockworkers who typically frequent The Empty Net. Both seem to be waiting for something... (Passive Insight: 16)
Aye, and just what is it that I am waiting for? Seri suppresses a shiver of foreboding as she recalls the message her lost mother had left for her at the Temple of Procan in Seaton up the coast. She did not rightly know why she had wished to come to Saltmarsh after her inquiries in Seaton had turned up nothing. Perhaps a hunch borne on the sea wind? The priests certainly had been as reluctant to let her go as she had been eager to depart once more.
The summons from councilor Solmor had provided the perfect excuse. Seri feels free and unburdened to be outside cloistered halls again. Free to pursue Procan's far blue horizon as she had while serving as Navigator aboard the Dragonfly. Yet who else had Solmor summoned?
Seri steps up to within earshot of where she can address both the massive Cook and the Rhenee beauty, who seems to have a strange and friendly fey friend flying around her. As often, the half-elven acolyte appears solemn and serious even when she smiles, as she does now.
"I am Sera'ele Eventide, acolyte at the Temple of Procan in Seaton and once Navigator aboard the privateer vessel Dragonfly, called 'Seri' by most. I sense you each have been summoned by Councilor Solmor as I have? In truth, I do not think the summons was meant for me by name. Yet I am who my Temple has sent. If you too are answering Solmor's call, then I cannot help but wonder, why us? I recall seeing you, Cook, before here in Saltmarsh during my shore leave from the Dragonfly, yet we three seem as different from each other as a swordfish from a sea lion from a kraken."
Barn(Paladin1): Damian_May's Ereworn Under the Shadow | Lyra(Warlock2/Bard4): VitusW's Silverwood Forest | Nivi(Rogue5): Erik_Soong's Netherdeep
Joren(Fighter6): NotDrizzt's Simple Request | Quyen(Adept1, ba5ic): ConstancePhokas' Nentir Vale (Discord) | Seri(Druid1): Hunter_Orien's Saltmarsh
Xarian(Fighter3): Luna_Dust's Marks on the Map | Ophelia(Sorcerer2): BillM's Icewind Dale | Shin(Wizard1): Culuril's Strixhaven
Cook half turns from the bar to look at the lass with the strident tone. He blinks at the blue hair and the unique skin tone of the girl. Yeah, he’s seen her on the docks once or twice. Not a regular, mind ya, but memorable.
Sera-what? he is thinking to himself and then nods when she indicated Seri is enough. Well that’s a relief. Cook glances over towards the other odd duck in the bar, the one altogether too put together and haughty looking to not stand out. He supposes she’s the other one this Seri is including in her little announcement there but he’s not sure at all who is the swordfish, the sea lion or the kraken…
“They do all swim in the same waters though, don’t they girl?” Cook says in a bit of a raised voice to make sure she can hear him and raising his mug up in a bit of a salute and motioning that she is welcome to come over and join him at the counter.
“The Dragonfly, you say? Why that’s a name I ain’t heard in an age…. My memory ain’t quite what it used to be but it seems to me that…” Cook trails off, however, and instead changes the subject.
“You got summoned by ye old Councilor Fancypants too, have ya? Well you may as well gather over here until he arrives. Those sort like to keep us common people waiting just to show them who is important, ya know? Not that I suppose I’d exactly use common to describe ya…” He includes the dark haired one in that correction as well, if she has joined them.
“I haven’t the foggiest of foggiest what the pow-wow could be about. I don’t imagine I am going to like it, never much like anything the government types want, but I am growing more and more curious…”
When the messenger had arrived, Darixa had wearily looked at the note as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. 'Better get moving if I'm going to make it,' she thinks to herself. Quickly to her feet, she takes just a moment to brush through her hair and put on her loose-fitting top, soft pants, and broad belt with a couple of daggers. She grabs her lute, slings it across her back and just like that is ready to go out. At the last moment, she picks up her sturdy leather jacket. 'Just in case,' she thinks. The rest can just stay put.
She makes her way quickly, though without running, along the docks. She stays alert for anyone she might know, though there are few at this hour about. Those with work had already headed out. And those without were still sleeping off their revelries. At least, that was her experience. Playing music in the taverns to earn a few coins, she had heard the complaints about the poor fishing. And she knew Saltmarsh had become a bit more somber than usual. Having not eaten yet, she figured Cook would be good for a quick bite on her way. But as she approached his little food wagon, she found that it was all closed up. "Nooo!" she complains to herself. Well, and to the couple of strays that were still hanging about. "A fine day for Cook to close up early!"
There's nothing for it but to press on to the Empty Net. She could get food there, but she might have to part with some of her coins for that. Ah well, it couldn't be helped. It wasn't too much farther along until she finally reached the entrance. 'Councilor Anders Solmor, wonder what he's going to look like? Can't imagine I've run into him before. Hope this isn't some sort of ploy,' she is thinking as she steps inside the place.
Stepping inside is a young human woman with rather messy long dark brown hair. With heavily tanned skin and rich brown eyes, she starts to look about the place, a smile on her face. She confidently steps over to the bar, giving a quick wave to the person working there, likely someone she'd met before. "Looking for a Councilor Solmor," she says. "Strangely enough, I've had a note saying I should meet him here. It's not noon already is it? I didn't miss him?"
Rabbit Sebrica, Sorcerer || Skarai, Monk || Lokilia Vaelphin, Druid || Britari / Halila Talgeta / Jesa Gumovi || Neital Rhessil, Wizard || Iromae Quinaea, Cleric
Meira Dheran, Rogue || Qirynna Thadri, Wizard || Crisaryn Melkial, Sorcerer
As the bald bearded man with the leather apron enters the Empty Net, Esme quickly decides it would be unlikely this would be the Councilor, still her dark grey eyes discreetly follow him over to the bar counter, waiting for a sign. The tiny chirpy fae on the other hand quickly joins him, hovering over the bar with a bright smile. "You smell of food, tasty food, I'm Primrose, who are you, are you a chef, do you have any specialities?" She quickly and cheerily peppers the man with questions.
Esme's attention is again drawn to the door as the blue-haired elf enters, her full lips curving into a small curious smile, listening as the elf seems to address herself as well as the bald bearded man assailed by Primrose at the bar. She stays silent for now, trying to make sense of what she hears. If there was indeed others summoned here by Councilman Solmor she wondered if it really was about the same business. According to the message she had recieved her business was about a package and confidential information, a kind of meeting she herself certainly wouldn't discuss with anyone else until she was quite positive they were supposed to know. She is also a bit disturbed about the elf sensing she was there to meet with the Councilor, perhaps she knew things that she hadn't let on yet, but it could also be a bluff. Either way, it simply seemed too unlikely that the Councilman would send message to the Procan temple in Seaton about this package business. As the bald bearded man with the leather apron admits he too is here to meet with the Councilman, Esme is even more confounded but decides to watch and listen for now.
As the young woman with rather messy long dark brown hair enters the tavern and asks for Councilman Solmor, Esme grows even more curious, her eyes widening, wondering if this was some kind of prank played on her now. The tiny chirpy fae however is less than discreet. "This is such an amazing coincidence, Esme is also here to meet with a Councilman, aren't you Esme?" She calls over to the young raven-haired Rhenee beauty still sitting at her table and giving the fae a strained smile. "Yes, yes I am, but I wasn't aware there would be others involved, let's not assume we are all here for the same business, yes." She says with calm confidence and a clear Rhenee accent. "I'm fairly sure you haven't missed Councilman Solmor." She turns and says to the young woman with rather messy long dark brown hair. "But please join me while we are apparently all waiting for the same person to arrive." She adds, motioning to the free seats at her table. "I am indeed Esmeralda. I just arrived so I would much appreciate if you would share something about Saltmarsh? Is it usual for a Councilman to summon people to a meeting at a place like this?" She says with a small amused smile. "You have a lute? I'm Primrose. What's your name? Can you play something? Please, please, please." The tiny chirpy fae now peppers the young woman with rather messy long dark brown hair with her unfiltered attention.
Cook’s face splits into a grin the moment he spots the familiar mess of brown hair. He half-rises from his stool, one broad arm already lifting to wave her over.
“Hey, girl! Down here!” he calls, voice carrying easily over the tavern murmur.
At nearly the same moment, that high, chirping buzz of the little flying one—flitting about earlier—cut through the air as it tries to catch her attention as well.
As the group gathers into the same patch of floor, more or less, Cook leans slightly toward Seri and mutters “Rather odd assortment the councilor’s collecting, wouldn’t you say?”
He straightens as Esmeralda speaks, giving her a sideways look as he listens.
“What’s usual for a councilman ain’t something I’d know much about,” Cook replies, scratching at his beard. “But I can tell you I ain't never been summoned by one before.”
He takes a slow pull from his mug, then gestures vaguely at the lot of them.
“If we are all here for the same reason it has to be for a strange one...”
The drizzle had settled into the kind of miserable dockside damp that crept through boots and into bone. Brynn Breakwater barely noticed anymore. They're compact and sturdy, built from years of dockside labour rather than formal training. Their dark hair is worn in a practical undercut, the longer portion occasionally tied back to keep it clear of tools and rigging. Freckles dust their nose and cheeks, and faint grease smudges or sawdust are rarely far from their skin. Intricate tattoos wind across one side of their scalp and down along the neck in stylized waves, knotwork, and dockside symbols that hint at Saltmarsh’s maritime culture. Several small piercings line one ear and their nose.
The shipwright was packing it in for the day. The job had taken longer than expected... one of the fishing boats had come in with a warped rib along the hull where too much strain had been put on tired timber. Brynn had spent the better part of the morning bracing it, planing the worst of the bend out of the wood and reinforcing the joint so it might survive another season of hard water. It wasn’t pretty work, but it would hold.
They wiped their hands on a rag already stained with tar and sawdust, and rolled their shoulders, feeling the familiar stiffness that came from hours bent over someone else’s problems. Now it was time for something warm. Thus, Brynn had naturally headed straight for Cook’s cart afterward. A hot meal, on the house, had been the plan. Instead they found the wagon shuttered and locked. And the dogs.
Brynn crouched near the cart, holding their prosthetic arm just out of reach while three of Cook’s mutts bounced excitedly around it. “Alright, alright...” Brynn muttered, wiggling the brass fingers. The dogs went still for half a heartbeat, then one lunged. Brynn tossed the arm. The dogs immediately tackled the prosthetic like it was the greatest prize the docks had ever known.
While the dogs celebrated their 'victory', Brynn slipped around the back of the wagon. They were halfway through testing the latch when the realization hit. Locked. Brynn sighed. “Well sir, that’s just rude.” A slender tool is slipped from their belt with deft fingers, and disappeared into the latch. As if they may have done this many times before, the mechanism gave a soft click not long after. (Sleight of Hand: 24 rolled for RP to see if they would make it in. Will note Kaemgen and I are familiar with RPing with each other, and this is just RP fun, with no hostile/pvp intentions. Purely scene setting/fluff for character personalities/relationships
and my own self amusement.)Brynn slid the shutter open just enough to slip inside, helped themselves to a bowl of whatever Cook had left simmering, and set it aside. Then they paused. They glanced over the wagon with a critical eye. A loose bracket on the frame. A warped hinge. One of the heat vents sitting crooked. Their eye twitches. Didn't they just adjust that vent last week? They couldn't just leave these things as is, even if they were down a hand. So, a few less quicker than usual adjustments, a pair of tightened bolts and a small brass reinforcement plate later, the wagon looked sturdier than it had a few minutes before. “Fair trade.” They muttered as they settled in to enjoy their helping of food.
Satisfied for the time being with a job well done, Brynn leaned out the back door to bribe the dogs with cleaning their bowl and spoon to get their arm back. Once their prosthetic was recovered from the slobber-covered celebration, they return the dishes and lock up behind them. Then with a healthy dose of little self-satisfaction, they stride their way to the Empty Net.
Brynn shoulder pushed through the door of the Empty Net with their dripping prosthetic in hand. It doesn't take long, or much, for them to catch the familiar sight of the Cook at the bar. From there, a grin pulls onto their lips. Despite the damp weather, and their usual gait, the shipwright moves with the hustle and bustle of the place to mask as much of the sound of wet footsteps as they can. (Stealth: 15) Coming up quietly behind him, a moist brass finger is slipped into Cook's ear as they step to the opposite side of him. As he looks one way or the other, they take his apron to wipe off their prosthetic. "Next time leave a 'doggy bag' out fer yer favourite b-" Clunk. The shipwright slapped their prosthetic onto the counter before sliding onto a stool. "Or I'll put a boot on that wagon." They run their freed hand through their damp hair, a wide shit eating grin plastered on their face. Brynn gets to adjusting, and repairing, their chewed prosthetic.
Only after a couple curses and screw turns later, Brynn finally thinks to look up. Their dark eyes glanced at others nearby. Here they were, bulldozing their way in like they owned the place, cause when you fix things one can develop a sense of ownership, and probably interrupting. Though, without shame or skipping a beat, Brynn's signature grin remains and they give a casual two fingered salute in greeting to the gathered/gathering women. They're pretty sure they're familiar with at least two of them.
just an unstable unicorn.
The large, stocky man that was Cook gave a sudden, schoolgirlish squirm when the wet, metallic finger slipped into his ear. If he had any dignity left, it was only because he somehow managed not to squeal.
“Brynn!” he barked, the growl in his voice carrying far less heat than the tone suggested.
He twisted this way and that before finally spotting her, the dopy grin spreading across his face proof that this was neither the first—nor likely the last—time she’d managed to sneak up on him like that.
“As if you couldn’t dismantle any lock I could afford to put on the place,” he shot back.
But as he said it, his eyes followed the movement of her prosthetic arm as she set it down on the bar. His grin faded into a frown.
“Don’t tell me those fleabags were chewing on you again,” he muttered, clearly chagrined.
It just wasn’t right. Bad enough a sweet thing like her had to lose the arm in the first place—but his dogs treating it like a chew toy? The thought set a brief, useless flare of anger in his chest. Not that he’d ever actually punish the mutts for it. They didn’t know any better. Still, he didn't like it.
When Brynn finally glanced up from whatever she was adjusting in the arm’s mechanism, Cook hurried through a round of introductions. He did his best with the names—mangling a pronunciation here or there—but well enough that the intent was clear. The flying chatterbox was omitted for the moment, since it wasn’t immediately in sight and would no doubt introduce itself loudly soon enough.
“It seems we all got invited here by Councilor Solmor,” Cook finished, gesturing vaguely at the small gathering. “Though none of us know why or what for.”
He looked back to Brynn.
“So what brings you here?”
"Hey Cook!" Darixa calls back as she hears. She shifts over closer to him even as Primrose is calling back to 'Esme'. Soon though the fae is peppering her with questions. "Oh! And who are you to ask all these questions?" She laughs, clearly not all that concerned. "I am Darixa. And do I have a lute?" she says playing as though she's surprised to be carrying one. "Hey! I do!" She moves the lute so that she's holding it in her hands. "I suppose a cute little thing like you might convince me to play something. We'll see."
She shoots a questioning look to Cook though, not quite sure what's going on. "Is that right that a whole bunch of us were brought here by the Councilor? And here I thought he was looking for a date!"
Rabbit Sebrica, Sorcerer || Skarai, Monk || Lokilia Vaelphin, Druid || Britari / Halila Talgeta / Jesa Gumovi || Neital Rhessil, Wizard || Iromae Quinaea, Cleric
Meira Dheran, Rogue || Qirynna Thadri, Wizard || Crisaryn Melkial, Sorcerer
Somehow amidst this barrage, Darixa catches the quick salute from Brynn. But her attention soon falls on the blue-haired elf who is also talking with Cook. Given her distinctive look, it's not hard to recall seeing her before about Saltmarsh. It takes a bit longer to recall a name. "You're here for Councilor Solmor too?"
Rabbit Sebrica, Sorcerer || Skarai, Monk || Lokilia Vaelphin, Druid || Britari / Halila Talgeta / Jesa Gumovi || Neital Rhessil, Wizard || Iromae Quinaea, Cleric
Meira Dheran, Rogue || Qirynna Thadri, Wizard || Crisaryn Melkial, Sorcerer
Brynn glanced sideways as Cook’s frown settled in. For a moment the tools in their hand paused. Then they snorted. “Relax, old man. I started it.” They did bait them after all. A screw tightened with a quick twist of the driver. Brynn flicked a bit of slobber from one of the brass fingers with a practised motion. “I waved it at ’em like a prize and tossed it right into the pack. Couldn’t blame ’em for thinking it was fair game.” They gave the prosthetic a final inspection, flexing the joints experimentally. “Besides… keeps ’em sharp.” A soft metallic click sounded as the last plate was reseated.
Brynn lifted the arm, turned it once in the light, then slid the harness strap across their shoulder with practised ease. The fittings settled against their frame with the familiar sequence of tiny mechanical sounds, click, slide, click, before the brass fingers flexed once more. “See?” they added, opening and closing the hand. “Good as new.” Only then did Brynn lean back casually on the stool, glancing around the gathered group with renewed curiosity.
Cook’s quick introductions had landed well enough. Brynn recognized at least a couple faces, Seri from the docks and Darixa from somewhere between taverns and dockside chatter, while the finely dressed woman and her floating companion were new. They wave them over.
Cook’s question still hung in the air. Brynn tilted their head slightly toward him, stray bangs falling. “Oh, I’m here on official business.” They say with perfect seriousness. Then they raise their newly reattached prosthetic hand. “The Councilor asked me to give him a hand.” The grin returned immediately after, crooked and unapologetic. Brynn drummed the brass fingers lightly on the counter. “Figured I’d bring the good one.”
Their gaze shifted between the others now, curiosity replacing the mischief. “So what’s the story then?” Brynn added. “We all get summons from the same Councilor on the same miserable day and end up here together?” One eyebrow lifts. “That either means someone’s in trouble… or someone’s about to offer work.”
just an unstable unicorn.
Seri turns, turquoise eyes wide, as one of Procan's chosen saunters into the empty net like the Dragonfly nicely making way on a beam reach upon following seas. She even remembers their given name despite only having met them in passing, Brynn, who the Wave Father had gifted with a shipwright's talent in exchange for their arm. A sacred trade. Seri remembers Captain Thorne of the Dragonfly inspecting the work Brynn had done to restore the ship's leaking jolly boat when when last docked at Saltmarsh. Good work, this, the captain had grunted, the highest possible praise from him.
(More praise than Seri had ever gotten when she had attempted to channel Procan's wild power with her own penchant for mending).
"Welcome, Brynn Salt-Blessed," Seri breathes reverently with a deep incline of her head. "You may remember me as Seri, Navigator of the Dragonfly when last we met dockside. I know not Councilor Solmor's purpose in calling us here, yet I am glad that one of Procan's chosen graces us all."
Seri's gaze shifts to the tanned woman with dark brown hair and her smile changes, no longer reverent, but friendly, respectful and collegial.
"Speak of Navigators and another appears. It is good to see you, Darixa. May the Wave Father speed your course to the horizon. I know not whether Solmor intends us to remain shore-bound or set sail, but indeed it seems he has summoned us all. Though for me, he only requested that Procan's Temple here in Saltmarsh send someone. Having none to spare, the priest here contacted his peer in Seaton up the coast, who in turn sent me."
The aquatic half-elf relates this last part off-handedly, though a hint of barely suppressed eagerness makes it clear she had wanted to come, sent or not.
Barn(Paladin1): Damian_May's Ereworn Under the Shadow | Lyra(Warlock2/Bard4): VitusW's Silverwood Forest | Nivi(Rogue5): Erik_Soong's Netherdeep
Joren(Fighter6): NotDrizzt's Simple Request | Quyen(Adept1, ba5ic): ConstancePhokas' Nentir Vale (Discord) | Seri(Druid1): Hunter_Orien's Saltmarsh
Xarian(Fighter3): Luna_Dust's Marks on the Map | Ophelia(Sorcerer2): BillM's Icewind Dale | Shin(Wizard1): Culuril's Strixhaven
"I'm Primrose." The tiny chirpy fae repeats with a wide warm smile to the tanned young woman with the long dark brown hair as if that would answer her question. "You think I'm cute?" She goes on, her smile going even wider, holding her hands together. The tiny fae then claps her hands excitedly as the tanned young woman says she would consider playing something, flying closer to give her a quick kiss of gratitude on her cheek before flying off to cheer the other patron's up about weather and catches. She never stays too long at the same table though, her attention span being somewhat lacking.
Her offer of seats at the table being ignored had briefly but badly stung the Rhenee's pride, she wasn't used to being ignored, in fact she was used to more attention than she wanted. She merely nods in agreement with the observation from the one they called the Cook, she herself still somewhat doubted they were summoned here on the same business. Her business with the Councilor was about a package and confidential information but it seemed the others weren't even privy to why they were summoned here.
As the tattooed one-armed one enters the tavern, Esme again decides it would be unlikely for this to be Councilor Solmor, although admittedly she had no idea how a councilman in these parts of Flanaess would look like. Her full lips again curve slightly into an amused smile at the banter between the two at the bar, and she gives the latest arrival a small smile and a nod as the cook introduces her. The others all seemed to know each other, even the blue-haired elf from Seaton, which made her think the four of them was perhaps here on their own business with the councilman. Either way, the young Rhenee had her own enterprise to take care of, and as the Councilman had them all waiting she might as well get to know the locals. She would need both a chef and someone to help her with entertainment in time, but first thing first, so as the one-armed one waves her over she slowly rises from her seat and walks closer to the bar, giving the other a small curious smile.
"I might be the one to offer you work Brynn." Esmeralda says with her rhenee accent and a mysterious smile as she walks quite close to the tattooed one. "I arrived here just last night as I recently acquired the deed to an old vessel of gnomish design in your harbour. I'm hoping to refurbish it into a place for pleasure and entertainment but I would need the help from someone handy to do that. Now am I right in thinking you might be such a person?" She says, her slender fingers moving gently and gracefully along the prosthetic as if trying to sense if it would hold up to her needs.
You are at the Empty Net, tavern of choice of the roughest down and outers in all of Saltmarsh. There are cat-calls and lewd looks in abundance, many reaching to ‘touch’ the fairy. The mood shifts once the Cook arrives. A young looking elf with an eyepatch and half a shaved head, who has been quietly nursing a ceramic pint, looks up and waves in yer direction, “Aye now been waitin' for you lot. I'm Gordon, sent by young master Solmor. This here's for you lot. I'm instructed to return with a yes or no.” On a seat next to his is a teak-wood box (shoebox size).
In the Box.
A contract with spots to sign, ink and quill, and a pouch containing five Azurite. The contract calls for a thorough investigation of a derelict mansion four miles east of town just off the old coastal road. Sources indicate the site is being used by a Sea Prince slaver crew. If so any discreet information gathering would be greatly appreciated. Your discretion in this matter is vitally important to Councilor Solmor, thank you. Also included is a detailed chart noting tide and depth along the coast between Seaton and Saltmarsh.
Kreb Shenker, “Drinks ain’t free an seats are fer drinkin, what’ll ya have else beat it.” Several men are snickering and watching closely.
Ever wonder what it would be like to be a bear?
The tiny chirpy fae would be innocently unconcerned with the behaviour of the patrons, although she would always move on to anyone not already in a good mood, and if her mere presence had made all and everyone already in a good mood she would consider her task completed and disappear, for now.
"To be continued." The young Rhenee beauty says with a playful tap on the prosthetic and a small smile before walking over to the one-eyed elf and taking a seat beside him and the teak box, opening it and quickly reading through the drawn up contract before signing it and peeking briefly at the chart, then handing both to the next member of the group that the councilor put together. So this councilor wanted this handed discreetly, how interesting. Well that would cost him something extra at a later date. In order to gain the necessary leverage she would of course need to actually investigate this derelict mansion.
The composition of the group still didn't quite make sense to her but the others would likely have skills more pertinent to their mission than lute-playing, navigation and cooking. She herself was perhaps the most unlikely member of the team, but the Rhenee knew she was if nothing else versatile, and the prospect of some investigation even sounded a bit exciting now. She picks up one of the azurites from the pouch and pockets it, giving the one-eyed elf a nod to show that it was a yes from her at least. She then returns to the bar and her other business with Brynn, ordering a pint of Blood-wine, mostly to make the proprietor shut up. "Now, where were we?" She says, returning her full attention to Brynn.
“Old man?” Cook scoffed at Brynn. “Why, if I were ten years younger—”
He trailed off mid-sentence, realizing a moment too late that he’d just proven her point.
When Brynn finished reattaching her arm and lifted it to show it was good as new, Cook instinctively started to reach out and touch it. He caught himself halfway there and pulled his hand back, covering the hesitation with a forced smile and a half step away.
“Yeah, yeah. You’re a wonder,” he muttered, making sure to coat the words in enough grumpiness that they didn’t sound like praise.
The chatter among the others drifted past him as Cook’s attention wandered to the rest of the tavern and its usual clientele. Not the politest crowd at the best of times—and another odd thing about the councilor’s summons.
Why here?
Cook spent a quiet minute scanning the room, fixing the worst of the lot with long, warning looks—especially any who sat a little too close to their group or let their eyes linger too long on the ladies.
“Wait. What?” Cook suddenly cut in, snapping out of his silent watch.
He turned toward Esmeralda, narrowing his eyes as he leaned slightly closer.
“Brynn ain’t working on no pleasure boat,” he said darkly.
Before the misunderstanding could go any further, a young elf with an eyepatch and half a shaved head approached and caught the group’s attention. He explained he’d been sent by “Young Master” Solmor. Cook figured that must be the councilor’s man, so his focus shifted immediately.
“Eh. Someone read it aloud,” Cook said as he took the paper from Esmeralda—only to pass it along again without even glancing at it. “No sense passing it from one to the other all night.”
He did not volunteer to do the reading himself.
While someone hopefully handled that task, Cook drifted back to the bar and fixed Kreb Shenker with a familiar, unimpressed glare.
“Quit being a nuisance and bring me a cup of the Hag’s Tank,” Cook grumbled. Then, after a beat, he added, “And it’ll be for the drinks I already offed as well, eh…”
This gets everyone’s undivided attention as Kreb nods to Cook and raises up a tin cup scoops out a cup full of ‘Hag’s water’ and brings it to, the Cook.
There’s lots of chatter and money quickly changing hands. Someone start chanting, “Chug chug chug”
Cook please make a CON save.
”1” violent retching (apply the poisoned condition), 11 or lower choking and puking, 16 you manage to keep it down, 21+ no problem, “20” you slam it down to cheers and groans (reputation grows)
Ever wonder what it would be like to be a bear?
“Wish me luck,” Cook calls out to the crowd, already regretting the decision.
Under his breath he mutters a quick plea to the spirits of nature, asking—very politely—that the muck sloshing in his cup taste even half as good as it looks. ((Druidcraft to try and make it taste better.))
Then he throws Brynn a quick wink.
Cook downs the Hag’s Tank like a misbegotten shot.
For a moment, nothing happens.
Then the swill hits his stomach.
It roils. It churns. It argues violently with his guts and bowels in what can only be described as a historic struggle between drunken foulness and a man’s dignity and pride. The battle is fierce, though mercifully shorter than it feels. ((Con save: 19))
In the end…
Cook wins.
He slams the empty cup onto the bar with enough force to nearly dent the wood, then throws both fists into the air in triumph.
“Gods abound, that is nasty!”