Kor and Edria: The Merchant, the Baron, and the Necromancers

[Lord of Kor]

The Seventh of Talyr, 1,078 EM.

Autumn comes early to the Principalities.

Above Karn, the skies are rich with pastel clouds, casting their purple-and-gold shadows against the sunset. The warm zephyrs have begun to bite, and the first storms of the season roil in the Silver Sea. The trees that line the city's boulevards and grace its ornate mansions bloom with the colours of a raging bonfire, and, far above, the sails of its merchant fleet flutter in the breeze.

The Sky Court, teeming with throngs of mercenaries, explorers, and vagrants even on its quietest days, is full almost to bursting. The merchant lords of Karn send their attendants to ply the crowds, looking for the best, brightest, and most ruthless to fill their crews before the first snows of winter. The two Consuls of Karn are rarely in attendance - but when they are, the most renowned adventurers of the lot vie fiercely to make their acquaintance, hoping for a grave and secret assignment from the city's rulers. Today, however, the twin marble podiums at either end of the amphitheatre - one black, one white - stand empty. This has only made the rabble beneath that much more anxious, and the merchant lords meet with no shortage of willing and able volunteers for even the direst of missions.

One of these merchants, Jaros Memnon, has just found himself a crew.

[Lord of Kor]

Twilight gleams off the white marble of the Sky Court, filling its balustrades with a golden glow. You stand on the second story of the Court, on a small balcony flying the personal crest of Jaros Memnon, one of the wealthiest and most renowned of Karn's elite class of merchants. The man himself reclines in a sprawling wicker chair, brandishing a swagger stick and harrumphing through the waves of his wild white beard, still flecked with youthful black. He is weighed down by a sizeable paunch, but his forearms are still thick with muscle despite his age. His eyes, however, are his most vital feature, gleaming with subtle mirth. He wears a simple white shirt and brown duster, weatherbeaten and durable.

He gestures broadly to you and your companions. His voice is boisterous yet avuncular, the bluster of a proud and energetic man.

"Ladies! Gentlemen! What a pleasure! I - well, I suppose you're all here for the same reason. You want me to ship you off to some strange land to see what your wits and weapons might find! If I were only twenty years younger, my friends, I'd be at the helm myself in an instant! But bully for you - I've gotten old and fat and far too rich, so you don't have to put up with a codger like me on board."

He strokes his mustache almost pensively.

"But enough of my ramblings. You didn't come here to listen to this old man and his rantings. You came here because I needed six brave souls to fix a little problem, and you happened to be the bravest. My old friend Caslo made sure you were up to the task."

Beside him, a bald, aquiline man with a carefully trimmed goatee and a supercilious glare nods his head sharply in acknowledgement. You recognize him as Caslo Thrask, your employer's chief viceroy and the man who first made contact with you about this job. He leans impatiently on an ornately filigreed cane, and his velvet coat-tails flutter in the wind.

"Caslo may be a bit dour sometimes, but we've been through thick and thin together. I trust him implicitly."

Memnon beams like a proud father.

"Enough of that, though. Let's get down to business. My primary trade partner in Thune - a stuffy old baron named Adamark Holm - has been having a bit of trouble lately. It seems that a cult of necromancers has started attacking his supply wagons these past few months. They've been massacring his best men-at-arms, turning every last man into an unholy abomination, and pillaging his towns at will. I need you to figure out who's behind these raids and put an end to them. Baron Holm's been worried sick that one of his rivals is trying to undermine his authority and seize power - that's why I'm sending you strapping young daredevils to put an end to this preposterous madness."

"I've chartered you a ship, the Shadow Stag. She's a sleek little schooner - she won't fly, of course, but she'll get you to the Baronies within the week. And her captain's loyal to a fault - you know he served with me once, back when I was a lieutenant in Saressa's fleet? But anyways - she'll land you in the port of Elrath, where one of Baron Holm's deputies will meet with you in person. The Marches can be a grim and dismal place - certainly not where I'd spend my leisure time - but I can assure you the pay is well worth it."

He pauses for effect.

"Any questions, my friends?"

[Urist]

One of the assembled company shifts as Lord Memnon finishes his speech, clearly about to ask a question. Framed by the sunlight, he has an air about him reminiscent of the marble columns with which they are surrounded, seeming due to his height and lean frame to stretch further towards the heavens than he has any right to. Black hair and grey eyes frame a face almost thin enough to be called gaunt, with high cheekbones and an aquiline nose lending an air of nobility and strength. The travelling clothes he is dressed in appear worn, but of high quality, as does the longsword which hangs by his side.

As Dietrich speaks, he bows his head slightly, displaying respect without displaying obeisance. Somehow, it seemed that Memnon would not particularly take to grovelling.

"Lord Memnon, have you received any reports of how, exactly, the necromancers are massacring these caravans? Our method of engagement and strategy somehwat depends on whether they are merely ambushing with zombies and skeletons, or whether we are dealing with an organized cadre of spellcasters."

[CharginCarnifex]

A small Halfling woman steps forward as well, her smooth brown hair brushed to one side out of the way of her strangely piercing green eyes. Throughout the speech she was taking some notes in short-hand in a worn journal, one of many visibly tucked about her person and in her bags, the Tharisian handwriting meticulously neat and legible. When Vixna speaks it is done softly, making the others strain to hear her naturally quiet voice.

"What sort of supplies or caravans were these? Are we talking food, weapons, potions, magical artifacts? Where were they coming from or going? Is there anyway that I could possibly take a look at the ledgers and discern perhaps a little more about the issue?"

And as soon as she is finished speaking she nimbly withdraws back into the group, letting others speak their turn.

[Magni's Hammer]

A roguish, sunburned man leans against a mooring post. He is dressed in a mismatch of gaudy cloth and rune-inscribed leather, pieces from scattered lands and foreign shores; his weather-worn hands are adorned with rings, charms and copper bracelets. His body is marked with small scars and smaller tattoos, the most notable being a curled claw under each of his deep-set, amber eyes. The man smells of spoiled wine and strange spices, and he spits a knot of chew into the sea as steps away from the post. He shifts a worn leather bag to his shoulder and saunters forward.

I have always wanted to return to the Marches. It is seeming that now is the time for such a thing.

Smiling, he drops his left to rest on the pommel of a fine, sheathed sword.

This one is ready for an expedition.

[The Brewmaster]

Bumbling from the back of the company is a man who has a stomach that could be described as a 'sizable beer gut' on days when he inhales heavily. He wears an open, white, robe and black harem pants. A gourd originally used for rice wine, dyed a cacophony of blues, reds, and purples, is strapped to his back. The gourd is the size of a keg that an innkeeper would keep good ale in. Only half listening to Memnon he looks around to try and remember where he is. Realizing that he's on some form of ship there is only a hiccup in response. He grins and checks out the vessel. Only catching something about Necromancers and a shadow he unhooks the gourd and begins chugging from it.

More adventures. More drinks. Sounds good to me.

He belches after the heavy intake of alcohol and leans against the nearest mast.

[Lord of Kor]

In response to the slew of questions, Jaros Memnon leaps to his feet far more nimbly than any of you expected. He chuckles, scratching his wild white hair in mock confusion.

"Good sir Blade Dancer! We'll start with you! And what an honor it is, I must say - I had a couple of close calls dueling the men of Syros in my time. That's some of the best swordplay I've ever seen in my life - and I've got the scars to prove it, my friend. You're absolute wizards when it comes to blade-work."

He offers Dietrich his hand, as large and callused as the rest of him.

"But I suppose I promised I'd answer your question! I wish I could tell you more, my friend, but Baron Holm's so very secretive about matters of business. He wouldn't so much as tell me what his wagons were carrying - apologies, my dear Lady Quick-Charm. I seem to be quite in the dark about these things: all I know is that every wagon he loses cuts into my profits. I can tell you, though, you'll very soon know more than this old codger - Barago Tryze, the baron's chief seneschal, will meet you as soon as you make land in Elrath. He's a man after my own heart, as hearty as they come, and he's assured me he'll fill you in personally. But let's not fuss about that - I have every confidence you'll be well-equipped and well-informed before the Baron sends you off into the wilds."

As the swashbuckling foreigner steps forward, wrapped in exotic scents and strange curios, the merchant raises a curious eyebrow.

"Now this - this is truly a conundrum! I take such pride in knowing where a man hails from and where he's going - but I can't make heads nor tails of this one. Master Daro, was it? Silk from far-off Chang'An, a direwolf pelt from the Frosthame, bangles that have to be from - Arouq? And Lazaren tribal markings to boot? You're a curious man, Daro Many-Trinkets. Even your accent's like a rich stew - too many ingredients to ever know for sure what's in it! I'd pay your passage to the Marches for free, my friend, just to see what you'd do with it - and I'd wager you've a story or two of your own to tell, if ever you care to spin yarns with this old man. It is indeed the time for an expedition - or, dare I say, an adventure?"

A throaty belch wafts lazily into the air from behind the party, where a balding, heavyset man clad in comfortable-looking silks reclines against a marble pillar, a blissful smile on his lips. Beside him, cheap wine sloshes from a gaudily painted gourd. Jaros Memnon laughs, a booming, boisterous sound.

"Ah, yes! How could I forget this connoisseur of drink and song! My dear Magnix, it's a pleasure that you could join us!"

He gestures to the half-asleep and clearly inebriated man, who has begun to drool.

"Doesn't look like much, I'll grant you, but I saw him with my own eyes! In this very state, my friends! He thrashed a dozen men without once looking up from his ale - now isn't that something!"

He eyes the man's gourd with mock pity.

"But we can't have you drinking that common swill, my friend! You're a guest of Jaros Memnon now - and that means something better is in order! Caslo, would you -"

The viceroy sighs, then raps twice on the ground with his cane. From behind a hanging tapestry, a pair of retainers shoulders a great egg-shaped stone forward, then lays it on the ground in front of the party. It glistens green and blue in the fading sunlight.

"Fresh from Edria, my friends! Would you believe this is a fruit? It grows in the hundreds from trees so immense you wouldn't believe me 'til you saw them. But more importantly, if you freeze them for a few days, you get the most wonderful sapwine - and this one's just about full to bursting. Gentlemen!"

With that, he pulls a sizable handaxe from his belt and splits the massive fruit. One by one, impossibly thin, filmy layers begin to peel away from the cut, flickering and fluttering in a rainbow cascade of colours until the entire top half has furled back. Within swirls a fragrant, iridescent liquid, like someone caught a thousand hues of firefly and distilled their essence into a drink. Memnon seizes a goblet from a third footman, who begins to pass them out to the rest of the group, and dips it into the shell. If you begin to sip the curious drink, the flavour is like nothing you've experienced before - the ice-cold liquid swirls with impossible tastes and fragrances, and each swirl of colour winds its way down your palate with a new sensation - some sweet as honey, some as fresh as mint, some with the unmistakable bite of strong liquor. You're only certain of one thing - it is nothing short of delicious.

"My dear lords and ladies! Tomorrow you'll be on your way to the Marches, a dismal place if ever I saw one. So tonight you'll all toast to the name of Jaros Memnon, and eat and drink as much as my men can serve you!"

[CharginCarnifex]

Swirling the vibrant mixture in her cup Vixna approaches Daro with a rhythmic swaying stride, her interest piqued. As she speaks it is clear that she is familiar with all sorts of customs on civility as she mirrors those of whoever she is speaking with [for now this means Daro but extends to others who join in]. She begins speaking in Tharisian (and switches to Common if Daro demonstrates he does not understand).

"Salutations, friend, and may the fates favor us during our time together. I go by Vixna and you seem to be a man of much knowledge. I have encountered the Lazaren tribes before but they have always viewed me poorly and wondered how you were so accepted to be marked in their customs? And so much else about your outfit, that necklace, those bracelets, all of this seems so absolutely extraordinary!

But I get ahead of myself. I am from Doren the Guardian Reaches. I suppose I was called to this group as a record-keeper and scribe. If you need any research or facts just come to me and I'll see it through! Its an absolute pleasure to make your acquaintance and I hope you will grant me some episodes of your life for my records"

Throughout any form of conversation she steadily takes notes in a journal, occasionally switching scripts or languages depending on what is being spoken around her.

[Urist]

Dietrich grips the hand offered firmly and shakes, careful not to squeeze tightly enough to imply a challenge, but not effetely. As each member of the group speaks he casts an appraising eye upon them, noting the weapons, armor, and bearing of each.

It looks as if we have quite a motley collection in this little crew. The halfling is definitely a functionary of some sort, the obession with data is obvious in her eagerness to get to grips with the ledgers. There must be hidden depths, though; Memnos and his entourage do know how to pick a crew, and they must have espied something in her. The drunkard, though, I have to question. He does seem as if it would be difficult to kill, through all the padding, but a warrior he appears not. Again, though, something must recommend him to the Lord, or he wouldn't have been chosen. His conduct in our first engagement will have to be observed closely.

As the motley-dressed human steps up, speaking of adventure, the appraising look intensifies.

HERE'S a man who looks like he knows his way around a blade. His bearing is not quite so martial as some, but he's obviously well traveled and to survive long enough to aquire all of his trinkets, he must be fairly dangerous. I'll be excited to see what this one does, as friend or foe...

When offered a goblet of wine, he graciously accepts, sipping the beverage slowly. Clearly appreciative of the liquid, he lets small quaffs roll around his mouth, inhaling to allow the subtleties of the notes reach his tastebuds and nose. After his initial sip, and after all have recieved a cup, he clears his throat and speaks in a clear baritone, letting his voice carry without raising his volume to an uncouth level.

"Lord Memnos, thank you for your hospitality, and the gracious gifts of your table and cellar. If I may, I would like to propose a toast! Möge deine Klinge scharf, deine Kassen volle, und dein Keller ist nie leer!

Spoiler: Translation

Show

May your blade be sharp, your coffers full, and your cellar never empty!

To Lord Memnos!"

For the rest of the evening, Dietrich makes small talk, welcoming further conversation if it comes his way, but not seeking it out zealously.

[The Brewmaster]

Already having filled his gourd with the colorful wine Magnix raises his jug to the toast and lets out a 'HAYY' holler and takes a few gulps. Hiccuping he gives the crew a few jovial nods. He stumbles forward, his gait misleading almost as if he can't make up his mind to who to talk to first. He first approaches Vixna and eagerly shakes her free hand with both of his.

Pleasure to meet, small one! Magnix the Bleary, Four Spirit Monk!

He pretends to guzzle down a cup of wine as if telling her to enjoy the drink. In a small smattering of belches and hiccups he makes his way over to the man who smells of spice, he goes in for a handshake and attempts to shake it.

Greetings friend! Pleasure to meet! Magnix the Bleary, Four Spirit Monk!

He gives the man who smells of spice a firm pat on the back. Before he can answer Magnix stumbles over to Dietrich with an intoxicated grin and shakes his hand as well.

Hello! Pleasure to meet! Magnix the Bleary, Four Spirit Monk!

Magnix, swiveling around, stumbles and falls only to clumsily roll and, somehow, manage to get back on his feet again. He leans against the marble mast once more and makes eye contact with the clouds, leisurely blinking whenever he remembers to.

[R-Group]

A dreary flicker of smoke edges out from the balcony's furthest corner, twirling away into the nothingness of the dying Karn sun. Resting rigid against the foyer's back wall, the furtive trail reveals a grandly unimpressive man. His stern blank face, free of any intruding hair, eyes the niceties of the Merchant Lord with a sort detached interest. From his own form to his dress, he presents a bizarre display of unconventional opposites.

His clothes are drab in color, well-worn ochres and browns burnt by exposure to the sun's unyielding rays - though the cloth is of fine, even excellent make. Thick linen robes and sashes adorn a body that is not so much impressive as odd. He is tall - quite tall - but does not have the bulk one might expect to carry at his height. Sunken shoulders and gaunt cheeks suggest weakness, but his furrowed brow and intense stare argues otherwise. Most unique, however, is his skin - pitted, cracked, moreover dry - like an empty riverbed blistered by long summer days.

He lazily draws smoke from a gilded hookah, snorting lightly and blowing hot white fog from his nostrils. Gently refusing any goblet of the liquor, he continues to watch in silence.

[Urist]

Dietrich, during the revelries of the night, notices the odd man out of their little group puffing away at the edge of the balcony. Disentangling himself from whatever conversation he's involved in as gracefully as possible, he refills his goblet and then meanders his way across the room towards him. The appraising look once again is cast over the newcomer, sweeping from head to foot and focusing on his face.

Tall, thin, and somewhat sickly looking, with a piercing stare? Maybe a mage of some sort, and I would be surprised if Memnos didn't procure ANY magical talent for an adventure like this. But most mages wouldn't have spent enough time outdoors, or been able to be away from their books long enough, to get skin that looks like that. His bearing, too, is striking; very erect for a spellslinger. Whatever he is, he surely has a flair for the dramatic. If I had any talent at painting, this would make an excellent scene.

After nodding his head in greeting, he bows slightly, and introduces himself, looking for any hint of engagement in the mans face.

"Well met, comrade. The name given to me is Dietrich Hörige, of Syros. My role in this little expedition seems to be dancing the dance of the blade. What, praytell, might yours be? I suppose I get a little ahead of myself; can I inquire as to your name? It was remiss of me not to ask immediately."

This response should be interesting, if he is as much of an enigma as his dress and appearance suggests.

[Magni's Hammer]

Approached by the young woman, the sellsword flashes his golden tooth with a wolfish grin. She begins talking, at first in that frustrating language they spoke in Thune -- 'never could get the hang of it,' he muses --and then in the Common Tongue after he does not respond. 'This one seems fair enough, not hard on the eyes' he thinks to himself. 'But one should not be confusing companions with, well...companions,' he reminded himself. 'Besides, a halfling? Not your type of girl, Daro.' "True enough, not the type."

The woman -- Vexna? Vixor? -- looks puzzled, and it dawned on the swashbuckler that the last bit had been said out loud. Happily, the jolly Magnix chose the very moment to introduce himself, allowing him to regain his composure.

"Ah, yes. It was my marks that you were asking, yes? They are to remind me of my home. I am Daro of Lazaren: pirate, bandit and sword-for-hire. I have sailed the great ocean for many years, and met many interesting men. Some of them gave me gifts, and other men I took gifts from, if you are understanding. And now, if you will excuse me, I will be refreshing myself on our Lord's hospitality."

With that, he ambles off, intent on getting thoroughly drunk.

[Lord of Kor]

"Gentlemen."

Your eyes flicker open to a majestic view. The rosy golden light of dawn pours through the drawn curtains, bathing the room in lush reds and purples. Beneath a balustrade composed of soaring arches, the lush gardens of Jaros Memnon's personal estate (the final location of the night's revelries) are in full bloom, coruscating with a rainbow of strange flowers, crystalline leaves, and flitting birds and insects - many of them, you recall, strange Edrian creatures imported to Karn at great expense.

Yet beyond the gardens is a sight still more magnificent: the fabled Cliffs of Kara Sunn. Memnon's estate sits atop one of Karn's immense basalt pillars, away from the urban center of the city, and it affords an incredible view of the Cliffs. The city's sprawl stretches almost to the edge of the cliffs, gleaming spires and soaring bridges perched boldly atop five hundred feet of sheer stone. From the city's heart, the river Taranda pours forth in a mighty torrent, meeting the sea below in a mighty roar of salty mist. The fabled sky ships of Karn flit through the air like hummingbirds. The more cautious pilots make straight for the docks, but other, more impetuous captains draw complex and daring arcs over palazzos, around columns, and under bridges before coming in to land. It is a sight worthy of a tapestry, all the splendor of Kor's richest city framed by the sublime power of uncut stone.

Your eyes flicker closed again. It is, the gorgeous vista notwithstanding, too early for this.

"Gentlemen!" shouts Caslo Thrask a second time, rapping his cane sharply on the marble floor.

With that, you stir from the luxurious couches and divans upon which you were reclining, rubbing the sleep from your eyes and focusing as best you can on the task at hand. Though most of you recall having had far too much of the delicious sapwine, your minds are unusually clear, with none of the throbbing headaches that usually follow such a debauched evening. In fact, you think you can hear colours, and the faintest breeze rings in your ears like a thousand elven chimes.

Thrask has none of his employer's avuncular charm - his voice is knife-edged and peremptory.

"I know Master Memnon does so like to ply his employees with all manner of delights before sending them off to parts unknown. Such folly, I suppose, is his prerogative - though I daresay, were I in charge, things would be different. But your night of wine and song is over now. Follow me, before I write you all off as useless drunkards and drop you back in the streets where you probably belong."

As you scramble to retrieve the last of your belongings from the guest-hall, Thrask leads you through a maze of ornate corridors to a gracefully fluted archway leading into Memnon's gardens. After waiting for the group's stragglers - the ever-bleary monk and the dazed Lazaren sell-sword - he marches forward, setting a brisk but impeccably consistent pace. If you attempt to ply him with questions, he simply fixes you with an imperious glare and continues to walk. The more perceptive ones among you notice strange wooden servants skittering about the glades, trimming hedges, pruning trees, and feeding animals with clockwork efficiency. As you leave the manor, Caslo Thrask raises a hand, and a liveried servant leads forth a train of five horses and a pack mule.

"These are yours to use. The Marches are too bleak and too dangerous for you to traverse their entire length on foot."

The entrance to the Sea Docks of Karn, less than half a mile from Memnon's home, is carved from a natural sinkhole that pierces the land's rugged basalt. A gently sloping ramp spirals down the cenote's outer edge, leading down to a small lagoon far below. Though they are less well-known than the famous Sky Docks, the city's more conventional trade routes are no less lucrative, and hundreds of ships lie at anchor in the sheltered cove. Taverns, brothels, and general stores line the cavern's edge, and throngs of sailors, rakes, and explorers have already begun to wander along the docks looking for a good day's meal or a useful curio. It is here that Caslo Thrask leads your small group, bypassing the massive barnacle-choked piers for a private dock carved of grey ash. Rocking softly in the gentle waves sits a sleek three-masted sloop. She balances perfectly in the water, poised as a gymnast and impeccably crafted from the finest wood. The filigreed Common script on her bow names her the Shadow Stag. A short, barrel-chested man with skin like desert dust throws up a hand in greeting, a wry smile on his face.

"Thrask-sahib! You have been dragging these poor drinking men already from their beds? Such a deed is cruelly done!"

Thrask leans expectantly upon his cane, pointedly ignoring the man.

"This is the Shadow Stag, one of Master Memnon's finest ships. She and her captain will be at your disposal so long as you should require it. She is neither a smuggler nor a warship, however. I have known too many reckless fools who died a hundred fathoms down because they pushed their ship too hard. I hope you are competent enough to avoid joining their ranks."

"Her holds are full, and she should get you to Elrath without incident. If you meet with some need I have not already foreseen - " He raises his eyebrows in what might pass for arrogant amusement. " - perhaps Master Memnon may take pity on you and meet your requests."

With that, he spins about quickly and strides away with the air of a man who has better things to occupy his time.

As you begin to board the ship, locating cabins, stowing your belongings, and billeting your new horses belowdecks, the stocky man at the helm saunters towards you. His swaying gait suggests he has barely set foot on land in months. His cheeks are pocked with stubble and his hair is caked with salt, and his green eyes are thoughtful and attentive.

"This meeting of you all is truly an honor, as it ever was. And the Shadow Stag, she is welcoming you also."

He bows simply.

"Men name me Anjal Savarin. The Stag is my ship, though Sheik Memnon holds my coin in hand."

"We are sailing as soon as you wish, and the winds they blow hot and fair from Urosso. We shall be in El-rath in seven nights' time."

As you nod your approval, Anjal Savarin and his two assistants - lean young men who could very well be his sons - begin to cast off. The ship moves with an almost impossible grace through the water, picking up speed easily and putting the cliffs of Karn behind you in less than an hour. Though you can still make out the rugged headlands of the Principalities to the north, you are surrounded by open ocean, and seagulls and hunting drakes soar on the thermals above you. You are bound to the west - to the Baronies of Thune.

[R-Group]

Spoiler: From the Previous Frivolities

Show

The seated man bellows spiced steam from his nostrils as a geyser, venting the sour gas into a thick cloud before him, scattered with a quick flick of the wrist. After a long pause, he turns his gaze towards the swordsman beside him, speaking in a deadpan tenor, his ashen face granting little response.

"Well met, Dietrich Hörige of Syros. I am called Razaltt Rahim, from the Caliphates. The Merchant Lord Memnon requested my presence to ply the Aethers of our world. He has decided that I shall fill your bands' void of those with the Arts. Of what else shall be required of me, I cannot say."


Leaning back, he takes another long pull from the hookah's thin pipe, and does not continue.

Soon as his feet touch the hard polished woods of Shadow Stag's decks, a brief look of extreme panic crosses Razaltt's face, and he whirls about to stare wildly back towards shore. Though after a moment, his chest ceases to heave and the man calms - his mouth vaguely moving with silent speech.

With a new found purpose he strides to the center of the open space, equidistant from either yawning chasm of water. Obviously lacking the a sailors confident stride, he leans heavily on his curled metallic stave to find balance, while fumbling about his various packets and containers. Eventually he draws out a thickened cigarillo, lighting the spiced stub with a flash of magical fire from his fingertips. Puffing heavily, his eyes quickly swivel from left to right, each time back again to the ocean on the other side.

[Lord of Kor]

By the third day of your voyage, the warm zephyrs of the Spice Lands have given way to harsher, colder gusts. Guided by the mountainous coastline of the Principalities, Captain Savarin has sailed an expert course, and his calculations have you arriving at Elrath within the week. Though the waters have grown rougher, most of you are by now accustomed to the boat's constant swaying (with the exception of Razaltt, who has never been at ease on the water) and the countless little tasks that go into the maintenance of a ship. You have kept up your energy by sparring, studying, drinking, sleeping, reviewing maps, tying knots, and fishing, and your spirits are high.

Around midday, the fiery Razaltt spots a strange shadow on the western horizon. As you sail closer, you can make out a towering storm in the distance, crackling with white-hot lightning. You can hear the thunder from miles away, and the Stag's sails begin to snap in the howling wind. The captain wheels the ship to a gentle drift and waves you closer. His normally gregarious voice is cool and serious.

"We now must be deciding. The storm, she is greater than even the Stag, and I am fearing it will be a savage thing. We are meeting such challenges in one piece before, this ship and me, but you are my passengers. Thrask-sahib would be having my head if you were not speaking on this matter."

As you begin to discuss, Savarin holds up a hand for silence.

"I do not yet finish the telling. These are the waters belonging of Isander. They do not love Karn. The seas, they are safer so close to Saressa and her ships, but I cannot say surely. There is danger in both choices. You must be telling me where I sail, and soon."

[CharginCarnifex]

Vixna nods her head thoughtfully at the storm, and pulls out some of her own personal maps of the local coasts and geography.

"I've always wanted to see some of the might of Thrym up close before... in previous journeys I have sailed through harsh weather, that is true, but nothing of that caliber. I for one thing it would be a most enlightening experience, and if you say you can get us through, captain, then I have no reason to doubt you. This is our first brush with danger, and I for one would like a closer look at such a fascinating specimen up close. But that is my opinion on the matter, it may be a bit too frightening for some, and I suppose I can respect that"

She sighs wistfully, gazing at the might of the tempest ahead, and proceeds to draw sketches of the scene as skillfully as possible, her piece having been spoken now lost from the conversation in her new work.

[Urist]

Spoiler: Pertaining to the Festivities

Show

Ah, so he is a spellcaster. Although his hookah habit and exotic mannerisms beg the question of what type, exactly. Well, we shall have to see when our group stumbles upon some trouble. I do so look forward to seeing what this mageling thinks he can do.

Smiling, Dietrich nods.

"I have a great respect for those who use the Arts; your help will be much appreciated, my friend! I see you would like some space; we will speak more on the morrow, and during the journey. Best of luck!"

Pleasantries exchanged, Dietrich makes his way to the sapfruit and proceeds to indulge, the rest of hte night passing in a pleasant alcoholic haze.

During the walk to the vessel Dietrich says little, his body language suggesting that Thrask was so totally beneath his notice as to be invisible, or merely an annoyance if truly noticed. He recieves his horses manes with no ceremony or nod, and no acknowledgement of Thrask when he leaves. The captain, on the other hand, he greets warmly, and proceeds to busy himself stowing gear and making himself as useful as he can. This continues for the next three days, with breaks for meals, chatter, and practice, during which any observers would see little movement save flickers of silver and gusts of wind, his sword seeming to return to its sheath often. If any offer to spar, he takes them up on it, although he prefers to defend rather than attack.

On the day of the storm, Dietrich stands above deck, nervously staring at the clouds ahead. No matter how skilled a warrior he was, no man could fight the storm, and the thought clearly made Dietrich very displeased. However, when he hears that Isanderan ships ply the waters of the coasts, he perks up.

"Captain Savarin, as much as I, and I imagine my compatriots, trust your skill at the helm, I for one would rather take a try at pirates than that abomination of a weather system. Pirates, WE can handle easily enough; we were hired to fight, after all. I would suggest going through Isanderan waters, and let any ships that wish to take a try at us do so."

[Magni's Hammer]

The spry swashbuckler's eyes light up at the prospect of battle. He unsheathes his glittering sword, swinging it in mock-jabs against imaginary pirates. As he struts about, the beads in his hair rattle like his amulets and braces.

"Aha! I am liking this swordsman's spirit! I have not been having a good fight in weeks -- much practice shall I be needing, before we face the dead men of the Marches. So, you shall have no thing to fear, o Captain. Let the dogs try to take us in a fight; let these pirates try to face us! Daro of Lazaren shall be sending them crying to their women!"

Very pleased with himself, he sheathes his sword and beams at his companions, gold tooth flashing from his rascally grin.

[The Brewmaster]

Following a succession of hearty hiccups Magnix attempts to empty the last of the gourds juices into his gullet with no luck. Realizing there's currently a vote being taken he gets to his feet, swirling in the process.

"World's already *hic* spinning! Crashing waves only make things worse! But *hic* a fight?! Drink to that any day!!"

He gives a laugh that jostles his entire stomach as he makes his way to more food and drink.

[R-Group]

For much of the sea-bound journey Razaltt speaks little and moves much less, his poor balance restricting him to a seated position. With every wave that rocks Shadow Stag, the tall would stumble; forcing him to rely on his Stave like an old cripple. He spurns the prospect of sparring, having neither the skill nor an actual sword with which he might duel. At the prospect of the storm, he responds with equal dispassion.

"Though I would myself would prefer to avoid that tempest, we are any of us fools to think of crossing with it in our state. Thrym cares not for our lives; only that the order of the world be continued as he wills it. I would rather not tempt him with our destruction."

Returning to silence, the foreign man absentmindedly fingers a glinting symbol coiled about his neck, and eyes the oncoming storm carefully.

[Lord of Kor]

"Very well. You are fearing of the tempest more than you are doubting your skills with those swords I am seeing you waving about. Let us all hope we are not to be tested."

Savarin gestures articulately and shouts to his sons in a flowing foreign tongue as the gusts from the towering storm begin to grow harsher still, and whitecaps sculpt the waves beneath the Stag's keel:

"يجب أن يكون الإبحار في المياه المظلمة الحذر والعواصف ناشز لا تزال بعيدة وراء ظهورنا"

Spoiler: Ur-Qara Translation (Daro, Razaltt)

Show

"The men of mettle have decided. The lord of storms shall not be using us for target practice today, my sons."

They immediately spring to action, working to haul in the sails and retie ropes as the captain brings the ship about, setting a course to the south of the gathering storm. The deck of the Stag lurches suddenly with the change of direction, and sends the less fortunate among you staggering before you regain your balance. The entire maneuver is carried out with precise grace, and Captain Savarin, unfazed by the day's events, pulls out a stubby pipe and begins puffing absentmindedly on it.

The wild gale fueled by the thunderhead sends the Stag forward at a relentless pace, and by evening you have put the storm behind you. The charts, however, tell a less convenient story: you are over fifty miles south of Elrath, the main port city of Thune and your destination. Eager to reach dry land and learn more about your mission, you pressure the captain to finish the journey, and he swiftly lays a northward course. As the sun begins to set, however, you once again hear a dull thunder on the horizon. The most clear-sighted among you pass the spyglass from man to man, and some can make out a peculiar yet majestic sight on the horizon:

Spoiler: Spot Check (Passed by Daro and Razaltt)

Show

Razaltt, the pensive fire-mage, and Daro, the most skillful seaman of the group, both notice flashes of gunfire and spellcraft in the distance, backlit by the golden twilight - the signs of a naval engagement. Daro, ever keen for adventure, keeps his gaze fixed on the skirmish for a long while, counting several Isanderan privateers and Saressan battle triremes.

In the excitement of the sudden discovery, however, even the captain fails to notice a towering ship listing in the direction of the Shadow Stag. The tattered flag on her foremast bears the sigil of Isander, and along her gunwales the name Spirit of Victory is painted in simple lettering. Her present circumstances, however, suggest anything but victory - her sails are ragged, her decks are aflame, and one of her four masts has snapped, crushing men and arms heedlessly beneath it. She does not sit level in the water, and you suspect it is only a matter of time before she slides beneath the waves. Captain Savarin calmly wheels the Stag about, aiming to pass the crippled ship harmlessly by, when grapnels clatter against your railings. Before you can respond, a black-haired man, bloody but unfazed, leaps with a fencer's grace onto the deck of the Stag, followed by five crewmen. He pulls out an elegant red-hilted sword and drops into a fighter's lunge, and his men slowly draw lethal-looking straight swords and pistols from their belts. Behind him, a small blue dragon with bloody wings flies from the doomed ship, circling the Shadow Stag like a vulture. The man shouts desperately,

"This is our last chance, men! Fate's knocking on our door and Death's on the other side - I don't need to tell you to make it count!"

[CharginCarnifex]

Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope! This is exactly what Vixna was trying to avoid in the first place! She looks around fearfully and dashes down into the hold to hide if possible. Should her path be blocked she simply cowers in the nearest nook or cranny that she can find, always trying to stay out of the way of the fighting and moving should an enemy come too close to her. Throughout all of this she clutches an odd pendant in her hand, so tightly you can barely make it out to be devoted to Thrym. She mutters a variety of prayers under her breath and then stays as quiet as possible throughout the following mayhem.

[Urist]

Dietrich is as surprised as any at the sudden arrival of unwanted company, but quickly rallies, dropping into his own fighting stance, ready for action.

The warrior holds them together, and the rest will likely break if I can remove him. The dragon, that will be...troublesome. The others will have to deal with it, unless I can convince it to come down and play. Unlikely, I imagine. Now, how to approach this one?

All of these thoughts rush through Dietrich's mind for a moment, and then apparently having decided on a plan, he springs into actions. Deftly weaving his way towards the lieutenant, he arrives in front of him, and delivers three sharp, quick strokes, blade flashing through the salty air.

Spoiler: Actions

Show

Move action to get to the lieutenant, Mizuchi as swift, Divine Wind Strike as first strike, normal second iterative. Taking a -4 for Finesse Attack, dropping it down to 7/7/2, damage up to 1d8+8. If they haven't acted yet, lieutenant is flatfooted, allowing Iaijutsu Focus on all three(Mizuchi sheathes, Divine Wind Strike sheathes, draw using quickdraw, splat. Damage rolls for iajutsu in OOC.

Spoiler: Rolls:

Show

First Attack:
(1d20+7)[24]
(1d8+8)[15]
Iaijutsu:(1d20+11)[20]
Second Attack:
(1d20+7)[22]
(1d8+8)[10]
[roll]3d6][/roll]
Iaijutsu:(1d20+11)[14]
Third Attack:
roll]1d20+2[/roll]
(1d8+8)[10]
Iaijutsu:(1d20+11)[18]

If the Lieutenant drops on the first or second, Dietrich follows through and attacks a sailor if one is in reach.

[Lord of Kor]

Dietrich, the taciturn and lethal-looking blademaster of Syros, is the first to react to this sudden development. Before the interlopers can regain their footing enough to attack, he charges at their leader. His blade moves almost faster than the eye can see, shearing through flesh and bone with brutal efficiency. His first strike, a sweeping vertical stroke, slices cleanly through his opponent's left shoulder blade, lopping off his arm in a bloody mess. The next attack leaves a sickening gash across his adversary's face, blinding him in one eye, and the third lays his intestines open. Unable to cope with the massive trauma, the lieutenant's eyes roll up into his head, and he collapses as Dietrich calmly cleans off his blade with a scrap of fabric. The man didn't even have time to scream.

The swordsman's uncanny speed leaves the Isanderan sailors wide-eyed with looks of terror, and several taut seconds pass before they regain their senses. One of them shouts, panicked,

"They killed Captain Sunn! The bastards!"

Reluctant to close with their lethal foe, the two men closest to Dietrich draw their pistols and fire desperately at him. He sidesteps the first shot with condescending ease, then backflips gracefully over the path of the second, which screams over the side of the ship and punches a hole in the wing of the circling dragon, which lets out a roiling scream.

The remaining men draw their cutlasses and close cautiously with the other members of the party. Two of them attack the strangely dressed sellsword, who parries their clumsy swings with a laugh and a mocking Ur-Qaran insult. The third man, spying a sleeping drunk towards the stern, decides to pick on easier prey, only to find his cutlass blocked casually by the monk's bare forearm. He looks doubtfully towards his companions, who are too busy keeping track of the two swordsmen to notice.

Spoiler: Damage

Show

Magnix takes four points of damage from the ill-timed attack.

[The Brewmaster]

Swirling around Magnix un-slings his gourd and letting out a barreling laugh smacks the attacker upside the head with it as if boxing one ear.

What great fun! I only hope it's not too short lived!

Spoiler: Actions

Show

Magnix simply bashes the opponent over the head with his gourd. I'm going to spend a point of Drunken Ki to do an extra 1d6 points of damage.

Spoiler: Rolls

Show

to hit= 1d20 (15) + 4BAB=19. Damage, if it occurs, is 1d8+1d4+1d6+2 (unarmed and gourd are combined plus Drunken Strength and Str mod) the rolls were 7+1+1+2(strength) which comes out to 11.

[Lord of Kor]

The inebriated monk, swaying wildly with the listing decks of the Shadow Stag, deals the attacking sailor a tremendous blow with the gourd slung upon his back. The foreign fruit, hardened and weathered from years of use, holds firm. The man, however, does not - the strike snaps his neck at an impossible angle and knocks him to the ground.

[Magni's Hammer]

"Avast, scoundrel!" Blades are drawn, and the sellsword's glowing weapon crosses with one of the boarder's own swords. "Had you asked for succor, you would have seen charity," he jeers, "but you are choosing death instead!" He swings wildly, beating at his foe's blade, intent on luring him into a foolish lunge.

Dicework and Bookkeeping:

Spoiler

Show

Magic Sword Attack: (1d20+9)[10] spending one Inspiration point.
Magic Sword Damage: (1d8+2)[6]
Inspiration Points Left: 9

[Lord of Kor]

The arrogant sellsword slashes carelessly at one of the men flanking him. His prideful nonchalance costs him, however, and his luminous blade slices harmlessly through the air.

[R-Group]

Rising rigidly and without fluidity, Razaltt considers the interlopers carefully - grimacing all the while as he secures his balance upon the rocking vessel. After a moment, his features harden, focusing upon the closest of the interlopers. He raises his heavy Stave towards the soldiers, its curled metallic features glinting feverishly in the brilliant sunlight. But then, the light coalesces and seems to solidify - Aetherical forces swirl about the Mygical Focus, burning simple space as though it were tallow.

Razaltt murmurs vicious phrases in an unintelligible language, spitting out guttural words around the cigarillo clamped to the corner of his mouth. He grunts, and suddenly releases the pent up energies - pouring his will into a crushing force. His normally blank features contorting with effort, the unseen ripples of malevolent willpower are thrust towards the invaders; buzzing through the air with at breakneck speeds. Should they connect to their chosen targets, there is a resounding crack as the invisible blows strike with furry even belying their speed, pummeling them as though dealt a tremendous blow by some massive fist.

Spoiler: Actions

Show

Move: Razaltt will take a few steps forward (say, 10 ft.) to get closer without being in Melee range

Standard: Razaltt will activate the Force Talent, with the following Augmentations-

Base Spellcraft DC = 10 + 5 (increase Damage Die to 1d6) + 6 (Add 3d6 Damage Dice) + 8 (add two Targets) + 8 (Change Target to Area) - 4 (Change Area to Ray) = Total DC of 33

Bonus to Spellcraft Check = 27 (base) + 10 (focus) + 5 (Add Component - Somatic) = Total of +42

Spellcraft Check - (1d20+42)[49]

Three Ranged Touch Attacks Against Closest Invaders -
1) (1d20+6)[24]
2) (1d20+6)[21]
3) (1d20+6)[9]

Damage For Any That Hit (nonlethal) -
1) (4d6)[14]
2) (4d6)[12]
3) (4d6)[18]

Total Drain = 33/5 = 7.6 rounded up to 8

Casting Buffer = 47 - (8-5 Spell Energy) = 42 points remaining

Chest heaving with such an expenditure of puissance, Razaltt wipes his brow with a sleeve and hisses under his breath.

"You shan't take our vessel, least while we still guard it."