Roleplaying > Moderated Freeform

Tales of Misadventure [Isle of Woe]

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Adrift upon a fickle sea :pirateship:

When Lumori, Thorgir, and Somnak the half-orc boarded the Endeavor, they were unaware of each other. Over the first few long days at sea however, introductions were inevitable. Not that they took to each other immediately…

The barbarian was taciturn and hot-tempered, the half-orc who styled himself a bard, equally unpleasant, and the slim thief, unreadable and guarded.

The Endeavor was on its way to the city of Baetoom across the narrow Green Sea, to sell off its cargo. The three adventurers were simply seeking new lands. Each had their own reasons for seeking new shores. Each of them in turn, had heard tavern tales of the wild lands beyond Baetoom’s walls, where adventuring bands could still delve into half-buried tombs, hunt dragons, explore the unknown, and make names for themselves.

Lumori, Thorgir, and Somnak had paid a pretty coin to buy passage on board, as the captain was at first reluctant to have strangers in tow. But gold being gold, he eventually agreed.

One week into the sea passage, disaster struck the Endeavor.

Who could have predicted a Mermen attack? Perhaps Captain Banhope’s cargo was the reason? After all, he was transporting forty crates of a mysterious gray-black dwarven powder, pre-purchased by the Cyx of Baetoom. Not that the half-orc, thief, and barbarian had any way of knowing this…

And so the attack began below, when the sea-folk ruptured the hull, and swarmed the vessel. Banhope and his crew had no chance, despite putting up a valiant effort. The three passengers got in on the fray as well, Thorgir even brained a merman or two, and the half-orc managed to frighten another away with his feverish drumming. Lumori threw knives and dodged others, while scampering about, and somehow managed to survive the initial onslaught as well. Others, like Captain Banhope and his first mate were not as lucky.

But the mermen were fortunately not hell bent on wholesale slaughter, but rather the sinking of the Endeavor and its precious crates of mysterious powder.

Long tale short, many crewmen perished, while others escaped on life rafts, nearly all abandoning the sinking ship. Lumori, Thorgir, and the half-orc were among them. Unfortunately in lieu of a life boat, the three only managed a large, splintered piece of the floating hull.

Bobbing to and fro in the jade-like waves, the three companions by serendipity, eventually watched the sun set and rise again on their stomachs, hanging on precariously to their makeshift vessel. Who could guess where the fickle currents were taking them? By the third morning helplessly adrift upon the Green Sea, they were growing desperate…and prickly.

Suddenly, the three could make out a hazy shoreline a mere few miles ahead.


(ooc: Yes, you have all managed to hang on to all of your personal possessions and equipment)

(Rogues Gallery of Unimportance
Orsteld Banhope: Captain
Nishke Bream: First Mate
Alreeve: Boatswain
“Urchin”: Cook
Wetalott: Merman attack leader)

Somnak growled softly; he'd been fluctuating between an odd sort of patient melancholy and barely contained fury at the situation that the trio were in. The hide drum that hung from a long sash on his shoulder was buoyant and bobbing gently alongside him, but the rest of the gear which he held either strapped to him or in his backpack were beginning to weigh him down; especially after so long at sea.

"What gods above mock us?!" He screamed gutterally, "d**n Orsteld and his cursed ship!" Somnak had paid too much gold for his journey across the sea - A price he would not have normally paid, except he was desperate to get as far from his home-land as he could. His tribe had been laid to waste, and too many people remembered him as the last of them - it was not a memory he wanted to live with. It was time to forge a new Somnak - one which would make him proud to wear the name!
His screaming offered an outlet to his rage and he sunk back into silence once more, until...

"Is... Is that land I see?" Somnak Pushed his head higher, roughly using Thorgir's shoulder as a hand-hold to get a better vantage, "Yes... It is! Kick! Kick you fools! Lumori, d**nit - is that the best you can do?!"

Somnak bobbed his head back down and gripped onto the edge of the wood so tightly his nails dug into the sodden material. With intense determination, the half-orc kicked and pushed in the direction of land. Oh, to be dry! To be fed...! To sleep without miscellaneous fish nibbling at your toes...! "Aah, Hahaha!" These pleasant thoughts caused a feverish laugh to gurgle out of the man's sharp-toothed mouth. Survival lay just a couple of miles away!

"Go breathe saltwater, halfbreed. I'm meant for city streets, not ocean waves." Despite a lack of much success, Lumori was giving it his best effort. Not being able to swim makes one want to get to dry land as soon as possible. "...kicking as fast as I can..."

He looked forward, trying to gauge the distance to the sweet salvation of land. Two, maybe three miles? It was hard to tell since he didn't usually ply the seaways, but he put his head down and redoubled his efforts to push the driftwood closer to shore. They'd get there eventually; what was an extra hour or two when you're already soaked?

On Stranger Shores

According to his delicately-etched map, this was one of the myriad islands of the aptly named Shattered Archipelago. Thousands of islands big and small formed a labyrinth for sailors, traversing the Green Sea between the Old Lands and the shores of Mighty Baetoom.

This particular island was apparently ninety miles long north to south and approximately twelve miles east to west. Aside from a beach-ring of gray pebbly sand and jetsam, the entire island was thick with weird jungle, trees, vines, and plants unlike any he had ever seen before in person or in tomes.

Here he was sent by his order, having achieved the Third Cycle of his clerical studies the past year. And now his mission began in earnest, for he was tasked with the saving of lives and souls, and had little time to waste. Khaum’s light shine forth!

It had taken him weeks to sail to this island, weeks of retching overboard and threatening thieving sailors with his mace. Now at last he had reached the jungle-strewn land where he would shine Khaum's light. He was rowed ashore aboard a heaving boat, as the main ship idled well offshore.

Rasmus the Willow had paid well for his passage. Now he was alone, as he looked out along the beach. In three months to the day, another ship would come to pick him up. In the meantime, he had to find the Tribe of the Watching Egg, and cure them of their pagan beliefs. Rumors and hearsay had reached Khaum's Seneschals, whispers of a new cult forming somewhere in the Shattered Archipelago. Long tale short, he was chosen.

Rasmus breathed deep of the fresh sea air and felt the holy light of Khaum warm him from above. He knelt in the pebbly sand of the beach and prayed to Khaum, the Bringer of Light, to bless his journey. He held the great ram-headed mace of his order before him, the sun sparkling from the highly polished surface.

Posing so the light could shine just so on his strong chin, Rasmus cleared his throat to speak.

"I vow, great Khaum, to bring your light to these poor, deluded souls. They shall come to your understanding and love or they shall have their heads bashed in by the power of the... What the hell?"

Peering into the distant ocean, Rasmus was sure he spotted movement. Was someone out there swimming?


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