In the tavern, two particular elves sit across a small table. One cloaked and obviously at ease. His open, jovial face seems to have an ever-present two-millimetre-smile. He is leaning back against the chair, his legs crossed while he eyes the elf in front of him. His drinking mate is not so at ease and looks suspiciously at the other one. He is wearing a white tunic and the markings of a sailor of rank.
“So, it's a deal then?” the cloaked patron asks. “I bring you the prey, you sink it, we both win.”
The elf in front of him leans back, putting a finger to his lips and frowning to express deep thought. “I still don't know why I shouldn't hand you over to the authorities. Your kind is not welcome here.”
“Sure, you could,” the cloaked elf smiles. “By all means, go ahead and shout it out. But then you'd miss out on a shot at sinking the most feared vessel roaming the waters and raiding your shores. You'd miss out on all the praise, the prestige, the career opportunities, not to mention the girls.”
“I am happily married, thank-you-very-much,” the sailor corrects him quickly.
“Come now, friend,” the Druchii grins. “We both know you call her 'the troll' and it isn't because of her regenerative qualities.”
“I don't suppose you want to explain to me why you don't take matters into your own hands?” the sailor asks. “You get on board and … you know.”
“Fix things?” the Druchii smiles amused.
“Right.”
“I'll humour you, captain,” the Druchii says, putting his hand behind his head. “As you know, your target is a respectable trader.”
“You mean raider, pillager and slaver,” the captain corrects him.
“Semantics,” the Druchii waves off. “Anyhow, they supply our markets with the finest merchandise others have worked hard for to accrue. So far, so good, if it weren't that they were also supplying a particular lady who is often at odds with another particular lady. And the former just loves stabbing the latter's eyes out by presented the latest and finest acquisitions, including but not limited to jewellery, exotic slaves and anti-wrinkle cream.”
The captain raises an eyebrow.
“Trust me, that last one did not go down well,” the Druchii chuckles. “At any rate, she tried to take more direct action and sent in people to 'fix things' and send a signal.”
The captain swallows once.
“The signal made it through all right,” the cloaked elf nods. “You see, we have this holiday were pretty young things go trick-or-treating, but it isn't as much fun when you have a dozen guards on every crossroad in the town to enforce a last minute curfew. Other than that, smaller incidents suddenly occurred such as the incense being replaced by some other kind of … grass as some people call it; by supplies being sent off elsewhere – say the local cliff for instance or by some important person's pet being run over … repeatedly.”
“I see,” the captain ponders.
“Suffice to say that it would be more convenient to get our point across without anyone actually pointing at my employer,” the Druchii grins.
The sailor sighs. “Very well, you can count on me.”
“Excellent,” the Druchii smiles. He leans further back, balancing precariously on the two hind legs while raising a hand to beckon a serving lady. “The next drink is on me.”
°°°
Kender eyes the flag with a mixture of anxiety and pride. He suppresses a smile to himself. He made it. He passed the trials to become part of one of the most legendary raiding crews ever to stalk the waves: the Sea Drakes, the raiding branch of the House Tachyan.
He walks down the pier with his duffel-bag slung over his shoulder. The Black Ark, the Skysong, is being prepared to cast off on another tour. He doesn't know where they're headed but if he lived up to the expectations, he would be entitled to a share of the loot and very few members of the Skysong ever went wanting.
Thought not nearly as big as the original Black Arks, the Skysong was certainly capable of housing several hundred soldiers and enough mounts and supplies to foray into unknown lands. The walls were adorned with closed hatches, holding batteries of bolt throwers and the towers held the devices for the corsairs – the equivalent of marines – to board other vessels should they choose to engage the Skysong.
The vessel had eight towers at the walls, the two 'front' towers flanked the gate which could be opened when the Ark was beached and through which troops and supplies could quickly be loaded or unloaded. The other six were evenly spaced around the perimeter wall.
The pier is bustling with activity. Dozens of soldiers board the ship, boxes and barrels with supplies are craned into the holds and officers are dishing out orders, making sure everything runs like an oiled machine.
Kender has to dodge the odd Elf and cart before making it to the boarding plank where a stern-looking officer is crossing off names. He walks up to the Elf to announce himself.
“Kender Bisan reporting,sir,” the Elf salutes. The officer looked at the eager, young sailor.
“Finally,” the man says. “See those crates? They need to be carried to that crane and then lifted on board.”
Kender looks at the stack of crates where a few sailors are already carrying boxes away.
“You can leave your bag here, son,” the officer says.
“Eh, right … right, I'll get on it,” Kender says. He drops his bag and hurries over to the crates. Time to look busy.
Kender passes four sailors heaving a big crate to the crane when he notices something is off. “Hey guys, this crate isn't secured.”
The sailors put the crate down and look at it.
The officer taking names notices the work stopping and he paces over to the group. “What's the hold-up?”
“Look, sir, there are only nails in one side,” Kender shows. “This could get cracked open in no time.”
“Well, what do you know, the kid is actually right,” the officer chuckles once. “Nail it shut.”
°°°
Wormwood grins proudly. That he was selected to infiltrate the Skysong and sabotage the endeavour was a great honour. Seeing as he would be stuck on a ship, there would be little room for error. A ship, even a big one, is a closed space and there would be far too many souls on board for even his skill to dispatch them all. Besides, murder wasn't in his job description; his trainer had stressed this greatly: others would fill out that role. He was to limit himself to sabotaging the equipment.
So, he had devised a cunning plan. He would hide inside one of the containers slated to be brought on board and use that as his 'staging area'. No pesky trials to complete, no long, arduous training to follow so he could pass as a sailor, just kicking back and waiting for the time to strike to arrive.
The next morning, at dawn, the pier jumped to life. Elves, dragged out of their beds, began to load the ship.
Suckers, Wormwood thought. One more advantage of his cunning plan: no need to get up early and haul crates. Nope, his delicate hands could rest for the real work.
He checks his hideout one last time. Supplies to last a week, two if he rationed carefully – not that he'd need more than that, after all, he could always steal the occasional snack. Knives, chisel, small hammer and small saw. All the tools required to fix or un-fix anything he would lay his eyes on.
A rough movement pulls Wormwood out of his self-indulgent revelry. He grins when he realizes he's being carried on board. This is almost too easy.
The crate is put down, probably for the crane to do the heavy lifting. Some voices speak up overhead, probably organising the lift.
Bang-bang-bang-bang.
Wormwood startles and looks at the lid of the crate. What was that?
Bang-bang-bang-bang.
What are they doing?
Bang-bang-bang-bang.
His ears ring with the loud slamming on his hideout.
“All right, get it up,” a voice calls out. The crate is shaken again and lifted into the air. Wormwood tentatively pushes up against the lid. It doesn't budge in the slightest.
Damn.
°°°
You are all gathered in the dining cabin of the ship, sharing a meal and the occasional story with your fellow officers. The dish for this evening is some strange kind of slithery concoction called pasta with meatballs and tomato sauce. It takes some work to get the stuff rolled up on your spoon before you can actually eat it, but it doesn't taste half bad.
The mood is light-hearted for you are all heading home after a particularly successful tour, scouring the coasts of the Empire and Bretonnia and even stumbling upon a Dwarven gold train headed for the Empire. You can only imagine the diplomatic fallout on that little incident.
When the door opens, captain Tachyan steps in, looking grim and grumpy for some reason. That reason becomes all too clear when you see a thin, hungry looking elf being dragged in behind him in chains; an elf you haven't seen before and you know everyone on board this ship. That one must be a stowaway.
The captured elf looks about the room furtively, finds a plate filled with steaming pasta and meatballs at the head of the table and launches himself directly at it with a desperate cry. Under the amazed stares, he dives face first in the plate, splatters of sauce and balls scattering to accentuate the graceless dive.
“Right,” the captain says when recomposing himself. “Allow me to introduce you to Wormwood.”
You look at the munching elf, his face well hidden underneath the pasta.
“Wormwood stowed himself away on board my ship in order to ruin our enterprise but as fate would have it, he was … prevented from achieving this task,” Tachyan says. “His mission directive revealed also that he was not to lay a hand on the crew for that was the role for some of you.”
You swallow once and look about your friends, or those you believe to be your friends.
“Some of you have been bribed into murdering your fellow officers on the way back in one fell swoop,” Tachyan says. “To what end and when precisely I don't know, but I do know that I will not stand for treason on board this ship. Now, Wormwood here doesn't know who was bribed, and seeing his obvious … skill I can't say I blame his master for keeping that information safely from him, but we do know the traitors are in this very room.”
A deathly silence sets in as everyone eyes everyone. Only the gluttonous gulping of Wormwood disturbs the otherwise dramatic moment.
“Seeing as you know each other best, I am tasking you with rooting out this infestation,” Tachyan continues. “Unfortunately, I need my officers to ensure the smooth running of this ship. As such, I still need you to fulfil your duties as well.”
Tachyan nods at the guards and two of them grab Wormwood by the shoulder to drag him off. He lets out a muffled cry, latches his fingers around the plate and keeps on scrounging while he is dragged off. More guards file into the room to make sure nobody else is going to make a dash for freedom. Not that there is much freedom to be had from escaping the room; the vessel is at open seas, heading home.
“After your shifts, you will report back here and decide on who to remove from the ship's crew,” the captain finishes. “To ensure that everything goes smoothly, you will do this by majority vote. My daughter, Mala, will precede this session and note the votes down.”
He takes a few steps to the door and looks at each and everyone of you shortly. “I wish those men and women who remained loyal to the House the best of luck.”
And with that, he takes his leave. A mere minute later, a small, young girl furtively peeks into the room filled with seasoned veterans and elite crewmembers. She almost sneaks towards her seat at the head of the table, taking along a big, leather-bound book.
“Hi,” she says shyly. “I'm … Mala. I'll just … make sure the votes are … well … you know … not forgotten or anything.” She giggles shyly.
No one is laughing. A guard coughs once.
She clears her throat quietly and seems to shrink a little.
Despite the meagre appearance of the girl, most have learned not to mistake her demeanour for her skill at sorcery.
Despite her skill, constraint is not exactly one of her strong suits. On more than one occasion, getting rid of the sprites infesting the party's equipment seemed to be more trouble than it was worth; the result of spuriously overcharged spells. Still, none could deny the sheer destructive power she wielded, whether it be used to blow holes in reinforced gates, turn an impending cavalry charge into a run for the hills or – as illustrated on the last sortie, singe off the good tutor's eyebrows.
“Right,” she says while seemingly hiding behind her big book. “I'll get on to … ah … working. You can all … you know … find the bad guys.”
And with that, she opens the big book, keeping it at an angle to hide the better part of whatever isn't hidden by the massive table. She peeks over the books carefully once, hoping to find nobody looking back at her and then pretends to study hard.
And on that note, the first session of the search for the traitors has begun. How it will end is up to you and your comrades, be they for the better or worse.
°°°
The following players are in the game:
- Tarbo
- Telrunya
- Drainial
- Malberoth Grieftide
- Zardock
- Linkinhearts666
- Kefka
- Deroth
- Draknir
- sassmaw
- Cathel
- Mr_PieChee
- Belial
- LordAnubis
It is now Day. Players can post and vote. Remember that a majority during the day will not lead to an immediate removal.
The Day ends (and Dusk will begin) on Saturday 19h00 GMT.
Good luck to all and have fun!