Seven figures walk onto an old wooden dock as a crisp wind blows in from the seaside and causes shivers to run down the spines of those ill-dressed for the Lhazaar coast. Behind the group lies Tantamar, a peaceful town dotted with inns and storehouses of brick worn smooth by long years and heavy rain. Its winding streets have been alive with muffled bustle for hours as the morning light shines in over Cape Far to the east.
Smaller piers jut from the town's seafront, but by this hour only a few vessels with chipping paint and patched sails remain moored along the edges of the rickety docks. The fishermen who make each day's wages on the chilly waters have long since departed, and now only a handful of merchant sailors in ragged clothing labor along the wharf. Their loud voices, the crying of seagulls and children in town, and the constant lapping of waves against the dock's supports are the accompaniment to the steady footsteps of the mismatched group as they stride down the weathered column of creaking planks.
At the far end of the dock, a magnificent galleon with fresh-painted lines of blue stands in stark contrast to the unpolished town. A wide tower is built on the stern of the ship, and as the seven approach the vessel from its starboard side, they each notice a ring of swirling vapor held in place by four wooden supports at the rear of the structure. A bold painting of a grey shark decorates the vessel's bow, its exaggerated maw curved into a toothy grin. Two half-orcs in shining chainmail flank the gangplank, and while their wary eyes run up and down the pier now and again, they seem more focused on whispered banter than guard duty. A few yards away, an aging man in tasteful black finery stands tall, his thin grey hair fluttering in the wind as he watches the seven approach.
"Is Elinvath the elderly man or is he one of the two half-orcs?" Carver asks to whoever happens to be near him. He approaches out of curiosity as much as anything else.
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The shortest amongst the seven is also the most finely dressed. Traveling clothes they may be, but fine ones they are, and well maintained. The short one walks purposefully, a rhythmic tap... tap of a darkwood walking stick following. In the muted morning light, the dull red of a bloodstone at the top of the cane can occasionally be seen. But, the most unusual aspect of the diminutive stranger is that... its a kobold.
Kobolds are an uncommon sight in the mountains of Zilargo; a rare few can be found kicking around the lower towers of Sharn. But this kobold is obviously civilized, for lack of a better term, and a strange presence seems to surround it. Could be the odd dress, or the dusky purple skin, or the glow in its red eyes. But there is something... unsettling and compelling about the short one.
As they walk down the peer, the kobold casts an appraising eye at each of the other seven, measuring them somehow. Its right eye opens a bit wider as it hears the warforged speak, as if the construct's tone was not the one it expected. When the kobold responds, it is succinct.
"I would suspect Master Sargessean to be the elder gentleman, construct. The others seem to be nothing more than guards."
No lisp. No cringing in the voice. An odd kobold indeed.
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Partash slowly approaches the gangplank and the two half-orcs. "I gather they're his bodyguards and..." Answering the warforged's question. But he's quickly interrupted by the kobold who seems rather intent on putting he warforged in its place.
Though he's wearing suitable clothing, he's obviously feeling cold and uncomfortable. He wonders what this man will be able to offer him in his pursuit for knowledge. Will he offer him money to fund his research or can he offer him something far greater...?
Last edited by MadMaxim; 6th July 2006 at 12:59 PM..
"I would suspect Master Sargessean to be the elder gentleman, construct. The others seem to be nothing more than guards."
No lisp. No cringing in the voice. An odd kobold indeed.
"Oh, well that makes sense too. I'm not a construct by the way, I'm a living construct, or more specificly a warforged. Personaly, I think of myself as Carver. Do you think that Construct is a more appropriate name for me? I don't think Construct Banderelli has the same ring to it, do you?" Carver did not seem offended or otherwise bothered by the coment, and is tone is rather matter of fact.
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Behind the party slinks a shifter woman, lithe in movement, heavily muscled, her braided hair tossed out of her face, her short stature made shorter by her crouched posture. She wears battered leather armor, well-made under the coating of road dust, bears a fine haversack on her back, carries a seemingly-new dark wood shield on her left arm, and has a sickle in her belt. Her face is, to be blunt, ugly. Her forehead is heavy and brutish, her eyebrows and sideburns are explosively hairy, and her tanned face is seamed with small scars. Dark gray eyes glare at the group as if they're personably responsible for her obvious bad mood.
She crouches to one side, and listens to the others for a moment before snorting like a hyena. "No one who writes like that could be a half-orc. If you lot got the same letter I did then you wouldn't be asking such stupid questions," she half-snarls. Her voice is like that of a crow, harsh and grating, and her teeth, when seen, are very, very sharp... "So, are you here for the job or just to entertain me?"
"Oh, well that makes sense too. I'm not a construct by the way, I'm a living construct, or more specificly a warforged. Personaly, I think of myself as Carver. Do you think that Construct is a more appropriate name for me? I don't think Construct Banderelli has the same ring to it, do you?" Carver did not seem offended or otherwise bothered by the coment, and is tone is rather matter of fact.
The kobold makes its right eye widen again; one something with hair, it would probably be similar to raising an eyebrow. "Your name is as your maker gave it or as your gave yourself after your maker. It is no consquence; all names are known to the Progenitors." The kobold's voice is not cold but measured. It too seems to speak matter-of-factly.
Quote:
Originally Posted by Isida Kep'Tukari
"So, are you here for the job or just to entertain me?"
The kobold turns slightly, eyeing the shifter for a moment. Again, that measuring look. It then slowly turns its head to the construct---living or no, it is that---and waits for its response.
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She crouches to one side, and listens to the others for a moment before snorting like a hyena. "No one who writes like that could be a half-orc. If you lot got the same letter I did then you wouldn't be asking such stupid questions," she half-snarls. Her voice is like that of a crow, harsh and grating, and her teeth, when seen, are very, very sharp... "So, are you here for the job or just to entertain me?"
"I'm sorry, i've only met one Half-Orc before, and that was Pendant Shava. He was a druid who spoke quite well, and I could only assume might be able to write the same," Carver says. "And why would I be here to entertain you? Is there entertainment coming?"
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"Apparently, and you're it, Stone Bones. I'm Morika, if you need to get my attention," she says with a careless wave of her hand, and goes back to scrutinizing her potential employer and companions.
Glasia is silent as she walks toward the pier, her voluminous traveler's cloak covering her features. She carries the covered birdcage at her side, obviously tiring from the weight. Approaching the shark-festooned ship, she notices others walking up as well. She cringes at the sight of the band of what must be adventurers, but steels herself and steps forward. The letter did say part of a group, she thought, pursing her lips as she studied the group from the depth of her hood.
A finely-dressed and sharp-tongued kobold. A warforged, complete with the innocent attitude she had experienced in the others she had met. A shifter, dangerous and doing her best to show it. A rather nondescript half-elf. A pale and slender man with a somewhat otherwordly feel about him. A hard-faced man with haunted eyes.
Some companions. Her mind was already raising the doubts that had plagued her since leaving on the lightning rail so long ago. This looks more like a gang of criminals than heroes. If Father saw me here...
A faint noise from the cage snaps her attention back to the situation at hand. Making a quiet hushing sound, she removes the crumpled letter from her pocket and steps up to the guards, laboring with the bulk of the cage.
"I am here to see Elinvath Sargessean," she says softly but clearly. "My name is Glasia Domarus." Her pale and slender hand extends, clutching the paper.
When the warforged replies to the shifter, the kobold nods slightly, as if it expected the response. If it heard the quiet whispers of the shifter, it made no sign.
Quote:
Originally Posted by Bobitron
A faint noise from the cage snaps her attention back to the situation at hand. Making a quiet hushing sound, she removes the crumpled letter from her pocket and steps up to the guards, laboring with the bulk of the cage.
The kobold turns its gaze to the new coming walking awkwardly under the weight. At the noise from her belongings, its nose twitches a moment, as if smelling something. With a keen eye, it notes that this other walks away from the rest.
Quote:
Originally Posted by Glasia
"I am here to see Elinvath Sargessean," she says softly but clearly. "My name is Glasia Domarus." Her pale and slender hand extends, clutching the paper.
As the woman speaks her question, the kobold stops. It crosses its finger over its walking stick, and places its enlongated snout on top of them. It looks quietly at the girl and the old man, obviously waiting.
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The man carrying the long object wrapped in oil skins simply shook his head at the discussion. His bloodshot, half-open eyes seemed to confirm a rough night in the cups, but they still didn't seem to miss the details, effortlessly pausing on each of the people on the dock and seeming to measure them. The off-white of his open shirt seemed to be a natural consequence of time, but very little care had been given to the half-stitched holes and split seams. In contrast, the malicious-looking foreign leather armor he wore almost glistened from a fresh oiling. There was no telling how early an obvious drunk as himself had to get up this day to manage that.
Disregarding the conversation, he silently offered to aid the young girl carrying the cage. And so we send our children off to die again, in the name of need and glory. His smile deepened, but that smile still, never, reached his eyes. To the dark with it. The world's just one dance where all the dancers die, time to play the tune again.
"What they said." he said simply, with the slight accent of a Karrnathian peasant. "Where are the business partners?"
As the group slows to chat and bicker amongst themselves, the man in black at the end of the dock approaches them. His slim frame is garbed in finely tailored black silk with silver buttons and buckles sewn on liberally, and a cape trimmed with gold billows behind him as he stides down the length of the wharf. He carries a hefty purple bag, as well, and its weight effects his gait slightly.
"Greetings. I'm most pleased to meet you all in the flesh," the man says with a warm voice as a small smile appears on his untanned face, which displays faint wrinkles. "If you'll forgive the generality, Mr. Banderelli," he adds, nodding to the Warforged as he sets the bag he carries down at his feet. "I am Elinvath Sargessean, as I'm sure you've assumed. Time, I'm afriad, is not plentiful, and I regret that we must turn so quickly to buisness. I cannot accompany you to Port Verge, but I trust that you'll all use the voyage to acquaint yourselves with each other. I'm sure you have many questions for me, but I'm afraid you'll have to make do with what I tell you now: as I expressed in my letter, I have a task of great importance awaiting you, but I've encountered an unfortunate setback."
"A minor affair between local pirates has arisen, and caught up in the middle of it all is an old sea baron. An elf," he adds. "His name is Gaardasci, and his sons who rule the Blacksurf Principality and... rather foolishly indulge in indiscriminate piracy have caught the ill will of the Prince of Port Verge and the Direshark Principality." He chuckles and points over his shoulder to the emblem on the ship's bow. "That Prince, a man named Kolberkon, seems to have sent men to kidnap the old baron, and from what I've heard, he demands a high ransom from Gaardasci's marauding sons. I wouldn't involve you or myself in this squabble by choice, but Gaardasci has vital information, and we need him alive and well, and free, as soon as we can."
Elinvath sighs for a moment. "I'm asking you to retrieve this prisoner by any means necessary, but I must add that if the Prince finds that outside interests such as mine have a stake in Gaardasci's freedom, obtaining it may be all the more difficult. If you decide to negotiate for his release, do so in the guise of hired hands of Gaardasci's sons. Their names are Hesr'lan and Jedernis."
As the companions introduce each other, the half-elf pleasantly smiles at each one in turn, although he only gives the antagonistic Morika a respectful nod. "I am Doral," he says with another grin. "Doral Sloans of Vathirond." A lie here and there never hurt anyone much.
After he listens to Elinvath he asks, "What are the crews orders? Are they to merely transport us or are they to listen to our commands? Will they stay in port for us to use their ship as a base? Will they provide free rations on the voyage and in port? Do we have a point of contact in the port? What other resources will you provide us? What is our reward for this task? Does Kolberkon have anything we can use against him for blackmail? I take it you would prefer that we didn't do anything too violent that might garner lasting enmity between you and this prince. What kind of bargaining tools will we have at our disposal?" After this tirade his business-like face falls back into a friendly smile. "Just curious, of course."
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"You're going to let us use the ship right? Because otherwise it will be a long swim. I guess I could walk there, but I don't want all my scrolls to get wet."
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This Doral character certainly asks a whole lot of questions. One would take him for a Zil gnome if he wasn't so tall. What's he going to ask for next? What they're serving on board?
Partash steps up next to the half-elf and introduces himself: "Good day, Mr. Sargessean. Parlinor Tashlov, champion of the Sovereign Host at your service. Though Mr. Sloans has asked many 'interesting' questions, I was wondering whether we're to negotiate on behalf of people who don't know we're working for them? And does Mr. Gaardasci know that we're coming to free him?"
Glasia politely declines the offer for help, although her expression is grateful. "He acts up if another carries him," she says, shifting the weight to her other hand. "Once we're off the dock, I'll let him loose. I'm afraid the pidgeons and gulls will be too much of a temptation right now." She returns the smile, pulling back her hood to reveal a young face framed with silvery hair.
Sargessean certainly looked to be a worthwhile employer. His cloak alone was worth what a worker on his ship might earn in a month. His words are less comforting. This sounds... illegal. The wizard keeps her thoughts to herself as he describes the task. The pirates raise the ire of the Prince. He captures the father, who this Sargessean has some sort of need for, and demands an amount in ransom that is too high for the sons to pay, either due to lack of funds or lack of desire. It has to pretty high or they wouldn't be willing to fund us. The barrage of questions from the half-elf and the following queries by the others cause her eyes to open wide. By the Flame. I would never think to ask that stuff.
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