Redwald
First Post
Get Your Sea Legs
The ship is abruptly propelled forward, leaping into motion.
Instantly, wind is blowing through the hair of the adventurers, and the wooden planks are trying to get out from underneath them.
Cardea tumbles to the deck. Cullen and Kamiel hurriedly grab the railing to keep themselves upright.
Teague doesn't even flinch. Grinning, he kneels and offers Cardea his free hand.
Cardea bears a dark expression. The gnomes are laughing. Actually, Kamiel notices, only half of the gnomes are laughing at Cardea. The other half, the more distant group, have found their source of amusement in the hobgoblin, who also took a spill.
The sailors are chuckling as well, more so at the hobgoblin, who hadn't even bothered to hold on to anything.
As Teague helps Cardea back to her feet, Cullen and Kamiel realize that their sudden lurch wasn't all the speed this vessel had to offer. They are steadily accelerating.
The party's attention is drawn to the stern. The ring has not completely disappeared, as it turns out. It is stretched out behind the ship, somewhat like a wind sock. Kamiel watches in fascination as the craft slowly but steadily rises out of the water as it gains velocity. Turning his attention to the sails, he can see that they're not filling with air—instead, they are used as control surfaces.
The wind starts to roar in their ears; from experience, Teague knows that this means they've reached a speed of ten to twelve miles per hour. The captain is shouting orders. Most of them seem to have to do with getting the positions of the sails tuned just right. The ship subtly changes direction in response.
Looking over the railing and down, the adventurers can see that the ship has risen out of the sea and is gliding along the surface on runners. The hull is completely clear of the water.
Still they are accelerating. The roaring of air steadily increases in volume. The ship is highly maneuverable, judging by the effects of the continued minute adjustments to the steering sails. It is as if the craft is skating on the water. The rails appear to be made of soarwood.
It dawns on Kamiel that Captain Aran possesses no minor status. He is either highly esteemed within the House, wealthy, or both. The man is not the boisterous character the adventurers drank with at the Overripe Melon last night—today, he's all business.
Finally the vessel reaches cruising speed, which Teague judges to be about twenty miles per hour.
After a hand signal from the captain, the first mate calls, “day watch aloft, mid watch and night watch below decks.” The sailors not on duty hasten down the ladders.
The day is pleasant but not exceptional. The weather is bright at the moment, with the sun shining on the water. There is a substantial amount of glare, and it is also pretty humid and warm. The air from the front is more then enough to cool the skin; it dries the eyes and takes the breath away a bit if one faces directly into it.
After a few minutes it is clear that the off-duty personnel were not motivated solely by obedience to get quickly below. The quartermaster comes by and suggests that the passengers head down as well, to the mess hall. It's lunch time.
The party finds that the common area, which was a large open space when they last saw it, has filled with trestle tables and benches. A little over a dozen sailors occupy most of the seating, with the other passengers clustered together, keeping a polite distance.
After an uneventful meal, the companions returns to the upper deck, where they are approached by a deckhand. The young half-elf addresses Teague. “The captain requests your company for dinner tonight.”
After a quick glance around at his fellows, Teague accepts on their behalf.
Cullen produces his lyre and tunes it up. The other passengers are milling about above as well. The hobgoblin is nowhere to be seen; it seems the creature has gone below. Two of the gnomes in one group are playing a card game that also involves dice and markers of some kind. The adventurers, however, keep to themselves, enjoying the weather and listening to Cullen's bucolic music.
In the afternoon, there is a shift change, and the first mate takes the helm. The deckhand who communicated the dinner invitation returns.
“Dinner is in about an hour if you need to prepare.”
The party decides that they do, and head below to groom themselves for dinner with the captain. At one point, they hear what sounds like a very sick hobgoblin from within one of the staterooms.
Teague grabs a cabin boy who is hurrying past. “Bucket of water to him once every two hours.”
“Already on it, sir.” The boy hustles off.
As the sun sets, the company is taken to the captain's cabin. His quarters are small, but three times the size of their own. It has a fairly small bunk and a desk with a chair on gliders. The room probably doubles as a boardroom for the officers, though none are present—just Captain Aran and a cabin boy.
Aran d'Lyrandar speaks. “I apologize for not greeting you personally, but, well, departure. Greetings, lady. Gentlemen. Nephew.” He bows slightly to each of the adventurers in turn.
Dinner is served. The meal is superior to that at lunch, but Cardea waits to partake, keeping an eye on the setting sun outside one of the portholes. She does not eat until the sun has completely disappeared below the horizon.
Of the group, only Kamiel is seasick, but barely so at that. He is queasy and picks at the food, but feels in no danger of vomiting. The captain makes small talk with Teague, to which Cullen adds an occasional contribution. Cardea and Kamiel are quiet.
Before long, the meal is finished and the plates cleared by the cabin boy, who then steps out of the room.
“If you have any questions about the work I have for you,” the captain says, “now would be a good time to ask.”
The whole party seems prepared for this moment.
Cardea is first. “Where exactly are we going and what is the nature of our duties?”
“We should be approaching the derelict a little after dawn. I'd like you all to survey it and give me a rough assessment of its salvagability. The ship is called the Wave Lord. A couple of business associates and I sponsored her on an exploratory trading mission south.”
The elf's eyebrow arches at the direction. “How far?”
The captain doesn't quite answer that. “South and east.”
Cardea realizes that's either Argonessen or Seren. “That's madness!” she cries.
The captain is utterly nonplussed by her outburst, and proceeds calmly. “The barbarians of Seren are willing to trade with House Lyrandar for spices and other...nonesuch. We are not so foolish as to approach the dragons. This was the third expedition we had sponsored to this location with the same ship and crew. We were firming up a long-term trade agreement at the point when she disappeared. She wasn't a wind galleon like this,” he explains, gesturing at the surroundings. “This is a fast ship, and maneuverable as anything on the water, but not so good in a storm. No, she was a standard galleon, but the captain did have the gift of the winds. She departed the fifth of Rhaan. We expected her back early in Therindor if all went well. We assume there may have been heavier storms than expected, or even possible problems. Getting blown off course, or sustaining sail damage that slowed her return. Accidents happen. When I was a lad, we lost a sail because some idiot—” he cuts himself off and glances at Teague. “Well, never mind. You've heard that story.”
Kamiel exhales through pursed lips. His stomach is still upset. “Go on,” he says.
The captain sits back in his chair and continues. “We were getting quite concerned. Then one of the other Lyrandar ships spotted her.”
“Why didn't you—they—recover her at that time, then?” Cullen asks.
“That ship wasn't equipped. We planned to do so. She was—is—made of soarwood.” He pauses for a moment, then resumes. “We would like you determine whether she is salvagable, and if not, recover some items. The captain's logs, the navigator's rutters. The primary financier of the mission has prepared some special gifts to be given to the chief and shaman of the tribe we were dealing with. These were placed in a special case in the cargo hold. We'd like those recovered if they're still aboard. Most of the cargo that is still aboard, we'd like—but not if it's been damaged by wind, rain, or seas.”
“Why are you asking us to do this?”
“Because we're expendable,” Kamiel says bitterly.
Teague defuses the arcanist's cynicism. “No, sailors are a superstitious lot. It's a dead ship.”
The captain continues. “The air jockeys aren't quite as squeamish about waterborne vessels. The other ship who sighted her did not report seeing any crew aboard or signs of life. Usually if there is sickness aboard, the crew will raise the plague sign, or mark the decks to indicate danger. None of that was evident.”
“No fire?” Teague asks.
“No signs of fire.”
“Any list?”
“She did seem to have taken on a bit of water. And the masts were not present.”
“I may wish to use some leather armor if you have some available,” Cardea says.
The captain sits up just a little bit straighter. “Absolutely. I'd be remiss if I didn't offer you what resources we have. We have some leather in your size,” he reassures her, then shifts his gaze to Cullen. “And yours.”
“I'll have a look,” the halfling replies.
“Anything you find aboard other than the logs, rutters, the goods in the chest—” he cuts himself off. “That chest. It's large, with an ‘A’ on it. Don't try to open it. It's...secured. Trapped,” he says bluntly. “Anything else you can carry, salvage for yourselves. We will of course want the ship ourselves. We'll take her in tow if she's seaworthy enough.”
“Do we need to set up a morgue?” Teague asks.
“If there's a need, yes, probably. Make the call when you're there.”
Cardea advances the next question. “What if there is significant damage to the hull?”
“In that case we'll sink her, as she'll be a hazard to the sea lanes.”
“We'll require our weapons, of course,” Teague says.
The captain indicates his acknowledgement. “We'll come up to about five hundred feet, drop a longboat, and a couple of crew will take you over. Then the longboat will pull back some. You can store gear in the longboat and call for it as needed, or carry it with you, as you like.”
The adventurers are quiet.
“Any more questions?” the captain asks.
Cullen quickly surveys his companions. Cardea looks steeled for trouble, Teague looks intrigued but wary, and Kamiel looks ill. “No.”
The party thanks the captain for the meal and says good night. As they retire to their cabins, they find that they can hear no more noise from the hobgoblin's quarters. No retching. No snoring, either. Maybe someone gave him a sleeping potion, or did him in.
Kamiel unshutters the mage light as he and Teague enter their cabin. The arcanist spots a small, empty, clean bucket underneath the padded bench that doubles as his bunk. A thin, hinged beam runs the length of the bench, which serves as a lip or a low rail depending which position it is locked into. He fixes it into the latter orientation so the ship's motion doesn't roll him onto the deck, and slides the bucket out to rest squarely underneath where his head would be if he hung his face over the rail while prone. “Just in case,” he thinks as he collapses onto the bunk. “And the damn thing better not slide away in the night.”
The ship is abruptly propelled forward, leaping into motion.
Instantly, wind is blowing through the hair of the adventurers, and the wooden planks are trying to get out from underneath them.
Cardea tumbles to the deck. Cullen and Kamiel hurriedly grab the railing to keep themselves upright.
Teague doesn't even flinch. Grinning, he kneels and offers Cardea his free hand.
Cardea bears a dark expression. The gnomes are laughing. Actually, Kamiel notices, only half of the gnomes are laughing at Cardea. The other half, the more distant group, have found their source of amusement in the hobgoblin, who also took a spill.
The sailors are chuckling as well, more so at the hobgoblin, who hadn't even bothered to hold on to anything.
As Teague helps Cardea back to her feet, Cullen and Kamiel realize that their sudden lurch wasn't all the speed this vessel had to offer. They are steadily accelerating.
The party's attention is drawn to the stern. The ring has not completely disappeared, as it turns out. It is stretched out behind the ship, somewhat like a wind sock. Kamiel watches in fascination as the craft slowly but steadily rises out of the water as it gains velocity. Turning his attention to the sails, he can see that they're not filling with air—instead, they are used as control surfaces.
The wind starts to roar in their ears; from experience, Teague knows that this means they've reached a speed of ten to twelve miles per hour. The captain is shouting orders. Most of them seem to have to do with getting the positions of the sails tuned just right. The ship subtly changes direction in response.
Looking over the railing and down, the adventurers can see that the ship has risen out of the sea and is gliding along the surface on runners. The hull is completely clear of the water.
Still they are accelerating. The roaring of air steadily increases in volume. The ship is highly maneuverable, judging by the effects of the continued minute adjustments to the steering sails. It is as if the craft is skating on the water. The rails appear to be made of soarwood.
It dawns on Kamiel that Captain Aran possesses no minor status. He is either highly esteemed within the House, wealthy, or both. The man is not the boisterous character the adventurers drank with at the Overripe Melon last night—today, he's all business.
Finally the vessel reaches cruising speed, which Teague judges to be about twenty miles per hour.
After a hand signal from the captain, the first mate calls, “day watch aloft, mid watch and night watch below decks.” The sailors not on duty hasten down the ladders.
The day is pleasant but not exceptional. The weather is bright at the moment, with the sun shining on the water. There is a substantial amount of glare, and it is also pretty humid and warm. The air from the front is more then enough to cool the skin; it dries the eyes and takes the breath away a bit if one faces directly into it.
After a few minutes it is clear that the off-duty personnel were not motivated solely by obedience to get quickly below. The quartermaster comes by and suggests that the passengers head down as well, to the mess hall. It's lunch time.
The party finds that the common area, which was a large open space when they last saw it, has filled with trestle tables and benches. A little over a dozen sailors occupy most of the seating, with the other passengers clustered together, keeping a polite distance.
After an uneventful meal, the companions returns to the upper deck, where they are approached by a deckhand. The young half-elf addresses Teague. “The captain requests your company for dinner tonight.”
After a quick glance around at his fellows, Teague accepts on their behalf.
Cullen produces his lyre and tunes it up. The other passengers are milling about above as well. The hobgoblin is nowhere to be seen; it seems the creature has gone below. Two of the gnomes in one group are playing a card game that also involves dice and markers of some kind. The adventurers, however, keep to themselves, enjoying the weather and listening to Cullen's bucolic music.
In the afternoon, there is a shift change, and the first mate takes the helm. The deckhand who communicated the dinner invitation returns.
“Dinner is in about an hour if you need to prepare.”
The party decides that they do, and head below to groom themselves for dinner with the captain. At one point, they hear what sounds like a very sick hobgoblin from within one of the staterooms.
Teague grabs a cabin boy who is hurrying past. “Bucket of water to him once every two hours.”
“Already on it, sir.” The boy hustles off.
As the sun sets, the company is taken to the captain's cabin. His quarters are small, but three times the size of their own. It has a fairly small bunk and a desk with a chair on gliders. The room probably doubles as a boardroom for the officers, though none are present—just Captain Aran and a cabin boy.
Aran d'Lyrandar speaks. “I apologize for not greeting you personally, but, well, departure. Greetings, lady. Gentlemen. Nephew.” He bows slightly to each of the adventurers in turn.
Dinner is served. The meal is superior to that at lunch, but Cardea waits to partake, keeping an eye on the setting sun outside one of the portholes. She does not eat until the sun has completely disappeared below the horizon.
Of the group, only Kamiel is seasick, but barely so at that. He is queasy and picks at the food, but feels in no danger of vomiting. The captain makes small talk with Teague, to which Cullen adds an occasional contribution. Cardea and Kamiel are quiet.
Before long, the meal is finished and the plates cleared by the cabin boy, who then steps out of the room.
“If you have any questions about the work I have for you,” the captain says, “now would be a good time to ask.”
The whole party seems prepared for this moment.
Cardea is first. “Where exactly are we going and what is the nature of our duties?”
“We should be approaching the derelict a little after dawn. I'd like you all to survey it and give me a rough assessment of its salvagability. The ship is called the Wave Lord. A couple of business associates and I sponsored her on an exploratory trading mission south.”
The elf's eyebrow arches at the direction. “How far?”
The captain doesn't quite answer that. “South and east.”
Cardea realizes that's either Argonessen or Seren. “That's madness!” she cries.
The captain is utterly nonplussed by her outburst, and proceeds calmly. “The barbarians of Seren are willing to trade with House Lyrandar for spices and other...nonesuch. We are not so foolish as to approach the dragons. This was the third expedition we had sponsored to this location with the same ship and crew. We were firming up a long-term trade agreement at the point when she disappeared. She wasn't a wind galleon like this,” he explains, gesturing at the surroundings. “This is a fast ship, and maneuverable as anything on the water, but not so good in a storm. No, she was a standard galleon, but the captain did have the gift of the winds. She departed the fifth of Rhaan. We expected her back early in Therindor if all went well. We assume there may have been heavier storms than expected, or even possible problems. Getting blown off course, or sustaining sail damage that slowed her return. Accidents happen. When I was a lad, we lost a sail because some idiot—” he cuts himself off and glances at Teague. “Well, never mind. You've heard that story.”
Kamiel exhales through pursed lips. His stomach is still upset. “Go on,” he says.
The captain sits back in his chair and continues. “We were getting quite concerned. Then one of the other Lyrandar ships spotted her.”
“Why didn't you—they—recover her at that time, then?” Cullen asks.
“That ship wasn't equipped. We planned to do so. She was—is—made of soarwood.” He pauses for a moment, then resumes. “We would like you determine whether she is salvagable, and if not, recover some items. The captain's logs, the navigator's rutters. The primary financier of the mission has prepared some special gifts to be given to the chief and shaman of the tribe we were dealing with. These were placed in a special case in the cargo hold. We'd like those recovered if they're still aboard. Most of the cargo that is still aboard, we'd like—but not if it's been damaged by wind, rain, or seas.”
“Why are you asking us to do this?”
“Because we're expendable,” Kamiel says bitterly.
Teague defuses the arcanist's cynicism. “No, sailors are a superstitious lot. It's a dead ship.”
The captain continues. “The air jockeys aren't quite as squeamish about waterborne vessels. The other ship who sighted her did not report seeing any crew aboard or signs of life. Usually if there is sickness aboard, the crew will raise the plague sign, or mark the decks to indicate danger. None of that was evident.”
“No fire?” Teague asks.
“No signs of fire.”
“Any list?”
“She did seem to have taken on a bit of water. And the masts were not present.”
“I may wish to use some leather armor if you have some available,” Cardea says.
The captain sits up just a little bit straighter. “Absolutely. I'd be remiss if I didn't offer you what resources we have. We have some leather in your size,” he reassures her, then shifts his gaze to Cullen. “And yours.”
“I'll have a look,” the halfling replies.
“Anything you find aboard other than the logs, rutters, the goods in the chest—” he cuts himself off. “That chest. It's large, with an ‘A’ on it. Don't try to open it. It's...secured. Trapped,” he says bluntly. “Anything else you can carry, salvage for yourselves. We will of course want the ship ourselves. We'll take her in tow if she's seaworthy enough.”
“Do we need to set up a morgue?” Teague asks.
“If there's a need, yes, probably. Make the call when you're there.”
Cardea advances the next question. “What if there is significant damage to the hull?”
“In that case we'll sink her, as she'll be a hazard to the sea lanes.”
“We'll require our weapons, of course,” Teague says.
The captain indicates his acknowledgement. “We'll come up to about five hundred feet, drop a longboat, and a couple of crew will take you over. Then the longboat will pull back some. You can store gear in the longboat and call for it as needed, or carry it with you, as you like.”
The adventurers are quiet.
“Any more questions?” the captain asks.
Cullen quickly surveys his companions. Cardea looks steeled for trouble, Teague looks intrigued but wary, and Kamiel looks ill. “No.”
The party thanks the captain for the meal and says good night. As they retire to their cabins, they find that they can hear no more noise from the hobgoblin's quarters. No retching. No snoring, either. Maybe someone gave him a sleeping potion, or did him in.
Kamiel unshutters the mage light as he and Teague enter their cabin. The arcanist spots a small, empty, clean bucket underneath the padded bench that doubles as his bunk. A thin, hinged beam runs the length of the bench, which serves as a lip or a low rail depending which position it is locked into. He fixes it into the latter orientation so the ship's motion doesn't roll him onto the deck, and slides the bucket out to rest squarely underneath where his head would be if he hung his face over the rail while prone. “Just in case,” he thinks as he collapses onto the bunk. “And the damn thing better not slide away in the night.”
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