Grogbeard seems affable enough, but you do notice a look of concern on the Sorcerers face...
As no-one else seems to have picked up on it, I'll assume the feast (and the spell) otherwise goes off without a hitch.
For the next 24 hours:
- You are all immune to poison and being frightened.
- You have advantage on Wisdom saves
- Your HP (and HP Maximum) increase by 2d10 (can each of you please roll this for me; the Sorcerer has already rolled a 13)
The Ship encounters an increasing amount of turbulence as the feast progresses, and as the feast draws to a close the bumping and jostling increases in severity.
Suddenly plates and goblets slide onto the floor after a particularly violent lurch, and a concerned Captain and First Mate excuse themselves and head to the upper deck.
Following them, you all notice the once seemingly placid Astral Sea has darkened, and rolling and boiling mass of clouds heads your way. At the same time you all hear a strange murmuring inside your heads, like a faint psychic whispering, that is getting louder by the minute.
Mr Christian freezes and stares at the incoming storm, and if you can imagine what a gravely concerned Hippo would look like; its
that. That's what he looks like!
Almost as suddenly, he composes himself. As the Captain races up to the helm to take the wheel, Mr Christian barks out orders to the crew:
'Batten down the hatches lads, the storm to end all storms approaches!
As the crew frantically race about the deck and the rigging, the Captain furiously spins the wheel, and tacks the ship directly towards the shelter of what appears to be a gargantuan humanoid hunk of rock several hundred meters in length, and floating along in the Astral sea, roughly a mile or so away.
I'll await your rolls for the increased HP and any actions you want to declare before proceeding further.