The Safehouse
With Caillou’s pockets impossibly stuffed, the black beaked hooded “Tengu King” is followed by his retainers - the Romani Lorelei and the inestimable kobold Mr. Magnusson with his arms full of satchels and ledgers.
D’avard proves a hefty load to bear, so Teague lends a hand to Old Zef and whoever else is up to the task as Katerina leads their way from the house on the hill. Traces of gunpowder smoke linger, and you can catch a bit up on the slope above the house, hinting that there was a hidden gun in the jungle.
As you wend your way thru the moonlit jungle, you come across a bloodied bandana there or a jammed pistol here - signs of the pirates who fled the fight. There are no other traces of them, nor do they make an attempt to rally an ambush. Songbirds coo in the Caribbean trees as a spray of rain pelts down on you. Thunder rumbles in the distance as the storm stays offshore; by the looks of it the weather should clear by the late morning.
During your trek, D’avard begins to stir, but a blow from Nia’s
shillelagh is enough to render him unconscious again.
The safehouse appears more to be a launders house and that’s precisely what it is. The sun is just beginning to creep above the horizon around 5 o’clock in the morning when your bedraggled and wounded party approaches. Marm, a weathered laundress with ruddy cheeks and bun of wild grey hair, is hanging up a wet sheet when she sees you.
“What in the devil? Oi, is that you, Blackheart’s daughter? Katerina? Come here, and let old Marm get a look at you! You’ve turned into a lovely young woman. But filthy!” She clucks her tongue at the state of their mud, gunpowder, and blood covered clothes.
A beanpole thin old man with a worn sailor’s cap sits smoking on the front porch with an exceptionally clean daschund hound gnawing at a bone by his feat.
“They ain’t come to listen to your bleating, Marm, just look at their state and that big bloke they’ve got tied up. They’ve come to use the cellar safehouse, I reckon.”
Puffing up her bosom indignantly, Marm waggles her finger,
”Now, Ebenezer, just cause they’ve been out pirating don’t mean they wouldn’t enjoy some civil conversation and a clean pair of clothes. Isn’t that right?” Smiling insistently, Marm turns to Nia and Caillou - whose clothes might be described as the most disheveled - for support in her matrimonial feud.
”Oh, aye, why don’t you whip up some sea biscuits and gravy for them while you’re doing their laundry?” Quips Ebenezer grumpily.
Taking his response at face value, Marm nods,
“You’re right, Ebenezer, I should put some in the oven. Now, dwarves like sea biscuits and gravy, don’t they?” She inquires of Old Zef.
“Nah, Marm, dwarves live half on rum and spitfire, every old salt knows that. Come up here and smoke with me, Mr. Dwarf, and we can avoid these chatty Cathies.” He beckons Old Zef over with his pipe hand.
Huffing in irritation, Marm beckons you to follow, unlocking a door behind the main house that clearly hasn’t been opened in years as it takes a firm kick to get it open. She lights an oil lamp and shows you down to a large stone cellar littered with empty barrels and cheap treasures that Blackheart never thought to collect, the only other furnishing a table and chairs. Coils of rotting hemp rope hang from the walls. A thin bit of dust coats everything, and puddles of water have formed in some parts.
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OOC:
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Anyone searching the safehouse can find a Random Trinket (roll on any table you like), or cheap seafaring equipment like a belaying pin, a sounding line, or hemp rope.
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