Episode 2: The Rage of War

Kho'nan approaches Izar with a knowing look in his eye. Without warning, he gives the Changeling a big hug.

When it broke, he gave him a knowing nod and then looked about. "Aye, let's get ta drinkin'."

Oraam stands by awkwardly and smiles slightly at the companionship on display.

Once the hug between the two is over, Oraam attempts to pulls Izar aside.

"W-With the enchantment on the Sending Stones finished, I'm able to enchant something else temporarily instead. So... I really appreciate your kindness and acceptance of me so quickly. So I was wondering if I could try something out on your viol? It'll be cool, I promise."

There's a glint in Oraam's eye that you've only seen a few times - when trying to enchant the Sending Stones. There's almost an aura of excitement radiating off of him as he looks at Izar expectedly.

Kho'nan's sudden movement is somehow reminiscent of Veil, whose silent grace was akin to a whisper or a breath.  Izar had often contrasted the two in their writing as they all traveled from Cormac's inn to the camp.

Now, as then, they are struck by the difference.  Veil had been the glacial wind that relentlessly found every inch of exposed flesh, whereas Kho'nan moved like a Sturzstrom. It is that rock avalanche that sweeps Izar up, and the Changeling is uncertain as to whether they dislike the experience; being on the receiving end of a well-meaning hug had been a very rare occurrence. In the end, they return Kho'nan's nod, and then nods again to themself as if to confirm that they were ready to move on
"Finally!" He exclaims in response to the call to drink.  

Oraam is easily able to draw Izar aside as they journey towards the sirens' song of steins of stout.  "You don't owe me anything Oraam... but, then, I do enjoy a well conducted experiment..." Izar looks intently at Oraam, completely abandoning her previous appearance in favor of a version of the young, wide-eyed scholar that she had been testing out what seemed like a life time ago.

Placing the instrument in his hands, she doesn't let go until adding,

"I will want to see your notes, and perhaps to discuss the difference in approach to imbue versus affect with a spell.  We have never exchanged on your craft, and it could be enjoyable to remedy that."

Oraam's face is beaming at Izar's approval, before quickly turning to wonder as Izar's appearance changes almost instantaneously. "You HAVE to tell me what that's like!"

As they walk, Oraam preaches about the wonders of enchantment via infusion rather than simply by a spell. It starts off as a quick little explanation but quickly cascades into Oraam spouting every inch of arcane knowledge he has both accumulated and invented himself. The improptu info-dump is more to anybody in the vicinity than to specifically Izar, and you get the feeling that maybe he doesn't get the chance to talk about this very often around here.

"Well, first, the main difference is that inherently infusions are semi-permanent. Contrary to many spells, this infusion will last until I die! And a few days after that - even. But, due to the nature of the infusion and how it links with my own personal arcane reservoir, at any time I can end that infusion and infuse another object.  Really, it's pretty cool! Back at Wynarn I was top of my class, you know. My professors used to say they had nothing else to add when I finished my presentations."

He takes a deep breath in, as the words have just been spilling out of his mouth like alphabet soup (a Dhakaani classic.)

"In terms of the actual process, once we get to the bar I can sit down and show you more in depth. But let's just say - you're gonna see some pretty cool colors."

I shall join you shortly.

Jorian abruptly takes his leave from the group gathered and returns to the meeting tent. Taking care to remove his shoes before entering, Jorian steps in, searching for the half-orc.

Kho'nan, all things said and done, was pleased. There was confusion and frustration and even anger boiling underneath the surface at the new changes to his body - and to the bodies of his comrades - but there was no need to dwell on that.

The Coward Dies an Infinite Number of Times. The Courageous One Dies only Once.

He remembers something an elder had once told him, back in the Hill Lands of the Mror Holds. Moreover, Izar had accepted his hug of friendship without much of a fight. He figured the Princess would squirm awkwardly, unused to the outpouring of affections Dwarves were, in fact, capable of. When the Princess did change to the young scholar, Kho'nan briefly felt something else, but quickly pushed it out of his mind.

~~~ Ffffilthyyy Dwarf, you. ~~~ The symbiont cackled. Kho'nan grit his teeth and made sure his single braid was pulled tight down the middle of his head absently.

Jorian leaving quickly and without much preamble was expected, at least to the Dwarf. With the three of them remaining, he walked toward the camp's watering hold.

When there was a break in the talking, he asked them both a simple but important question: "So, what d'they do?" The question was, of course, in reference to his hands.

Benobo wrote:

Oraam's face is beaming at Izar's approval, before quickly turning to wonder as Izar's appearance changes almost instantaneously. "You HAVE to tell me what that's like!"

"It is like any other voluntary physiological process. Uh…" She squints, head a tilt to indicate that she is thinking. "I am thinking about it and not. I experience it as an outcome of my desire for it to happen. Some movements are harder, or require more concentration.  It is like wiggling your fingers." She does so gingerly, as if feeling a bit silly.

She listens to the stream of consciousness sharing of his knowledge, when he speaks to his academic achievement stares at him, duly impressed, with wide honey brown eyes. "It is not surprising that your professors had nothing to add - you are very thorough."[/color] If the remark was meant as a jab, there is no trace of it in either her tone or facial expression. "At some point I would like to methodically map your knowledge, to better understand the conceptual arborescences of your practice."

Iron and Metal wrote:

When there was a break in the talking, he asked them both a simple but important question: "So, what d'they do?" The question was, of course, in reference to his hands.

Kho'nan's question is an excellent one, and she says as much with a bright, approving smile. "It is worth documenting and monitoring their evolution, both in terms of ability and effect. I believe that I have a sense of what mine might do, but I would rather we have some distance from camp for any practical demonstration. There will still be the question of why this has happened to us, and whether it has affected anyone else within or beyond camp. Within camp seems unlikely, as the news would likely have reached us by now… So much to uncover; I am going to need much more paper!" Pulling at a length of curly hair, she sighs.

"Research project aside, I feel like there is no knowledge that is beyond my reach. As if all I would need to will it be, and I could read a text no matter the language. Which I would be far more excited about under different circumstances. I used to tell..." She stops short as if struck, opening and closing her mouth a few times without any sound coming out.

Finally, draining the closest beer within her reach she is able to continue, but is far more subdued."It would have made some of my classes much easier."

As the sun begins to set upon the True Aundarian camp, the crew of the Severed Fang prepare to depart. Izar, Oraam, and Kho'nan are escorted to the vessel by a quiet and capable scout. Under cover of night, the ship makes a wide arc from the mouth of the Silver Wood inlet to the remains of the White Arch. The team takes a small lifeboat driven by a couple crewmates to the edge of the pillar, where they scale to the top before dropping the belaying rope back to the boat. Within the hour, the vessel disappears into the tree line at the edge of the horizon, leaving you all hanging in the windy, moonlit ocean air. Some hours pass in the night, the growing fear of misinformation stranding you is only abated as the sight of a large trading barge begins to come into view. Its rapid growth in your vision let's you all know there are only a few minutes to prepare yourselves for the leap.

“Korvun, The Fang is yours.” Jorian clasps his sturdy first mate on the shoulder and turns to address his crew. “May Ollandra smile upon us this evening. May Arawai grant us smooth waters, and may The Devourer asphyxiate on the foreskin of a sand troll!

The crew of The Severed Fang erupt into cheers and boisterous laughter as their Captain boards the lifeboat along with the rest of the party. His eyes glazed over, Jorian begins to regret a long night of drinking. Surely he’d sober up…

***********************************

Jorian narrows his eyes as he sees the two barges come into view. While the hieroglyphs tattooed under his eyes granted the gift of darkvison, the amount of alcohol the privateer had taken in the night prior was affecting him far more than he expected. Muffling a burp, Jorian feels the floor shifting beneath him, a natural feeling on the deck of the ship. Jorian however, was not on the deck of the ship. Blinking rapidly, the privateer rubs his eyes. The double vision subsides as the two barges suddenly become one. As the cool sea breeze caressed his skin, Jorian closed his eyes and made a mental note to never try to out drink a dwarf.

“Remember” A long, loud burp escapes.  “Noise discipline. Another much quieter burp sneaks out.

"Balinor's bulging ballsack," Kho'nan mumbles. He takes a step closer to Jorian. His hair and beard, electric blue, seemed duller now. In fact, his tattoos as well seemed as dark as night, their shapes moving into forms that looked more like camouflage than anything symmetrical.

He wore only his heavy kilt, heavier belt, and a small buckler on his left forearm. Both his Khukri and Dorn-Dergar were strapped to/around his waist, and he had the warpick on his back.

"Are ye'gonna be allright, or am I gonna have'tuh throw you onto th'damned ship?"

He knew better than to take Jorian out drinking the night before.

Of their original group, only Cormac had had Izar's fortitude or lack there of and so she did her level best to manage the perceptions of her fellow ebriates. It was an old habit that she had picked up from performing in taverns. Patrons often wanted to have her join in their next round of drinks and the tips were better if she went along. This approach had staved off innumerable potential alcohol poisonings as well as its fair share of hangovers, including the better part of a nasty one today, if Jorian's demeanor was any indication.

The cool wind coming off of the ocean is wonderfully soothing; and every so often Izar is able to let herself forget just how much she had to drink the night before and what they all here to do this evening. "In the company of fools," she says under her breath, suppressing a bemused smile at Jorian and Kho'nan's interaction.

The expression had always seemed a bit silly to her, but now that she was going to jump off of a bridge because other people were doing it, it was starting to make sense.

If you are to do something foolish, be sure to do so in the company of fools

At The Bar

After having his fair share of drink, Oraam looked at the viol set on the table in front of him. Having a bit of performance anxiety, he exaggeratedly stretched his shoulders and cracked his fingers, taking deep breaths all the while.

Before long he pulls out a set of Tinker's Tools and, rather than one might expect from an artificer, doesn't actually touch the viol with them. Rather, he is squinting in the air above the viol, using the various hand tools to make "edits" in the air above the instrument. As he progresses in this process a faint 3D blueprint of the instrument begins to appear where formerly there was nothing but blank space and waving tools. Seeing this, he smiles and sets the Tinker's tools down.

"Now, here's where it gets fun!" he says to whoever is around him at the time. He closes his eyes, channeling magical energy through his fingertips and into the space occupied by the blueprint. An exact physical replica of the viol replaces the blueprint, made out of a scintillating white energy that hovers in the air for a moment before Oraam slams his hands down through the air, sending the mana into the viol with an extremely loud POWER CHORD.

He smiles and raises his hands in the air. "Woohoo!" he picks the viol up and hands it back to Izar. "One super awesome enchanted instrument for you."

(Mechanically, it gives Izar a +1 bonus to Spell Attack Rolls and their Spell Save DC.)

NOW.

Oraam didn't drink much. That fact was made quite apparent with the numerous near-falls, slips, and strings of slightly louder than would be acceptable goblin curses as he climbed.

However, once he ascended to the top, a sense of calm entered his soul. Listening to his pseudo-father figure and competition argue was enough for him to realize how lucky he was to be in this situation. Only a week ago or so he had been a simple mailman. Now, however, he was a part of the rag-tag Abberants! Reflecting upon the name gave Oraam some second thoughts, but he smiled nonetheless as he peered down at the trading ship coming into view.

Once he used some quick Pythagorean theorem to judge how far away he should be from the boat when he jumped, he spread his arms in the air like wings before his descent is slowed by the feather and he gently floats down to the boat.

As the barge approaches, the soft roll of the wind does well to drown out the sounds of light conversation and movement. Preparing yourselves, you stare down at the lanterns hung on the ship and the driftglobes dancing around a few of the crew.* The lapping of waves and creaking of wood work their way to you as the barge rolls just below the remains of the White Arch, it's single mast poking up at you. On Jorian's signal, the party leaps from the bridge.

The force of gravity pulls you for just a second before the tokens you bear activate, enveloping each of you in a soft magical descent. Izar and Oraam float down until they contact the sail, then slide to the main deck. Kho'nan stays by Jorian, who begins to spin as he descends. Kho'nan makes every attempt to stabilize his allies fall, but Jorian tumbles away in the air, bouncing off the deck with a little less dignity than Kho'nan, who lands upright. The crew of the ship yell out at the two in the center, "Pirates! Pirates!" A man at the rudder stumbles to the edge of the aftcastle and shouts to the crew. "Marines, to arms!" One tense moment is all that separates each of you from members of the crew, who are already drawing belaying pins and seax's to engage you.

*Most likely a sign of status, the minor magical lights would be a bit more expensive, and likely reserved for the more important aboard the ship.

Kho'nan's body contorts and shifts as the Beast emerges from its hiding place deep within his soul. Black, ink-like, whirling and shifting, it covers him. A face, terrible to behold forms around his stomach, teeth as sharp as a sharks, rows deep, madly grinning. Pure white eyes like slashes opening up and spilling forth more ichor that is quickly lapped up by the mouth.

He lefts his left hand as three small stalks emerge, each ending with a small mouth. Chittering, flat teeth crackle in each mouth as Kho'nan makes ready to cover the ground between He and Jorian and the on rushers with icy frost.

"Surrender now, and ye'may yet live."

"Ohh pleassssseee don't.... I'm ssssstarving..." The Beast at his stomach retorts.

Jorian shakes his head as if shrugging off the effects of inebriation. With a shrug and roll of the shoulder, Jorian pulls a sooted bronze shield from his back. As he brings the shield up to guard, the sound of his curved elven blade slides from the scabbard, emitting a soft hum as it cuts air. Taking a low, bladed stance he holds the blade to his side. He speaks calmly to the leader of the group as Kho’nan finishes

“You would do well to consider these words. This man is a demon, and I have yet to see his promises of death and suffering go unfulfilled. Sheath your weapons and seek fortune as members of my crew. Coin, adventure and most importantly, freedom await those willing.”

In the liminal space between free fall and floating, when gravity's pull feels inextricable and oh so final, the thought what if plows to the front of Izar's mind. Before being able to parse whether the feather token's successful activation would be cause for relief or disappointment, the Changeling is being cradled in transmutation magic.


As she tries to figure out whether she can avoid being stabbed or clubbed given the physical constraints of the battlefield at least until the crew is slaughtered like so much cattle, she is happily taken aback by Kho'nan and Jorian's attempt to cow the Marines. If it did not work this time around, she has a trick or two up her sleeve that might help.  In the meantime, she raises to her eye with a flourish, a coin-shaped piece of gum arabic in which a lash has been placed to look like the slitted pupil of a felidae.

"At night all cats are gray," she says with a smirk.

The disc is rolled expertly across her knuckles and then palmed.  Opening her hand to reveal that the "coin" is gone, the bard winks, and likewise disappears.

Oraam lands and analyzes the situation around him. He thinks for a second before approaching Kho'nan and putting a hand on his shoulder. A nonchalant demeanor is quickly placed in front of Oraam's usual skittery intelligence before he speaks to the crew.

"I'd like to avoid it, but if it comes to a fight, you're no match for us. I'm not saying this to intimidate or bluff or anything like that - this is coming from a place of deep understanding and acknowledgement within myself, as I was once in a position similar to you are now. It is okay to admit you are weak and lay down your weapons. You do not have to die tonight."

Some members of the crew step back, or let out soft cries of disgust at Kho'nan's transformation. The repeated calls for surrender make a few more move to put away their weapons. For a moment, it seems the crew is amenable to surrender, but a grating call from the man on the top deck leaves them drawing blades with unease once more, "Any one of you Cowards that doesn't put blade to invader will be cast to the sea for mutiny and piracy! To Arms!" He cries out before drawing a boarding axe from his hip.

Arcane energy hums around Oraam and Kho'nan as the Ghaal'dar closes his eyes and summons Kho'nan to the flank of the man calling orders. From his vantage point, Kho'nan watches as a few uneasy crew hold blades out toward Jorian and Oraam, while most look on at Oraam's display of magic and the threat of conflict.

[Moved from OOC for Murc]

Oraam's magic immediately put The Beast next to the captain. Nothing else needed to be said. Had negotiations worked, he never would have been transported. The Dorn Dergar swings out, heavy and brutal as soon as he forms. There is only the rush of air and the crush of impact. The first hit crushes his ribs inward. A burst of blood, like the bloom of roses, bubbles from his lips. It doesn't last long. The backswing nearly separates his jaw from his head, breaking his neck at the moment of impact. As the body thuds, parts of the symbiont near Kho'nan's feet begin to feed.

"Y'see th'fate of the prideful?! Surrender now!"

The Beast roars and waits.

On the larger deck below, the sailors stare agape at one another, some muttering about mutiny and others of honor. It would seem even cutting the head off the snake wasn't enough for this crew until the sound of wood impacting wood echoes from the head of the aftercastle. A low karrnathi voice bellows as an emerging driftglobe lights a sooted face. The human steps forth from the shadow of his room with the ring of a long blade being drawn from beneath his leather coat. "What's this about pirates? Shittiest pirates I've ever seen. You'll never leave the Scion's Sound alive now. Go ahead. Take what you want and be off." He sheathes his blade as he looks upon the party.

This man appears to be the captain, as other officers immediately disarm, and the remaining crew follows suit. It would appear you have free reign of the vessel.

~~~ Kill himmmm and the crew will be oursssss to devourrr... errr... sssssaveee. Liberate? ~~~

The symbiont whispered into Kho'nan's mind while it ate the brave crewman who spoke up. Kho'nan held his ground. If this was the actual Captain, perhaps Oraam would magic him there for a second showing.

Perhaps Jorian and Izar would have words for the captain. Either way, he stayed put and glared, fury barely held in check. Bloodlust rising to the surface and only just being held at bay.

Had they actually done it? Taken the entire ship at the cost of a life - one that had no sense of self-preservation at that.

Izar stands in stunned, open-mouthed silence. It takes her a beat to process what has just happened, and is happy to still be invisible when she finally has the wherewithal to school her features.

Remaining cloaked in magical obscurity and mindful that stepping in the congealing pool of viscera flecked blood would inevitably betray her position, the Changeling approaches Jorian and Oraam.

"Don't look around, you'll give me away," she begins firmly. "I am going to go poke around before things settle down. If it goes to shit, I'll not be quiet about it, so come running, yeah?" She waits a moment in case either respond, and then let's them know that she's stepped away.

Izar walks nonchalantly through the relative chaos on-board towards the Captain's room. While invisible, she tried to avoid looking like she knew that she could not be seen. It was a little trick that helped her avoid being too obvious if ever the spell failed, or someone could see her through the magic.

Oraam idly nods at Izar's directions, preoccupied with surprise at how well the new teleportation spell went. A dwarf that furious combined with instant movement was not a good combination for any future enemies the group faced. He keeps an eye on things, making sure nobody is making any sudden movements, waiting while Izar goes and does her thing.

"It's a nice ship, honestly. Congrats to the decorator."

Oraam was happy that it was going smoothly so far, but the eyes of the hobgoblin stayed vigilant.

Hearing Izar’s voice, Jorian displays no acknowledgement of their presence as suggested. Inwardly, Jorian was impressed with Izar’s abilities and remained ready to come to their aide at a moments notice.

Glancing at Koh’nan a moment, Jorian nods to the dwarf before stepping towards the captain, weapons sheathed. The privateer’s demeanor was stone cold, but one could not deny the charm in the careful dictation of each syllable.

“And yet, this shitty entourage has free reign of your ship, Captain…?”

He pauses to allow the man to state his name, not skipping a beat if met with silence.

“I am Captain Jorian Farrik and haven’t the slightest intentions to do you or your men any harm. We have come for the cargo you possess. We will proceed unimpeded and you have my word, no harm will be done to you.”

Jorian’s voice raises as he addresses the crew.

 “My offer still stands to those able bodied and seeking adventure. The Severed Fang will have you.”

He places his hands on his hips, chest and head high as he waits for an answer.

As Izar approaches the Captain's quarters, a dart of movement attracts her attention to the silhouette of a figure peering through a foggy glass porthole by the half-shut door. While she remains unseen, she slips quietly through the cracked door into the captains quarters. Inside, Izar finds a woman, her decency maintained by only a pillow held to the front of her figure. The inside of the room is musty, with a thick incense drowning out the softer notes of salt and mold. The trappings of the Captain's Quarters may have been opulent at one time, but age has weathered the velvet drapes and upholstery. A simple bed with disturbed sheets, a desk with scrolls and inks, a wardrobe with clothes spilling from the doors, and a padlocked chest are the main points of the room, with articles of clothing strewn about.

"Captain Georg Hintram. So long as you leave the crew alive, you get free reign of the cargo, no bloodshed required. Now, what name would you like me to give the authorities in port?" He nods to Jorian.

The Captain looks around at his crew as Jorian offers to take them in. He lets out a small chuckle as none of them seem immediately willing to jump ship. After a couple moments, the Captain chimes in again. "Right, well, why don't you let me show you where we keep the goods." He nods and tips his hand toward the forecastle just before he begins to walk in that direction. "Back to your duties you soggy bastards, the ship don't stop just because we have guests!" He barks to the crew around him, who all rapidly return to their positions.

Izar looks at the cushion-clad woman and suppresses a sigh, hoping that if ever she was caught unawares by an attack while naked, she would have the wherewithal to put on some clothes. She grins, a blush creeping unseen to her face.  She had been caught unawares once, and clothing had been the last thing on her mind. Instead, she ended up clad only in her sense of self-preservation, but with her trusty viol at the ready.  

Not wanting to be seen as a threat (or at all, ideally), the Changeling softens their appearance,  stripping away height and years. Then she thinks better of it; why concede authority rather than seize it. The years pile on just as quickly as they had been shed, and once she is satisfied, Izar eyes the smattering of clothing looking for items that might fit the woman.

"You've a nice enough figure, but this hardly seems the time to be humping a pillow. Stop gawping like a witless carp, and put some clothes on," she says softly, tossing a tunic onto the bed,  her tone one of implacable matronly concern bordering on brow beating. "Now, you hold your tongue, and I will be out of your hair in no time. Nod once if you understand and accept."

With the woman's assent, she would be able to make quick work of searching the room. Without it, it was likely that Izar would be sending for one of her fellow "pirates" as a further deterrent.

Oraam looks at the captain, then at Jorian, then back at the captain, before finally taking a few steps forward to whisper in Jorian's ear.

"Jorian... Not to be that guy, but he definitely knew who you were before you said anything. He didn't buy the fake at ALL. And he is PISSED! Could it be possible you've met this guy before?"

Oraam steps back from whispering and crosses his arms, puffing himself up to look bigger as he continues watching the crew.

Kho'nan didn't like the situation, and the Beast did even less.

After a failed attempt at armed resistance, the Captain who had - in Kho'nan's opinion - cowarded himself behind the dead man at his feet now wanted to be friendly? It didn't sit right with him. A part of him wanted Oraam to send him over yonder and end it, press gang the survivors or whatever Jorian had planned and be done with the ship.

He wondered what Izaar had found and a part of him hoped it would call for violence.

He stood waiting as the Symbiont finished devouring its fill. He decided to break the silence. Enough time had passed.

"No one is leavin'. Ye lot havennae understood what's takin' place. We've spared yer lives, but cannae allow ye' t'leave. So, Captain, crew, make a decision now. Join m'friend here, or join the depths. The fish'r hungry tonight."

The Symbiont screamed with hate-filled-joy inside of his brain. He made ready for Oraam's magic, should the need be.

The sick fangs spreading across his belly turned upwards in a hideous smile.

Keeping an eye on her temporary room-mate, Izar begins surreptitiously rifling through the captain's things.  As she does so, she catches Jorian and the captain Georg something... Hillman? Hitram? No matter barking at the crew. At least they had still not come to blows again.

Iron and Metal wrote:

"No one is leavin'. Ye lot havennae understood what's takin' place. We've spared yer lives, but cannae allow ye' t'leave. So, Captain, crew, make a decision now. Join m'friend here, or join the depths. The fish'r hungry tonight."

At least they had still not come to blows again as of yet.

An acrimonious litany of colourful expletives and impossible threats ran through the Bard’s mind in a veritable homily of vexation. They had forgotten that there was no winning here: whether as prisoners, corpses, or inevitable mutineers, this crew hell, this mission and this entire Khyber-damned nationalist wet dream was going to be a mess.

Until the sound of actual combat reached the quarters, or the witless carp posed a threat, Izar would try to focus on seeing what might be of use or of value, and then getting back out.

In the Captain's Quarters, the woman snaps around at the sound of Izar's voice, pressing herself against the wooden wall behind her. For a moment, she scans the room fretfully, and after realizing you aren't simply hidden, she steps forward and snatches the tunic off the bed. She makes a good show of nodding one time before throwing the tunic over her disheveled auburn hair. You upturn the room quickly, swiping papers aside and tossing clothes from the wardrobe. A paper catches your eye, rolling back and forth as it falls. You snatch it from the air before confirming your suspicions. A picture of your most recent ally, long, curled black locks with a well-kept beard. Penned in black ink are the words,

"WANTED: JORIAN "THE JACKAL" FARRIK
FOR THE CRIME OF UNLAWFUL PIRACY AGAINST THE KINGDOM OF KARRNATH
15,000 GALIFARS UPON DELIVERY
DEAD OR ALIVE"

The captain pulls a longsword from his hip, leveling it at Jorian. "I should've known your dog wouldn't hold the slightest honor. I wouldn't stomach a minute of working under The Jackal. Tell me something Jorian, do you still feel it when you kill? That pit in your stomach when you watch the soul leave your victim, does it make you feel strong?" He sweeps the blade slowly between Jorian, Kho'nan, and anyone else he considers a threat. The crew shift on their feet, some pull weapons, others look pleadingly at their mates, uncertain what the next few moments would hold for them.

Jorian lowers his gaze in contemplation of Oraam’s question. The privateer…a subjective term,  was well travelled enough that it was indeed possible the two Captains had crossed paths. The probability of his recognition was further substantiated by the obvious fact that both men were in the same profession. There were of course other possibilities…Jorian grasped Oraam’s shoulder and squeezed, winking to the Hobgoblin. “Perhaps it is time we try a new approach to pacifying this crew.”

********************************

Turning to meet the captain’s gaze, Jorian’s demeanor was calm. The man’s quip would have stuck a nerve years ago, but it was true that a blood soaked life had indeed blunted Jorian’s conscience. His hand taps the hilt of the elven blade as his gaze bores into the captain’s eyes.

“A conscience is a luxury few of us can afford, Captain. Your men now know my name, which complicates my offer to them. I would still make effort to keep my word to your crew, but I unfortunately can afford no quarter to you, my friend. Know that I take no joy in what is to come, but also know I will not lose a fraction of sleep. Your corpse will bear none but a feather's weight upon my conscience.”  

With that, The Jackal’s stance widens as he grips the hilt of his weapon.

Shoving the paper into a pocket, Izar speaks in a quiet, firm tone to reassure the woman.

"There, you see? You did as asked, and have not had a lick of trouble. What's your name? Alea? Suits you nicely. Well Alea, I'll be taking my leave now. If you continue to be sensible, you will likewise continue to go unharmed. It is more than fair, all things considered."

Overjoyed to have been able to avoid unnecessary violence - at least this one time - the bard slips out of the quarters and takes in the scene.

Oraam nods at the escalation of the situation, not mad, just disappointed.

"Well, Sir Captain, we coulda been nice." Oraam says as he closes his eyes, reaching into the air before a vortex is summoned in his hand before in the blink of an eye teleporting Kho'nan directly behind the captain. (Using Vortex Warp)

He'll then turn to the crew and say "I may not be a crazy dwarf like him, but I can handle myself. Don't make me prove it." At that, he draws his trident.

Hand firmly on the hilt of his blade, Jorian quirks a brow as realization blooms. Oraam was right, this man did know him, and he in fact was…pissed. Initially assuming his reputation had merely caught the attention of just another bounty hunter, as Jorian searched the Captain’s eyes, he could now see this was personal.

“You know my name, but from somewhere beyond reputation….”

His words lingered as a statement and a question.

--ROUND 1--

Jorian slowly draws air in through his nostrils as he unsheathes the deadly, beautiful blade at his hip. His eyes maintain an intense, yet indifferent gaze as he releases a precise fury of blows. He draws deep cuts on the Captain's arm and again across his thigh, pouring rivers of dark red blood over his limbs. The Captain dodges the onslaught from the two pirates as best he can, deflecting the final attack from Jorian and blunting the force of Kho'nan's dorn dergar.

Loathe to forgo being unseen before it is absolutely unavoidable, Izar relies solely on the quasi (but not quite) preternatural quality of their vocal skills rather than arcane arts. With the crew on edge and the Captain clearly having an axe to grind, Izar shouts cries of encouragement that the Aberrants recognize as being anything but.  
"That's right Cap'n!
We'd rather be slaughtered to the last man than accept mercy!
Who cares about family or the future when we can die for our country!"

The words are meant to distract, confound, and chip away at morale. It would not happen all at once, but given time and unrelenting brutality, Izar knew that inevitably all with any sense would yield. Murmurs echo throughout the crowd of sailors that they aren't willing to enter into this combat. They pleadingly take up arms while looking to each other from some form of support.

Rage fills the Beast for the second time in as many minutes. He surges to existence behind the captain, his Dorn Dergar already swinging as he roared at no one and everyone all at once. He catches the Captain in the torso, the impact cracking ribs and forcing a breath from the Captain. A second swing was sure to have shattered the Captain's skull, but he glances the blow with his sword, the shot instead crumpling his left shoulder.

A handful of sailors draw arms and close with Oraam. A few testing swings are deflected by Oraam's trident before he is caught along the forearm with a short blade. Oraam will take the blow from the crew, before shaking his head. He briefly stops after being struck to whisper a word of safety, before Jorian's skin develops an almost translucent film. Turning back to the crew, he yells "Is that seriously all you've got? I'm so sorry for what's about to happen!" he says before smirking and driving his trident through the crewmember's neck. Blood rushes forth from the wound and his mouth as the sailor falls to the ground while clawing at his throat.

---ROUND 2---

Jorian takes in his surroundings with his peripheral vision, noting the placement of ally and enemy alike in his vicinity. Observing Oraam’s position, he sees the crew members crowd in to attack the Hobgoblin. Jorian and Koh’nan would need to dispatch the captain quickly to come to the aide of their young humanoid companion.

Without words or any change in expression, Jorian’s eyes bore into the enemy captain’s as he moves in for two more swift strikes that splatter blood along the deck of the ship. The captain stumbles for a step, holding his wounds. Kho'nan grunts in frustration as his kill is denied. Quickly, he shoots out again, the Dorn Dergar being wielded as both a warhammer and a flail, as he moves his body to leverage the added weight of the chain. The Captain was too proud to know that the game was over. That much was clear. When Jorian and Kho'nan fought in tandem, few enemies escaped to tell the tale. The captain would follow suit as the Dorn Dergar's weight crashes into the captain's chest, forcing him to crumple and fall backwards, limp.

Oraam strikes out at the newcomers, his face shifting from one of strict confidence to one that is slightly more nervous. His strike lands true, finishing one sailor before swiping wide with the trident and cutting a deep gash along another. Seeing that the Captain is less focused on Jorian, Oraam will shift the focus of his spell towards Kho'nan.It is moments like these that Izar truly misses Helden. If the war priest had joined them in this particular folly, invisibility would not have to be eschewed in returned for such paltry healing. Every little bit counts I suppose, Izar sighs.

The crew surround Oraam, swiping and thrusting with small blades. While the Hobgoblin proficiently parries with his trident, he cannot withstand the sheer number of opponents. His blood mixes with the puddles on the deck.

Jorian flings blood from his blade as his enemy falls. Seeing Oraam’s predicament, Jorian moves with haste to the Hobgoblin’s position, unleashing another pair of swift strikes. Each well placed cut drops a sailor, carving a space for Jorian to defend Oraam's flank. The two stand back to back in the flurry of wild, desperate strikes from the seamen, each holding their own against the onslaught. With his comrade at his back, Oraam shifts his focus from defense to offense, snapping thrusts at the remaining assailants to push them back.

The crew begins to bend under the incredible pressure of the team as Kho'nan's heavy footfalls sound across the deck. With the Captain down, the Beast shifts gears and heads toward Oraam. He roars once again that they all stand down lest they join their captain. With that, he wades into the melee for good measure. The few remaining resistant sailors swing their blades out as they back away from the fight. One throws his blade down, which vibrates with a twang as it lodges in the wooden deck.

"Fuck this, I'm not dying back to back with a couple syphilitic pricks like yourselves." He throws his hands up and glares down his sweat drenched nose at the two remaining sailors. "Captain Farrik, I would rather live for nothing than die for nothing, consider me under your service." Kho'nan need only heft his Dorn Dergar next to his comrades for the remainder to follow suit. The clang of weapons on wood soon echoes across the deck as the rest of the crew disarm.

A quiet falls upon the deck as the seamen await orders. The ship is yours.

With another downward swing and fluid flick of the wrist, a streak of crimson appears on the deck as Jorian frees blood from his blade. Surveying his surroundings through narrowed eyes, he pulls a cloth from beneath his sash and runs it along the curved spine of his weapon. Wiping the exotic blade clean, Jorian returns it to the sheath at his hip with a precision and care that was almost ceremonious.

To no surprise, Kho’nan and Jorian picked up where they left off, fighting as one. Surprising however, Oraam had impressed the roguish captain of The Severed Fang. The young hobgoblin had seamlessly shed a demeanor of innocence and fought like a demon. Then there was the changeling and that song…The sound produced by the stringed instrument summoned images of Jorian’s own mother to his mind. The ease that washed over him had been enough to guide his hand in this battle. Jorian knew relatively little about Kho’nan’s companions, but their worth was apparent and proven on this day.

Confident his allies were in no immediate peril, Jorian nods to them before approaching the remnants of the surrendering crew. His eyes were fierce, but his demeanor was calm and oddly friendly as he spoke to the most vocal of the former enemy crew members

“A wise decision, my friend. Rest assured, our time is now critical, and any further indecisiveness as to where your loyalties lie today will unfortunately be met with death. Prepare to transport necessary cargo to our ship. Welcome to the crew of The Fang.”

Jorian was captain of his crew and ship, but the party and mission were not his own. He turns to Kho’nan, awaiting further input from the dwarf.

With the enemies dead or surrendered, Kho'nan allowed the rage that called forth and was fueled by The Beast to dissipate. Slowly, the symbiont soaked back inside of his hardened skin. The carapace itself begin to whither away and shed off, falling to the deck of the ship before being consumed by remnants of the symbiont.

Nothing went to waste.

Before long, the Hill Dwarf stood among them, a glint in his eyes and softness in his facial tattoos.

He gave Jorian a nod and Oraam a wink. If he knew where the hell Izar was, he'd likely throw some gesture at them as well. They had fought well.

"Wise," was all he said to the crew. He relaxed the dorn dergar around his neck and spoke with Jorian.

"Assumin' the plan's still th'same? Take cargo, blow this ship, escape into the mornin' sun?"

Oraam sighs. Partially in relief, partially in frustration. He glances at both Kho'nan and Jorian before murmuring out "I had that. But thank you for your help." He sets the rear end of the trident on the ground, almost leaning on it for support. "You guys seriously couldn't just surrender immediately? This shit hurts!" He punctuates that statement with a hand on his wounds that briefly glows with green-golden energy before fading, and the wound noticably closes and scabs up.

"Plan still works for me, Mr. Kho'nan."

From their "strategically withdrawn position", Izar breathes deeply and then winces; the release of tension from her muscles as they finally begin to relax is almost painful.

Jorian, Kho'nan, and Oraam had shown restraint, moreso than the Bard could ever had hoped for given the positively monstrous conversation that the Aberrants had had at the bar before heading out for this mission.  In the end, the captain and handful of dead crewmembers had forced their hand by stubbornly escalating things despite having been given multiple opportunities to preserve life and limb.

Izar joins the group in time to see Oraam heal himself and a pained grimace flickers across fresh-faced half-elven visage that the Changeling has adopted.  He looks to be in mid-adolescence, certainly no older than 16 or 17, with luminous eyes, smooth cheeks unmarred by even the hint of a whisper of facial hair, and an air of false bravado; features which together were meant to imply that he'd lied about his age at some point to be here, now.  Here and now, where he had essentially been useless successfully stayed out of the way while his crewmates got a handle on the situation.

"Seriously! If you'n four ov your mates are being trounced by one guy witha trident, juice ain't worth the squeeze, eh bruv?" He says irreverently, delivering with aplomb the poorly hidden eagerness to be seen as cool.

"You want this? Got it from over there," Izar hands Jorian the wanted poster, indicating the captain's quarters with a jerk of his head.

"We know, lad. Jus' couldn'nae lived with meself, if ye'd taken all the glory." Kho'nan says to the wounded Hobgoblin. Then he turned to Jorian.

"Ye owe us an ale, Mr. Famous," Kho'nan says after glancing at the flier. He then made his way over to the Captain to check him for anything of value. He makes absolutely no effort to show respect to the dead.

The Captain had had his chance to save himself and his crew. Now they were dead. Fuck him.

Jorian carefully takes the poster from Izar as it’s handed to him, or at least the individual he had hoped was Izar. He studies the parchment without the slightest hint of surprise on his face, rubbing his jawline between thumb and forefinger.

“They captured my best side, but whoever drew this got the smile all wrong.”

Jorian scans the poster one last time for any details that might indicate the origin, before looking in the direction of the cabin where Izar pointed. A bounty was to be expected considering his line of work and reputation, but Jorian recalled the look on the enemy captain’s face. Something about this felt far more personal than a bounty. Perhaps the captain’s quarters held answers.

Before making his way towards the cabin, Jorian turns to Kho’nan and jests.

“You will thank me later when my reputation sees you swimming in women and ale.”

He makes his way to the cabin in a brief search for answers if only to satiate his own curiosity surrounding his unknown enemy’s personal vendetta.

Kho'nan grunts what Jorian knows to be a laugh and says something in Dwarfish in response.

Anyone speak Dwarfish in the group?:

Izar starts to head towards the mess (or wherever the food is on the boat) when he sees Jorian about to enter the Captain's quarters and thinks to send off a quick message *There was a woman in there: Alea. Civvy from the looks of her. Be nice.*

Despite wanting very much to see this as a success, Izar is brooding¹ ; this had not been what the Aberrants had been ordered to do.  "And what if press ganging isn't good enough," he asks a chunk of bread before popping it in his mouth.  "Then what?"

He continues to rifle through the ship's supplies, snacking as he goes, and becoming ever more irate. If the True Aundarians insisted on having the remaining crew slaughtered "for the cause" "Then those soulless asses back at the camp can do their own blasted dirty work, that's what," the Bard snarls indignantly.




¹which, as everyone knows, is best done with a snack

Jorian moves to the captain's quarters as the crew about the ship begin to bark orders. A breeze picks up, masking the scent of blood with the sea foam. Some of the crew begin to wrap up the captain's body and scrub the blood from the decks while others begin adjusting course towards the inlet where the Severed Fang awaits.

The inside of the captain's quarters still bears the thick scent of incense, wafting off the dreary drapery and upholstery. A desk sits covered in parchments and vellum, a wardrobe with clothes spilling from the doors, and a padlocked chest immediately catch your eye. A woman crouches behind a simple (if a bit messy) bed, wrapped in a long tunic, though the loose spread of a man's and woman's garments about and upon the bed paint a familiar scene. As Jorian enters, she stares for a moment, mouth agape with shock, before she stammers out, "You look just like the poster... Why do they call you The Jackal? Are we- Am I... going to die? Georg says you're a murderer... oh, I don't want to die." Her breath and words rattle with fear.

In the galley, the day's bread is all but eaten, some fruits and hardtack sit in sacks or cabinets to serve as his nighttime snack. As Izar rifles through the pantry, a barrel loses it's lid nearby, and a young man frees his head from within. He is shaded from the glow of the lanterns, but the flour caking his fair face is hard to miss. Loose powder falls from his curly hair and he blows dust from his round spectacles as he speaks. "So... you don't want to kill us? You seem a pretty fellow to be stuck with such a nasty crowd... Who's pulling all the strings back at camp?"

Startled, Izar smothers his gasp in a snort of disdain, and feigns nonchalance, leaning against a cabinet.  "If we'd wanted to kill the lotta you, we'd've skipped all the talkin', and gone straight to the killin'."  He looks over the young man, appreciative that at least someone on the ship had had the common sense to hide rather than opt to either stare slackjawed or attempt to parry a bladed weapon with their guts.  

"As for the company that I keep... seeing how you are so witty and wise¹, the Changeling gives him a smile that is just shy of predatory, "Will you walk into my parlour?²" He bites off a piece of hardtack and chews contentedly while waiting to see how his befloured interlocutor would respond. Conflating appearances with intention was an interesting rhetorical choice, and a welcome distraction from the mess that awaited when the Aberrants eventually reported back.




¹From this poem
²Idem

For a fraction of a second, Jorian is caught off guard by the disembodied voice. His muscles tense as his fingers curl, ready to grip the hilt of his blade. Within the same fraction, he relaxes as he recognizes the voice to be Izar’s. While he was no stranger to this form of communication, he simply did not expect it. With a subtle smirk, Jorian considers their words to “play nice”.

Entering the cabin, Jorian is immediately met with frantic pleas. Slowly, he raises a forefinger to his lips. Without a sound, the universal gesture for “shhhhhhh” is amplified as his dark eyes grab hold of the woman’s own. With an unblinking, lingering Gaze, Jorian remains entirely still, daring the woman to make a sound. At first, he thought to pacify her and assure her that she was in no peril, but decided against it until he obtained the information he desired. The false sense of danger could be used to his advantage. Instead, Jorian’s gaze lingered, as did the silence.

Finally, he peels his dark eyes from her own and moves across the room with methodical movement. The Jackal’s steps echo as the heel of each boot presses into wooden floor. Jorian was capable of moving without a sound, his heavy steps at the moment however, were intentional. Moving towards the chest, Jorian places two fingers on the locked box and closes his eyes. Drawing air in through his nostrils, he mutters an incantation before his fingers deftly reach into a small belt pouch, producing a set of thieves tools. Going to work on the lock, Jorian manipulates the device, practically ignoring the woman in the room before he hears the satisfying *click*. Returning the tools to his pouch, Jorian turns and begins walking slowly towards the woman.

“I have killed men, yes…”

He steps closer. His eyes bore into her own with a blend of seduction and intimidation.

“Tell me, did this Georg claim to be a man without blood on his hands? What else did he tell you of me?”

Oraam stays on the top deck, overlooking the crewmembers and making sure none get too rowdy. Touching the foremost prong of his trident to his forehead, he closes his eyes and whispers a prayer of sorts.

If you speak Goblin:

Opening his eyes once more, he grunts as a particularly sharp pain flares in his lower left ribcage. You know, where he got stabbed. He decides that the crew is probably scared enough, and heads to the mess himself. Partially in search of food, but mostly in search of a place to actually sit down. He largely ignores Izar's near predatory look at the young man, going to find a seat at a table in the corner, exhaling in pain as he sits. Laying the trident across his lap, he rests.


Not actually resting, just narratively resting lol.

Kho'nan stared at the Captain's essentially naked body a moment longer as his former crew prepared it. He decided that The Beast had fed enough. That did pique his interest.

He walked back over to his first kill - who he assumed was the captain, but must have been the first mate. The man's defiance and courage had been admirable. Stupid, but admirable. He decided to check that body, or what was left of it.

Never hurt.