The Lost City

Odan crouched near the fire. The dark-skinned sage's mood had soured as the journey had stretched on, and he had grown somewhat withdrawn from his employer, his only connection to the stone that had slipped through his grasp. He relied on his memory to interpret the sigil, and a crudely drawn copy, rather than the specimen itself, which he dared not pursue.

He was a brooding figure, with thick frown lines that seemed to cut even through his unkempt beard. His hair, once wild, was drawn tightly back, exposing a tall widow's peak, and leaving the remainder to cascade over his shoulders in unbraided ropes. A dark brown robe cut from durable fabrics covered black-dyed linens. His travel garmets, though simple in cloth and ornament, were well-cut, betraying either wealth or an unusual windfall. Though in his many pockets and pouches, secreted below his outer robes, he seemed to have a dizzying array of amulets and talismans that might dazzle and impress, he wore only one around his neck - a shockingly realistic snake skull, the size of a fist, that seemed to be polished out of solid basalt, a silk-wrapped metal chain threaded through its eyes.

Though it now hung loosely around his shoulders, the silk-sheer scarf with its almost hypnotic, geometric patterns was often bound tightly around his face, to protect him from the insects and odors that were becoming more common as they roamed deeper inland. His hands were picked out of the dark by rings of exotic polished stones and metals of strange cast, glinting in the firelight as he turned them with his thumb, an absent-minded tic.

He narrowed his eyes - shocking, pale green that stood out from his chestnut skin - cross the fire at Otawla. He did not know if he was playing some game, hedging the outrage of his men against the learned and the strange, putting onto his shoulders the responsibility for their safety. Reminding them in every breath he was supposed to be a sorcerer and not merely a studious man.

"Listen too closely to your bones, and they will start complaining to you," he deflected, taking a sip of a thimbleful of spirits. Carefully rationing his remaining flask. "No man should hurry to that part of his life."

"Must you always speak in riddles, wizard?", Jarik asked, a hint of a smile on his gaunt face.

Jarik rose to his feet. Big-boned, but lean, Jarik was a big man even by Northrun standards. Unhitching his brilliant red-berry dyed woolen cloak, the merchant held it out to a porter slave standing nearby. The slave took the cloak, retreated back and began to brush away the dust of the day's journey.

"Obscene wealth, Otawla? There is nothing obscene about wealth."

In the dancing light of the fire, the slave-master's haunted sapphire eyes looked even more fey than in the sunlight, and combined with his obsidian-like hair and alabaster palor, he emitted a strange mien hinting at menace. Jarik removed his Atlantean sword and sat it across his lap as he sat back down, cross-legged by the fire.

Roderigo de Cordava stared moodily at the fire, half listening to the conversation, partly lost in a reverie. A man of medium height, dressed in the tattered finery of what was once the attire of a Zingaran noble Freebooter. "I don't care about any barbarous fortune telling, a man makes his own luck by his daring and will to succeed!" His voice raising in pitch he continues "I was cheated out of my inheritance and then cheated out of my captaincy! We will get these jewels and then" his voice rising to a crescendo I will acquire a ship and a crew and those who have plotted against me shall pay!"
Realising he is starting to make a scene he quietens down and with a disarming smile says "but I overreach myself, we are all comrades here, a united crew who shall stop at nothing to achieve our ends - so do I pledge my sword" he says, lifting his cutlass in the air.
Roderigo is a handsome man with the typical olive skin and dark hair of a Zingaran, his hair hangs down in dark ringlets and he affects a thin waxed moustache.

Cur looked at the others and tried to work out who he identified with more, the slaves or the would-be treasure-hunters. He himself was likely a mix of both, but desperate times had brought him a sense of solidarity with those in bondage.

The former miner worker-turned-craftsmen warmed his calloused hands by the fire and spoke as little as he could get away with. It was hard for him to feel know that he'd once had respectable work, only to now be scrabbling after stories of treasure. "Just one big score,..." he told himself when approached with the job.

He needed a way to turn over a new leaf, so to speak, and after considering the sorry state of his personal effects, he really had no choice but to sign up. He wasn't threadbare, yet, but if he didn't start finding a way to make some regular coin soon he'd be a pauper or a criminal. Seeking tales of fortune was as good as anything else right now, and maybe if he could put his hands to use again he'd have more respectable employment once this was all over.

Jarik looks towards where the porter is pointing, and then says to his comrades, "they think the river is going to flood, they're expecting a heavy downpour. Seems we'll need to make camp on higher ground"

Roderigo nods "Yes, let us find a better place - this storm does not look like it is going to end soon"

A wet night is pretty disappointing, Cur thinks to himself. "Hopefully, we won't have to harsh a trail tomorrow. A sleepless stormy night would make it rough going."

"Drowning would be worse." Odan was no great sailor, but he knew enough to trust them when they spoke words of caution - at least of earthly matters.

"Touche", laughs Cur. "A soggy bedroll it is."

Cur listens, and nods in agreement. "The employer is always right," Cur thinks to himself. He settles in where they've made camp, and watches the sky to see the storm roll in.

"Boat! Everyone, now. At least that damn thing floats", Jarvik shouts and then hurtles himself towards the vessel before it is lost.

"Make for the high ground!" Odan called out unhelpfully, running in the opposite direction. The boat was in the path of the flood, and would undoubtedly be smashed by the sudden current.

"Forget the boat, high ground now," Cur says heading away. "Everyone here is about to go for the boat."

Roderigo, looks around, assessing his options, "leave the boat" he shouts, "The only safety is to get to high ground!" grabbing his personal gear and moving as quickly as he can.