Episode 1: A Helping Hand

The jolly boat is lowered with the party on board, once again a tight fit as Tordek and Parallel squeeze close to each other. You row past a growing number of skiffs eager for an opportunity to trade, even though all they may have are seafood or wicker goods. Still, some of those fishing remain where they are, unwilling to give up what might be prime spots.

There is a growing number of people onshore, waiting for your arrival. There are several children and elderly, and as the jolly boat reaches the sand they all help pull it further along. Immediately the children assail you with questions that leave no room for answers.

"What's your name?" "Where did you come from?" "Are you here to help?" "Can I have that when you die?" "What's that thing?" "Why are you so short?" "Are those real?"

Finally, an elderly woman smacks a few heads and pulls a few ears to get the children to leave you alone. "Sorry," she says as the beach clears. "I guess you must be tired? Come, you can rest at the Skipper's house. She will want to speak with you." The woman begins to walk towards one of the wooden buildings to lead the way.

The children are fully enraptured in the spectacle, and soon Parallel has a sizeable entourage of little ones following him up the beach.

You proceed up the beach until you reach the edge of the sand, where it turns into sharp and weather-worn rock. You see that the villagers wear tightly-woven frond sandals and slippers to walk across, but even your rugged adventuring footwear is more than enough to protect you.

As you near the first row of houses, you can see that each sits upon stilts made of bamboo and wood driven into the rock. The walls are made of planks of wood that are mismatched in length and width, and some do not meet the decks or the roof line. Each plank appears lashed to bamboo poles that form the frame, within thick wooden support beams at the corners. Doors are made of the same material and look like they are simply slid into place and secured with rope and a piece of wood, rather than affixed to the walls with hinges. The roofs are thatched with fronds in a hip design.

The elderly woman leads you past the first row of houses and further into the village. The ground here begins to show a layer of reddish dirt covering the rock, with bits of scrub and grass poking through. The woman veers to the right and starts down an avenue past more homes, some of which stand empty while others are occupied by toddlers and older folk busying themselves with weaving and woodworking. All look up as you pass, silently smiling their acknowledgement of your presence.

You are taken to one of the bigger houses that lie near the edge of the village. There is a large clearing before this house of packed earth, and in the center is a thick wooden pole rising 20 feet high. There is a ladder affixed to one side of the pole, leading to a small bronzed bell that hangs from a wooden frame. A rudimentary wind sock of cloth flaps in the breeze at the very top. The house itself has a deck that spans the entire face, on which are several barrels and wooden crates. Wooden planks cover a mound of stone and dirt to create a rudimentary set of stairs to provide access.

The old woman supports herself on her knees as she achingly takes each step to ascend upon the deck. She approaches the door and calls out, "Skipper! We have visitors!" Without waiting for a reply, she grasps the door and starts to slide it to one side, grunting with the effort.

You are led into a single room that takes up the entirety of the house. The center has a fire pit cut into the wooden floor and surrounded by a raised platform of flat stones. A metal cooking rack spans the fire pit with an iron pot hanging in the middle.

The furniture in this house is very simple. A table is to the left made of the same mismatched planks of wood that comprise the walls, and chairs are little more than short tree logs with a woven pad on top. Bowls and plates are made of dried gourd cut to size and shape, and there are no utensils to be seen save for a few sticks that might stir the pot. To the right are three beds, nothing more than bamboo and wood lashed together, with thatch and canvas blankets to provide cushion.

One of these beds is occupied by another elderly woman, frail and gaunt underneath the blanket. Her head is propped up on a canvas pillow, and liver spots can be seen across her wrinkled and weathered face. But her eyes are clear, and burn with intensity as she stares at each of you.

"I am the Skipper," she says in a dry and raspy voice. "Welcome to Whitburn."

The woman that led you to the house begins to stoke the fire pit with a few branches, filling the iron pot with water. Several vegetables and grains are added, along with a thick paste from an urn. She begins to stir the pot with the large stick.

The Skipper nods her head weakly. "Very kind of you all. Please, make yourself at home here. We will have food made for you; it's the least we can do after your journey."

"You must have answered our summons?" asks the Skipper, closing her eyes. "We are glad you have seen it worth your time. Though, I am afraid if it is riches you seek, we have little to give other than access to our homes and our food. Knowing this, do you still wish to stay?"

The woman by the fire pit begins to skewer small fish, and places them above the embers. She hobbles away to wash some grains of rice.

The Skipper's mouth curls in a slight smile. "If you say so," she says, and opens her eyes. "Then let me explain why we need help. We are being attacked. They come at night, and my people in the outlying farms have disappeared, leaving only blood in their wake. The woodcutters are afraid to venture into the forest, for none now return.

"We tried to form a militia, but none of us are soldiers. Some that went out to defend the farmhouses disappeared along with the occupants. We don't know who or what's the cause, and so far only the borders of our village has been attacked. Still, folk are saying they hear strange shuffling noises in the dark, and shadows creeping along the edges.

"We sent some people to the mainland for help. We even hailed passing ships to see if they can get news out to Caer Tan or anybody that would listen. We had a couple of groups stop by, and most just kept on going once they heard we don't have anything to give. Those that stayed went out like our failed militia and haven't been seen.

"I feel like I have to ask you again; do you still wish to stay?" She turns her head upon the pillow to look upon you all.

The Skipper does not shake her head, but you can feel it in her voice. "Nothing. Any that might know where these attackers come from are the ones that've disappeared."

"I only know what people have told me," says the Skipper, casting a glance at her bed. "You're welcome to visit the homes that's been attacked, see for yourselves."