Act I, Chapter One: A Rumor in the Dark

Úlfr, ready for either possibility, quickly beheads him and steps out the door. He uses the same rags to clean the blood off of the axe as he walks.

Elven Azote thanks friend Úlfr with a knowing nod as she totally detest having to cut heads. And she waits for him to complete before leaving with him.

Varin starts to yell at Azote to stop but realizes it is too late. He grumbles to himself, sighs loudly, and just follows the other out of this godforsaken tavern.

Jasir tilts his head to the side as the notion of taking the man gets considered, "So you would provide him with the direction we are traveling and any other information he can glean while our ward? It bears remembering that our venture only serves to help people if it succeeds. Which means avoiding actions that might endanger the outcome."

The Sarcosan shakes his head. "You've every right to your concern, Petra. But applying prioritization to lives is not disregard. As I understand healers must be ready to make such decisions when called to."

While the cloaked and cowled man might have been willing to waste whatever time remained trading philosophy, Azote brings argument to a halt. Jasir's dark eyes hold on the act and his hand slowly slips away from the hidden blade. As he starts to step past Azote he pauses and moves to rest his hand on her shoulder, offering wordless comfort.

Then he is stepping through the door he addresses Petra again, "Walk with me, Petra? Your presence lightens one's steps and acts as a reminder of things one ought not cast aside easily." Then he steps out into the stormy night once more.

Petra almost chuckles at Ulfr's dryly Dornish "I don't have the cattle for all that."


Azote makes the fatal choice for all of them. Words die on Petra's lips to reply to Jasir--about how to use precautions to stop the prisoner from learning even more, and how to warn him off tattling, and so on.


The dwarrow flinches but doesn't look away. She can't physically stop it, and she won't hide her eyes from it.Softly before the elf exits, Petra tells Azote, "I know it was hard and it hurt you to do that, Azote. Also, I know you meant to protect us more than to punish him. I ache when you ache, as a friend, if you don't mind my clumsy way of saying so."


While Ulfr takes the necessary precaution against rising as a Fell, Petra approaches Varin who'd been gathering supplies (and, well, looting the bodies too).

She asks, "Varin, did you find any herbs or mixtures I might be able to examine or use? And is there a spare knife I could take for gathering plants, and for self-defense? I won't fault you if you think others would make better use of any of it, I'm just asking? And, er, I would take a pack of rations if there is an extra?"


At Jasir's beckoning, Petra hurries her short legs to catch up with him. She would like to talk more with him, his outlook interests her, though of course all her companions' outlooks do too.

The Sarcosan seems like someone who could help cover her blindspots and will weigh her ideas like they are worth considering. He even seems to tell her that her hopes and principles may be something other than weakness, and that is a rare kindness.

Seelah closes her eyes, as if prayerful. She clutches the pommel of Bladeguard, and assumes a look of one fervant, solemn in resolve.
Very well then. It is done. Let’s go, she says in quiet agreement.

Elven Azote replies back to Petra, "It had to be done." Azote takes the guilt for everyone else as none want to kill.

Normally herbalist Azote would be more interested in the plants and herbs and such but right now she just wants to leave. The situation just troubles her.

GREYBARROW | LOWER QUAY | RAIN-SWEPT NIGHT

The Sea of Pelluria battered the piers like a drunkard denied last call, heavy-fisted, bitter, and unrelenting. Rain fell in waves, carving rivulets through the tarps strung between barnacled mooring posts, drumming against every shingle and staved barrel like a war chant with no refrain. Lightning spidered across the black sky, throwing the harbor into stark, silvered relief—masts like gallows, ropes like nooses, and the occasional hulked vessel rotting in its berth like an omen half-remembered.

There, tethered by a double loop of salt-pickled rope, bobbed the Netherthistle.

A low, wide-bellied river barge, her hull slathered in pitch and scars, she crouched against the dock like a beast unchained but not yet leaping. Bundles of netting and crates lashed with eel cord were stacked beneath a tarred canopy, their shadows cast long and twitching by the lamplight affixed to her prow. It was an old-style lantern—driftwood-wrought and fish-oil fed—that gave off a sickly amber glow, painting the quay in honeyed hues that no eye could mistake for warmth.

Wexley Thorn stood mid-deck, boot braced on a coil of damp rope, oilskin cloak snapping behind him like a storm-witch’s banner. His cone-hat was tied tight against the wind, lenses fogged and gleaming as he adjusted the barge's rigging.

A second gnome worked closer to the prow, cursing as he hauled a sack twice his size across the slippery deck.

This other gnome—thick-browed, sun-browned, sharp-eyed, younger than Wexley by some margin. Yet he still bore the same unmistakable riverfolk hallmarks: callused fingers, a broad nose like a chipped helm, and the hunched, coiled posture of someone who expected trouble to come from the water as often as from above. His clothes were stitched from eel-hide and salvaged sailcloth, and his fingers flicked knots with uncanny precision.

"Rain’s trying to drown us before the river gets its shot." He spat over the rail, then caught sight of movement along the quay.

The party approached, their outlines refracted by the storm: tall and resolute shadows framed by the flicker of half-drowned torchlight.

"Those our precious cargo then?" Thaelin muttered to Wexley, not low enough to avoid being overheard.

Thaelin straightened, wiped his hands on his jerkin, and shot Wexley a crooked grin.

"Aye. Precious and doomed." Wexley didn’t look up from the knot. "Keep your tongue civil, Thael. They’ve chosen a difficult path."

Behind him, a soft rustle stirred in the darker half of the cargo canopy, but neither gnome acknowledged it. Wind howled through the sail-less rigging like a dirge.

Wexley finally finished with the rope he was dutifully working on, eyes sharp behind his lenses.

"You’ve time for questions, if you’ve the sense to ask 'em. Once we’re off this pier, we ride quiet and fast. Stuck to the shallows."

He gave the deck a last, lingering glance, like he was counting more than crates. "Serah better hurry. We will not delay much longer."

Varin pulls out an extra dagger from the scavenged loot before handing it to her "You know how to use it?" Without waiting for an answer he flips it in the air and catches it blades side and hades it to her by the handle. "Yes, I found a few herbs, rations, and some other helpful stuff. I will passout what I found when we get to the boat. Don't want it getting Wet or ruined while we travel."

In a small voice, knowing the offer may be withdrawn, Petra admits, "I know how to harvest with a knife, and splice ropes for sailing. I could use pointers on using it for defense or attack, though? To be honest, I heard a tale from a gnome who said he cut his way out of a dragon who swallowed him without chewing, so I thought..." She trails off and shrugs.


When Varin explains he wants to wait to pass things out, she nods agreeably.

Onboard, Petra says she served on the gnome ferry + barge Lelie under Captain Finn and offers to help with preparing or sailing the Netherthistle in any way they will permit her.

If allowed, she acquits herself well and does credit to the sailing that's in her gnomish blood--with extra steadiness on her thicker "sea legs" from her mother's side.



OOC:

If they take her up on her offer to help with the ship's needs to get ready to sail or tend the ship while sailing, Profession (Sailor) check below.

Thaelin pulled the last of the cargo netting taut, hooked it to a rusted cleat with a satisfying clack, then turned as Petra stepped aboard and offered her credentials with an eager glint in her eye.

He gave her the full squint. The skeptical one. The one that measured both salt and sugar in a person.

Then, with a dripping-wet flourish, he swept an arm wide like a courtier presenting a haunted house.

"Name’s Thaelin Kettlebranch. Deckhand, eel-wrangler, and second-best liar aboard this barge; though I’ll challenge any who say otherwise."

He glanced sidelong at the barge as it groaned under a broadside gust, the hull shivering like an old dog in sleet.

"Welcome aboard. Mind your footing. She doesn’t like strangers and she’ll toss you quicker than I can name your boots."

When Petra offered her past with Captain Finn and the Lelie, Thaelin arched a brow, in spite of himself. But the smirk stayed firm.

"That so? No doubt you’ve the salt for it, stonefoot. But this here’s no lake-hop or tea-cruise to Durnsdale. This is a storm-bellied smuggler run on a river black. So if you’re itching to prove your trim, maybe wait ‘til the water ain’t trying to unmake us, yeah?"

Still, he passed her a coiled line without looking directly at her, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"…Just don’t make me regret it."

And she didn’t. Her hands moved with confident surety, thick legs planted wide and low, reading the sway of the Netherthistle like she’d grown aboard her. Thaelin grunted approvingly once, then made a show of ignoring her completely, the highest praise, from him.

Elven Azote fights hard against the wind and lost control of her hood in an effort to keep and protect Tork bolted to her chest. Her lean body shown as the weather rips at her cloaked body. Her head is down casted in an effort to plunge through the storm, but it only hides her emerald green eyes and not her Elvenish. There is little she can do as the storm is fearful. There is no Elven grace here.

She says under the covers of the storm, "Fine vessel" in Trader's Tongue as she boards and immediately looks for a space to stop the battering of the storm or at least ease it. She notes Gnomes about and Trader's Tongue is more common but unfortunately, she isn't at all fluid with it. She only knows enough to get along.

She seeks a spot where she can again cover herself. Like many she has little to none experience here. She is extra baggage. If she can find a spot near Úlfr she will use his close bulk to aid her. She always feels safest near him.

She knows magic (Prestidigitation) to aid her, but all is short lived against this storm. Till it stops she is drenched. She doesn't even afford some light (Light). Either way she is rather unsure vessel's crew out take such well. She is sure that she is pressing matters being Elven. She gets to be "Precius Cargo".

Jasir looks over the riverboat for a long moment before moving towards where he can find a dry place to rest his pack. With his gear stored he moves himself from the path of the boat's operation, instead seeking to help others stow gear and then finding a likely place to settle in for some cogitation. After a little bit of consideration he starts to work his fingers through small series of exercises to aid in the act of forming somatic gestures. He doesn't seek to get in the way otherwise.

The storm clawed at her like a living thing, an old salt-drunk wretch trying to tear her from her feet. Azote pressed forward, cloak half-torn, hair streaming like ravenweed in the wind. She gripped the bundle at her chest—Tork’s small weight a living warmth—and ducked her head as if she could vanish into her own shadow.

Rain slicked the gangplank as she stepped aboard the Netherthistle. A voice, sharp but not unkind, rose over the gale.

"Fine’s generous, but I’ll take it."

Thaelin blinked against the spray and motioned her toward the aft canopy.

"Aft hold’s dryest. Mind the crates, bit of a nest back there."

He turned before she could reply, already barking at the next rope.

Azote slipped beneath the awning, more a rain-sheet than shelter, but blessed relief all the same. Crates lashed with eelcord offered a low windbreak. There, tucked among the canvas bundles, sat a small figure hunched in shadow, Tefli. Still recoiling from the earlier ordeal. The elf's emerald eyes glinted faintly in the gloom.

Wexley spotted the figure pausing at the gangplank, the storm smearing Jasir’s outline into a streak of shadow and oil-lamp gleam. The old gnome raised a hand, eyes narrowing behind rain-misted lenses.

"Mind the lip there, watch your weight—aye, there. You’ll find a dry patch under the doghouse roof, starboard side. Tarp’s tied tight unless Thaelin’s bungled it again."

He motioned with his cane—not for walking, but for pointing—and gave Jasir’s pack a once-over before nodding, satisfied.

"Rest it there, where it won’t roll. You’ve the look of someone who knows where his elbows end. That’s rare enough."

Turning to the center deck, Wexley’s voice raised an octave, "Thaelin, what in the storm-damned hells are you doing letting passengers run lines?"

His glare was sharp, but it faltered as he caught sight of Petra steady at the stern, rope looped, tied, and tucked in the gnomish river-knots of old ferry hands. She moved like she belonged to the river.

Wexley grunted, adjusted his spectacles, then muttered softer,

"Hmph. Someone's trained ‘er right, then. Probably better than you."

He didn’t look at Thaelin as he said it, but the corner of his mouth curled upward.

Without another word, the old gnome stepped up beside the helm post, steadying himself as the Netherthistle rocked against a fresh gust. Above, lightning flared once more and the barge held its ground against the increasing tide.

Seelah offers to light a torch, if it’d help. But I don’t want to drawn attention to our presence, she concedes. Here in the eternal midnight, our ebony guardian had long grown accustomed to the darkness. She only hopes to stay dry, if also blind!

Thaelin glanced up from where he’d just lashed a net down with a half-twist and a spit-cinch, water beading on the end of his nose. He squinted through the downpour at Seelah’s tall silhouette, torch gripped but unlit.

"We don’t need more light, soldier. Most of us see fine at night, and the rest fake it well enough not to fall overboard." He smirked, thumbing rain from his brow.

From the aft, Wexley’s voice cracked through the din like snapped sailcloth.

"Petra! Port-side lashings need a check. And if you’re crew enough to haul line, you’re crew enough to jump when I give the order!"

He turned just enough to glance back toward Seelah, rain dripping from the end of his beard like a metronome.

"Stay under canvas, Guardian. Keep your powder dry and your torch drier. The moon provides us more'n enough light."

Seelah settles into a corner of the barge. Pulling her cloak tight, to stay warm in the damp night air. Brown eyes gaze out over the water. She thinks about the events of the day, the violence. She’s used to it, it’s what she does. She wasn’t going to kill the fallen collaborator, but she doesn’t blame others for it. Her ways, are not others’ ways.

To protect…and to try and redeem…

A hard path, and a delicate line. As our ebony guardian looks out over the water again, and pulls her cloak tighter still, she takes little solace in knowing…that probably won’t be the only time she’s faced with such a choice.

Petra introduces her name but otherwise buttons up, puts on her Serious Face, and jumps to obey whatever her superiors' order regarding the ship.


Every shipman is more bursting with pride over their vessel than a parent with a brilliant child, and as suspicious of strangers wanting to take any part of its care.


Losing herself in the work is just what she needs. Mourning the past and soberly regarding the future will wait.