Act I, Chapter One: A Rumor in the Dark

Ulfr does offer a bulwark against the storm. "He was right. This storm is hungry. My ears popped and my knee is sore. It'll likely get worse soon. I've not been on boats much, but weather, weather I know."

A fresh gust hit the Netherthistle broadside as Úlfr stepped aboard, the barge groaning beneath the weight of rain and one rather sizable Dorn. Water sluiced off his cloak in sheets, his bulk casting a shadow even in the half-light under the awning. The deck shifted noticeably as he took a second step.

Thaelin

Thaelin’s eyes went wide. He held up both hands like he was trying to ward off a tidal wave.

"Easy big fella, you sure you weren’t meant for the next barge over? I’ve seen stone anchors that'll cause less drift."

Wexley didn’t look up from adjusting a brass compass, but his mouth twitched beneath his soaked beard.

Wexley Thorn

"Thaelin, hush. We’ll list less on the port side now."

Thaelin muttered something about hull integrity and took a careful step back.

Wexley finally turned, nodding to Úlfr with a grin, weather-worn, but warm.

Then his eyes flicked toward the alley beyond the dock.

"Now where in blazes is Serah? We’ll be taking root before she climbs aboard…"

He sniffed, muttered something about "old looms and slower feet."

Drenched Azote takes comfort as she slides in next to Úlfr. Like a rhythm she says "Survive the night, Survive the night" before she closes her tired eyes. A squawking voice that has to be Tork's can be heard, "None should be out this night."

Varin steps onto the barge with a cautious glance around, boots thudding against the wooden planks. He gives Thaelin and Wexley a short, silent nod—acknowledgment without ceremony—before following the others as they make their way down into the hold.

The space is dim and close, the scent of river water and old wood thick in the air. Varin moves with quiet purpose, settling himself on a low crate across from Azote. With a grunt, he swings his pack off his shoulder and starts rummaging through it, leather creaking under calloused fingers.

"Found these after the fight," he says, pulling out a small, folded paper packet and a worn scrap of parchment. He places them on the surface between them with deliberate care—the packet light and dusty with faint traces of spore residue, the map partially smudged with blood.

"Don’t know what they are. Spores, maybe," he mutters, jerking his chin toward the paper packet. "And this map... could be nothing. You got the head for this stuff—figure ‘em out if you can."

Varin leans back slightly, eyes never quite leaving Azote as he waits, one hand still resting near the hilt of his blade out of habit rather than threat

GREYBARROW | LOWER QUAY | RAIN-SWEPT NIGHT
Wexley glanced up as Varin's boots hit the deck, the sound solid even under the hiss of rain and the groan of the river beneath them. The old gnome gave a short nod, tugging down his oilskin hood just enough to show a squint of approval.

Wexley Thorn

"Well then. That makes all but the one." He shifted his stance by the rudder post and waved toward the aft. "Thaelin, see him to the doghouse. Make sure there's a dry patch that doesn’t stink of brine."

Thaelin looked up from checking a line, already soaked to the bone, and gave Varin a once-over.

Thaelin

"Plenty of dry if you don’t mind sitting on crates. Come on then."

As Varin followed him toward the covered quarters, Wexley turned again toward the storm-blurred dock. Rain streaked his lenses, but he leaned into the wind like it owed him something.

"And that leaves us waiting on Serah. She’s late, even by her stubborn standards…"

He paused, peering into the murk.

"Hold a moment. Someone’s coming. Slow—but that gait ain’t one I’d mistake."

The wind shifted, bearing with it a familiar, labored rhythm of footsteps and the drag of worn soles against soaked stone.

---

The storm gave no courtesy to age. Serah’s form emerged from the downpour slowly, a dark blot against darker stone, shoulders hunched against the wind. Her steps were careful but determined, each one deliberate as she navigated the slick quay. The pack on her back was nearly as tall as she was, swaying with her movement like an old friend clinging too tight.

Wexley straightened at the railing, eyes narrowing behind fogged lenses.

"There she is, tide waited just for you." His voice cut the rain like a snapped rope as he barked at Thaelin. " Thaelin, help her onboard, lad!"

Thaelin was already moving, boots skidding a little as he jogged down the gangplank. He reached her side and offered no protest or flourish, just placed both hands under the edge of her pack and gave a gentle upward shove to ease the weight.

"You’re late, you’re soaked, and you're trying to break your back, what are you thinkin' you old geezer?" he muttered with a sideways smile. "Still glad you made it, Nan. Let’s get you aboard."

Serah of the Loom

Serah chuckled low and wet, then patted the top of his dripping head affectionately.

"Don’t sass your elders, boy. I’ll put a boot in your rear just as I did when I was younger."

Once aboard, she pulled down her hood, rain still streaming from her curls, and cast a slow, knowing look over the gathered figures beneath the awning.

"Well then. That’s everyone, is it?" Her tone was warm as she passed Petra, laying a gentle hand on the young woman's arm. "Good blood in you, girl. They won't say it, but they appreciate the help, just don't let them run you." She gave Úlfr a firm nod and a soft smile that somehow made her seem ten winters younger. "You’ll hold, I know it."

But when her eyes landed on Azote nestled into Ulfr, that warmth turned to granite. She gave the elf a curt nod—no greeting, no flicker of expression—and then acted as if she weren’t there at all.

Wexley turned sharply, already stepping toward the rudder post.

"That’s the last, stow lines. Time we moved."

At the rudder, he looked into the dark toward Greybarrow again, Gnome eyes offering more in the dark stormy night than any torch ever could. He muttered over the wind, too soft for most to hear:

"Say goodbye, friends. We may never make port here again, even if we survive this fool journey."

THE SEA OF PELLURIA | STORMBOUND | RAIN-SWEPT NIGHT

The Netherthistle groaned against her moorings one last time as the final line was hauled aboard. Wood creaked, canvas snapped, and the paddle blades hissed into motion, churning the black waters of the Sea of Pelluria with stubborn resolve.

Thaelin took his place near the tiller post, arms steady, eyes bright. Wexley stood tall (by gnomish standards) one hand on the rudder and the other turning a small capstan, how it generated so much torque with so little motion was anyone's guess.

On deck, the passengers settled in like uncertain cargo. Petra braced near the rigging, one eye always tracking the swell. Jasir withdrew to a dry corner beneath the doghouse, fingers moving in silent, meditative patterns. Azote leaned into Úlfr’s lee, the weight of Tork close to her chest, while Seelah kept one hand near her sword and both eyes on the horizon. Varin sat distributing and chatting about the items won and found. Serah, last aboard, sat beneath the awning beside a sealed crate, her breath fogging in the cold, fidgeting a cheesecloth pouch.

Behind, Greybarrow loomed like a half-remembered dream—wet stone, crooked roofs, and lanterns that flickered but never warmed. The docks shrank in the storm, becoming little more than a smear of shadow behind veils of rain.

And with that, the barge slipped free of Greybarrow without incident and vanished into the squall.

---

The night pressed on like a sodden quilt--heavy, stifling, and full of groans from the shifting hull. Most aboard did their best to rest, though true sleep was hard-won. Every swell sent the Netherthistle listing just enough to jostle nerves, and the storm drummed a ceaseless rhythm across tarp and timber.

Petra remained on rotation with Thaelin at the tiller, her hands quick and sure despite the wet. She moved with the rhythm of the river, taking orders in stride and reading the lean of the barge with instinctual grace. Thaelin said nothing, but the lack of complaints from him spoke volumes.

Wexley barked the occasional correction, but even he seemed half-lulled by the churn of progress and the creak of the long hull beneath them. They kept close to the coast, far enough from shore to avoid patrols, near enough to catch the steady current that would ferry them north.

By the third hour, Greybarrow was gone—swallowed by storm and distance alike. Their distination, the Ishensa River, a mere dream at this point in the journey, lay ahead through the the Sea of Pelluria which stretched ahead, cold and dark. The remainder of the night was gratefully uneventful, their luck turning a corner.

For now.