Act I, Chapter Two: The Black Current

Seelah takes a step back. Back, into interior of the deck. Staying close to her party, near the doghouse, and keeping brown hazel eyes gazing straight towards…her blanket. Her blanket, upon the deck, under which Bladeguard discretely rests.

From his make shift bunker at the prow, Varin watches with practiced stillness, his weight balanced behind a coil of line, eyes fixed on the barge ahead. Above and behind him, perched on the roof of the doghouse, Tork, the glossy-feathered raven bonded to Azote, tilts his head and clicks his beak softly. Jasir, curiousity getting the best of him, peers out from under the canvas. Together, men and familiar take in the strange scene unfolding on the shore.

Five or six orcs lie sprawled across the bank and the deck of the grounded barge. None move. Around them, slick and heavy, lie the twisted bodies of river eels—some pierced by javelins, others still coiled around legs or arms. The river bank and planks of the barge are smeared with blood and mucous.

Near the brazier, two orcs bind a comrade’s bleeding leg. Another struggles with a rope at the water’s edge, trying to haul something unseen from the shallows, muttering in Black Tongue "Urzat shul gathrak!"

This wasn’t rebel hands. The eels attacked and left the Shadow’s servants bloodied and shaken.

They’re injured. Disordered. But not defenseless.

Úlfr gets under as best he can and attempts to avoid notice.

Jasir's eyes hood themselves slightly and his head cocks at use of Black Tongue. He does a quick count of the fallen and those that are receiving treatment. "A patrol. Weakened by river-eels," he murmurs, relaying information. "I counted at least five down... possibly six, though they might have been receiving treatment.

"Wounded. Angry. Frustrated... dangerous." He says while swiveling his eyes towards Wexley's. "As likely to attack us as let us go... But I defer."

He drops silent then unwilling to chance being overheard.

"Mm." Wexley’s brow furrows, eyes never quite leaving the shape of the orc embarkment through the trees.

He leans a fraction closer to the doghouse, voice low as leaf-fall.

"This is a bit odd. Normally, a river patrol’d bark a challenge, check my writ, then try to shake me down for whatever I'm hauling... if I didn’t slip ‘em something else first."

He scratches the side of his nose with a gloved knuckle. "Bribes are cheaper when you give ‘em before they ask." he says somewhat nonchalantly, especially for situation.

Another glance. The group of orcs bristles with tension. Shouting in Black Tongue can be heard, but not enough to make out the what is said.

"This? This ain't the usual grift. They’re raw. Hit hard by something by more than the death of a few recruits. Could be they’re hunting something, or someone. Could be they’re scared. I haven't the foggiest to be frank."

The gnome’s knuckles whiten on the rudder post and he taps the rolled parchment at his belt, voice dropping further.

"We try to slip past without proper customs, they’ll assume guilt worse than smuggling. And the hunt’ll go upriver fast. We stop... who knows what'll happen."

Not speaking the Black Tongue…does it appear they need help? With multiple orcs down, and have,Ins sticking from river-eels, perhaps they’ve been recently assailed and are in trouble?

Petra had passed for gnome among her father's people before, but wasn't going to disobey her elder today and put her friends in danger by insisting the orcs wouldn't be extra vigilant for signs of their hated dwarven foes.

So she slid in among her friends, beneath the improvised cover.

Varin glances over at Wexley and Thaelin, his expression hard and unreadable. He tilts his head slightly toward the orcs, then raises his hand and draws a finger slowly across his throat in a silent question.

His eyes shift between the two of them, looking for a reaction—thumbs up or down. Kill them or leave them be?

He doesn’t speak, just watches them closely, waiting for a sign of what they think the next move should be.

Wexley’s eyes meet Varin’s, and for a moment, he just blinks.

The gnome frowns, peering again toward the orc encampment, then back at Varin’s throat-cutting gesture.

"…Is that a question or a suggestion?" he mutters under his breath, mostly to himself.

After a moment, he glances sidelong at Thaelin, then back to Varin, gives the faintest shrug, palms turned upward. Then he leans close and whispers something into the younger gnome's ear.

Thaelin grimaces and casually moves to the fore, acting as though he's fixing the straps on the crates.

"He doesn’t know," he says quietly, tone flat but not mocking. "And if Wexley doesn’t know? That’s not good."

He pauses slightly.

"I’ve seen him outwit legates and bribe barge-captains so crooked their crews paid them. But right now? He’s flummoxed."

Azote is quietly encased in her cloak and fully out of vision. She vaguely heard noise but not enough urgency to matter. Tork continues to watch. Sending confusion an emotion.

Varin leans in slightly, his voice low and calm.

"Tell Wexley to take it slow and steady—keep a wide berth around that mess."

He glances toward the water, eyes narrowing.

"You got anything that might draw out more of those eels?"

Thaelin’s boots grind softly on the deck as he calmy delivers the message. The older gnome smirks a bit and there's a brief exchange between the two river rats.

Thaelin pads back over, a mischievous spring in his step, "He likes it, but he says you lot may have to finish the job." he murmurs, nodding toward Wexley at the tiller. "We’ll hug the riverside and slide wide until we're slightly upriver."

A ripple slaps against the hull; Thaelin’s eyes track it before he answers the second question.

"Ishensa eels’ll snap at any motion—blood in the water makes ’em frenzied." He pinches thumb and forefinger together, as though sprinkling salt. "If you’ve a scrap of salted pork left, toss it off the starboard bow. Grease and brine’ll carry farther than blood alone." he adds a word of caution, "Just don’t let it drift back on us. Those teeth’ll shear an oar."

Our ebony guardian makes kind suggestion to her friends,

I always hesitate, using benefactors for bait. But if we as a party remain hidden, in or near the doghouse, and allow the barge to float close, we could use the element of surprise.

The orcs will surely board the barge, and we could stage an ambush.

Petra stays hidden and nods her approval of the eel-bait plan.

She'd always rather avoid a fight and anyone who has spent 10 minutes or more with her knows it because she's never been shy to suggest mercy and non-violent avenues.

Jasir folds his arms and lowers his head for a moment, his eyes closing as he takes in the relevant information. "If Wexley approves the plan of baiting the eels and finishing up the orcs. I believe we should approach... pass a short ways up stream, launch an initial salvo to ensure our enemies seek to attack and make use of Varin's plan with the eels. That way the pork will be downstream from us and the eels less likely to attack the boat."

"I have a bow. As does Azote. And Ulfr has... whatever is smaller than him." He offers up with a roll of his shoulder. "It should get them moving while the eels frenzy."

Úlfr says quietly, but knowing his low voice carries, sparingly, "This feels right. Get the chum jars ready."

Fog beads on ropes and lashes the deck as the barge noses into reeds a stone’s throw from the shattered patrol boat. Shapes move on the broken hull — orc backs hunched over a tangled net, metal glinting whenever they strike at something trapped beneath. Their guttural barks echo inside the mist, but none turn toward the river.

Thaelin paces the deck with a coil of line, shoulders tense beneath rain-dark wool.
"Last chance to call it off," he murmurs to each of you in turn, fingers drumming the rail. "If blades sing, no one gets away to warn the towers."

By the rudder, Wexley keeps his eyes trained to the shoreline and draws a slow breath, "Four or five still upright," he reports, voice no louder than the river hush. "Two wounded, judging by the limping shadows. Knot them fast or drop them quick, either way, watch the one with the horn."

In the doghouse, Serah pulls her cloak tighter, she does not speak, but her eyes flick from orcs to Wexley and back again, unable to see, nerves causing her to mime the action. Tefli’s breath rasps as though the fog itself clings to his lungs. Sweat beads across his brow despite the chill, "They smell me," he croaks, voice thin. "I swear they do."

Petra taps Tefli the halfling's knee sympathetically but makes no false promises. She will try to protect him and Serah but...

The dwarrow nods vigorously and taps her head and points to indicate, 'smart plan' when Jasir talks about the eel chum and what comes next.


OOC:

@GM:

That's a relief. I would very much like to be able to pass as a 'buff' gnome in most social situations, especially among enemies, without a Skill Check unless it's at a time where I can get assistance and we can "take 10" on it.

Jasir's eyes flick amongst the others, gauging reactions and responses before nodding slightly. "We want to keep them at a distance, but we make it look as though we're seeking to make landfall. They'll rush to gain a tactical advantage and hold the bank," he explains further before glancing towards Wexley. "If we can get them attempting to either make the jump to the boat or wading that will assist. Those without ranged weapons make ready to repel. Those who have them concentrate fire on the one with the alarm horn first." It seems as though Jasir can speak quite quickly as the need arises, which he does in this instance.

In the time he is speaking, the Sarcosan strings his longbow and draws out a quiver full of arrows that he settles next to himself. "Prepare to loose as one."