Act I, Chapter Two: The Black Current

Heart racing already, Petra readies her small sling-shooter with one of the smooth river stones warm from days spent in her pocket.

A flimsy and weak weapon, far better suited to squirrel hunting than silencing a sentry with a horn. But it's all the dwarrow has on hand, without risking alerting even more fearsome forces to their presence with her earthwitch Gifts.

THE ISHENSA RIVER | NORTH OF DAVINDALE | FOGGY AFTERNOON

Wexley places a hand on the capstan, ready to crank again, and pitches his voice just enough to carry across the shrouded deck.

"Hold fast, listen close." He stabs a thumb toward Varin hunkered in the bow. "We drop the bait quiet-like — whatever you’ve left. The eels smell the meat and brine, think feast, and close in."

He sweeps his palm in a slow arc to starboard.
"Once they strike, don’t hesitate. Loose quarrels, sling stones, toss barrels— whatever you have ready. We’ll drift wide on the current, then bank hard on the far side of their barge." A hard glint flashes behind his spectacles.
"None of them walks or swims away. None."

Thaelin double-checks the mooring line, jaw set. In the doghouse the rest of the cell crouch, mist-slick cloaks and nervous breaths alike kept low.

Varin lifts a small canvas sack of salt-soaked pork, drops in thin lead weights, and cinches the knot tight. The reek of brine and fat creeps in his nostrils. On Wexley’s nod the bait slips beneath the surface without a ripple, tethered by fine cord between the rudder posts. A cloudy ribbon of grease unfurls behind the Netherthistle, swallowed by the river’s dark sweep.

The current shoulders them onward. Ahead, timber groans — the enemy barge, hulking where the channel widens. As the gap dwindles, shapes resolve on its deck: broad-shouldered orcs black against the fog.

One raises a rust-pitted glaive and bellows:

"Gâsh! Thrak kulg!"

A heartbeat later they are abeam of the barge. Varin slices the bait-line; the weighted sack drifts free beneath the enemy hull.

Wexley’s voice drops to a razor whisper, "Wait for it… wait…"

The large orc points with his vardatch, tusked mouth curled in promise.

"Rûg-mokh! Zhur-mat gul!"

Water slaps hollow against both hulls. Then the river goes eerily still.

A sinuous shadow glides past the drifting barge, scales flashing ghost-silver, followed by two more.

The orc’s threat dies in his throat.

The river bank explodes.

A jaw studded with needle teeth surges up, clamping onto the drifting bait before whipping around, straight into the orcs wading knee-deep beside their barge. Two more follow suit. Screams in guttural Orcish mingle with the snap of sharp toothed jaws and the twang of suddenly loosed missiles.

Black water founts crimson.

The barge continues it's trajectory toward the shoreline, listing under the control of the wizened gnome.

Seelah picks up a barrel and throws it at the nearest orc!

Ùlfr launches barrel after barrel.

Jasir takes a knee and twists his longbow into a diagonal while resting an arrow across it. When the time comes he's ready and rises to target his fire on the orc with the warhorn. The draw and release is a fairly practiced motion, following Wexley's call. One arrow away. Then a moment to draw and loose a second shot, shifting targets to the nearest one over if his falls.

Whether it's luck or skill, Jasir's second arrow seems to benefit from his first "range finding" shot. Perhaps it's just the timing he finds that coincides with the motion of the riverboat.

Petra feels like a fish out of water.She lacks the training that sharpens battlefield discipline, her hands and aim aren't steady on her first shot.


The dwarrow tries a calming deep breathing technique her mother taught her. She can never hope to match her dwarven warrior mother's battle-trance, but she feels more grounded.



{PLAYER NOTE~~CAVEAT, target is TBD depending on how GM answers the question from the OOC thread.}


(A) IF WITHIN 50 feet of Orc T1 with horn:

She takes another shot at the orc with the horn, muttering under her breath, "Don't blow it!"

OR....

(B) IF WITHIN 70 feet of Orc R3 and he is the only 'close' enemy, then instead:

Petra despairs of hitting the orc with the horn, and instead takes a shot at the nearest orc aggressor who is not tangling with a barbed eel (currently helpful, and whom she does not want to injure).

Warned Azote realized the battle was soon to come and like any good elven, has her short bow read for action. With the attack started, she rises up to a good firing position and lets an arrow go at the Orcs. She fires upon the Orc with the horn. Tork retains his place.

Missiles sing from the barge, arrows, stones and barrels, all loosed at the same time in a chorus of resistance and old grudges. Several find their mark, thudding into orcish flesh, many fall harmlessly in the river or on the bank.

Wexley hunches over the capstan like a priest at his altar, hands firm on the brake. He works the barge’s momentum with deft shoves and reversals, guiding the Netherthistle in a harrowing dance between eel-churned shallows and reed-choked barbs. River foam churns against the hull as the vessel swings dangerously near a jutting snag, but Wexley’s hands never tremble.

"Hold your course, old girl!" he snaps, teeth clenched.

From midship, Thaelin straightens, a weighted knife materializing in his hand. Without hesitation, in one fluid motion he flicks his wrist; the blade sails through fog and chaos, silent as dusk.

It strikes true.

The orc grasping the signal horn jerks, eyes wide as the blade buries itself deep in his throat. His hands claw at the wound as the horn slips free, bouncing once before vanishing into the marsh. The orc collapses forward into the mud, gurgling.

"Not your day I s'pose" Thaelin murmurs, already moving to the mooring line, eyes on the fast-approaching shore.

Seelah pulls Bladeguard from beneath her blanket, and bellows an inspiring cry to her companions!
Hold the line, friends, exclaims our ebony guardian in the Erelander tongue! Hit ‘em high…or, low, as your case may be!

Varin breaks into a sprint across the length of the barge, boots thudding heavily against the wooden planks. He leaps onto a barrel, then bounds to a nearby crate, using the makeshift path to gain speed and elevation. His eyes lock onto the target ahead—the orc on the other boat—and his focus narrows.

Skirting the edge of the barge, arms out for balance, he pushes off hard from the bow with a final burst of strength. He soars through the air flying just over the head of a snarling orc and a writhing cluster of eels below.

As he closes the gap midair, he draws back a fist.

With a sharp growl of effort, Varin slams his knuckles into the face of the orc waiting on the enemy boat—his punch landing like a hammer, aimed to drop the brute before his feet even touch the deck.

The clash of missile fire echoes across the ashen waters as the party looses their volley toward the beached orc barge. Shafts thrum overhead, skipping off warped planks or vanishing into the reeds beyond. Amid the chaos, Varin springs from the rail of the Netherthistle as though gravity were merely a suggestion. His cloak snaps open; a single heartbeat later he deftly lands on the enemy deck and drives a clenched fist into the jaw of the wounded orc already bleeding from an earlier arrow. Frothy Blood spatters the weathered boards.

The orc staggers, snarling, and hauls himself upright, weight gingerly shifted to the unbandaged leg. With a guttural oath he sweeps his vardatch in a brutal horizontal arc. The wicked edge whistles through empty air, Varin has already pivoted beneath the strike, braids whipping as he comes up behind the brute. Wood groans under the sudden lurch, but no blow finds the Elfling’s skin.

Meanwhile, the river boils crimson. Two of the three orcs floundering in the shallows shriek as sleek river eels as thick as an uruk's thigh coil around them, needle-teeth sinking deep. One disappears in a roiling surge; the second is yanked under seconds later, muffled curses cut short by churning crimson water. Only the largest manages a desperate slash that opens a pale gash along an eel’s flank.

On the near bank, a lone orc, rage and terror in his eyes, chooses distance over drowning. He hefts a barbed javelin and hurls it toward the smugglers’ barge. The iron point hisses past Azote’s cheek close enough to tug a strand of her hair before burying itself in a crate with a dull thunk. Azote’s answer is instant. The shortbow sings; a feathered shaft streaks through the mist toward the javelin-thrower. Luck keeps pace with fear, the arrow thuds into a fallen shield, mere inches left of its mark.

Throughout the chaos Wexley and Thaelin remain a study in focused intent. Bracing long poles against the current, Thaelin helps Wexley guide the Netherthistle into a gentle glide, grounding her stern first against a gravel shelf. Quick knots bite into mooring rings; coils of hemp line snake fast over the prow. In moments the barge sits snug against the bank, gangplank ready, its deck a steady firing platform for the fray to come.

Spray, smoke, and morning fog swallow the battlefield. Varin squares to his limping foe, river foam dripping from the barge’s edge. Arrows are nocked anew, steel is drawn, eel-ridden eddies swirl red, and the next breath feels like a coin suspended on its edge, waiting to fall.

Eyeing the situation attacking Azorte steps to the end of the barge and fires her bow in hopes to aid Varin. But the shot is so far for her short bow. Appears too she is a bit touched as her hair gets some AC.

The Netherthistle protests gently as it settles into the rocky river bank. Wexley sags against the rail, brushing sweat from his iron-grey beard. Two wheezing breaths later he pats the tiller like an old mule finally unhitched. "I’m spent. Thaelin—out you go, lad. Put that long shadow o’ yours to work before these tuskers get their wits back."

Thaelin’s brows climb, a silent really? before sense and duty win-out. "Aye, aye..." The words land somewhere between salute and sigh as he heads aft, closer to the frey.

A slim knife flashes into his palm. A moment later, he hurls. The slim blade arcs true—then glances off a ridge of blackened scalemail. Thaelin’s shoulders droop like slack rigging as the knife twirls uselessly into the muck.

The orc snarls, more insulted than hurt, and rips the dented link straight, flashing a broken-tusk grin.

"Storm take it," Thaelin growls. He draws another blade, checks its edge against his thumb, and glances back at Wexley. The old helmsman can only manage a breathless shrug.

"Try a softer spot next time," Wexley wheezes, half-grin cracking through the fatigue. Easy for him to say, Thaelin thinks, but he squares his stance all the same.

Fog thickens, muffling the river’s hush; eels thrash in the shallows and the orcs ready their vardatches, iron gleaming wet under a pallid sky.

---

Jasir breathes a sigh of relief as the orc with the alarm horn goes down and his gaze snaps around the battlefield. As Varin leaps in to challenge the elite to close combat he lets out a grunt but his eyes flick towards the orc trooper that is in a position to make the situation more dire by joining in. Once more he closes one eye and sights along his bow before performing the smooth knock, draw, and release motion. Arrows away.

If nothing else the Sarcosan seems to be a fairly consistent archer. His shots hitting their targets, but never striking a critical juncture. It's the same this time.

Too soon to tell if the tide of battle is with them or against them despite her companions' impressive skills and the number of orcs messily claimed by the barbed eels.

Petra won't be able to take any of her gear with her except the sling, and pocketful of stones and new knife, for the next desperate gamble she has in mind to try to keep the odds more even.

The dwarrow wouldn't even have the knife (dagger) if not for Varin, and now he's alone on the enemy's boat! And the waters between them are too eel-infested treacherous to cross by swimming. But she's thought of another way across.

"Ulfr, will you toss a barrel with me in it onto their craft? Or must I swim there to back up Varin?" she blurts. "I'm a strong swimmer but maybe not faster than the eels...wherever I end up, I'll have my knife and make do."




IF ULFR NODS CONSENT OR BY FACIAL EXPRESSION GIVES IT (*can't really talk when it's not your turn) :

Petra moves to the barrel nearest Ulfr and climbs into it, tipping it so she can crawl inside. [Hopefully this is just a Move action but it's GM's call.]


OR...


IF ULFR REFUSES:

Petra jumps into the water and swims as fast as she can to the enemy's boat.

Sail as close to them as you can, Seelah directs her seamen. Donning her shield, our ebony guardian raises Bladeguard, striking a pose most heroic!

Úlfr nods, takes aim at the last orc in the boat, and throws the barrel, Petra and all.

Varin squares his stance beside the orc, eyes narrowed and jaw tight. He drives upward with a fierce uppercut, aiming straight for the orc’s jaw—but the brute shifts at the last second. Varin’s fist whistles past, hitting nothing but air.

Fog eddies on the the beached orcs’ barge, swirling around Varin’s boots as he pivots in a loose circle. His fist snaps forward, aimed squarely at the orc’s jaw, but the brute rolls his jaw with blow, removing the sting from the impact.

"Kruzh-makh, titchling! Zhur var-dâch-urz!"

He sees the opportunity and takes it. Steel teeth rake across Varin’s ribs, slicing through leather and drawing a dark ribbon of blood. The elfling keeps his footing, eyes still sharp despite the pain.

On the smuggler's barge, Ulfr and Petra spring their half-mad scheme. The dwarrow squeezes herself into an empty barrel; Ulfr hoists the improvised projectile overhead with a roar that rattles deck-planks.

He heaves the wooden barrel like a human trebuchet.

Barrel and dwarf sail in a wobbling arc, but the aim is wide. Varin’s opponent sidesteps as the cask crashes on the beached vessel, staves popping loose. Petra vaults free a heartbeat before impact, tucking into a roll. She pops up on one knee, acrobatics and a fair amount of luck sparing her most of the impact, but she still looks worse for the wear due to the stunt.

By the waterline, the eel coils like a pale serpent around the second orc’s thigh, teeth grinding through scale mail. The orc bellows, staggered but stubborn, hacking downwards with his vardatch. Brackish spray and eel ichor spatter the sand; the beast’s grip loosens but it still drags at him, inch by vicious inch.

Back on the connecting bank, the javelin-wielding orc spots Seelah’s advance. He hurls his final shaft; it whistles past her shoulder and affixes itself in the dirt harmlessly. Snarling, he yanks his vardatch free of its loop and bellows at her, knuckles white around the hilt.

"Dor-zug, manling! Zadâk makh-kar!"

Mist thickens, swallowing sound until only clash of iron and the eel’s thrashing remain, an ugly rhythm against the hush of the river.