Act I, Chapter Two: The Black Current

Brown eyes gaze upon fallen friend. Rushing to Varin’s aid, our ebony guardian engages the last remaining orc.
Thrak khe, she exclaims defiantly!

Once engaged with the orc, our ebony guardian swings Bladeguard with fast fury!

With a feral shout—"Thrak khe!"—Seelah barrels forward. Bladeguard flashes; the broadsword cleaves the orc’s mailed shoulder and drives him hard to the planks, cracking wood beneath his bulk.

Black blood steams in the storm. Snarling up at the ring of foes, the brute forces one last insult, "Ghash-lat snaga-lûg!"
The insult gutters into a wet cough; his eyes glaze, and the vardatch clatters from numb fingers.

Combat Ends

THE ISHENSA RIVER | NORTH OF DAVINDALE | FOGGY AFTERNOON
As the clash of steel gives way to the sounds of the river. Across the slick planks of the captured barge, the members of the final bout kneel beside Varin, checking the gash across his brow. The halfling breathes, shallow but steady, while the black-blooded orc bodies lie sprawled around them, their vardatches sitting idly on the ground or sliding toward the river’s dark edge.

Footfalls squish through the mud from the allied skiff. Wexley vaults the gunwale first, dagger drawn and eyes sharp. Thaelin follows a heartbeat later, planting his boots well clear of the widening bloods of rank blood.

Wexley Thorn

"Fine work, all!" Wexley says, offering Seelah a nod before crouching at Varin’s side. "He needs Selah’s touch. Let’s get him moved before the swelling sets."

Thaelin

Thaelin peers over the rail at the swirling current, "Preferably without dropping anyone to the eel-folk below." He shudders, adjusting his sodden cloths. "I have no desire to test their taste for gnome."

Wexley scans the riverbanks, jaw tight, "We cannot linger. Another patrol will be looking for this lot soon. Strip what you need, then make ready to shove off."

With wary glances into the gloom, the companions begin gathering weapons and supplies, preparing to vanish upriver before tide of vengeance finds them.

Ùlfr helps gathering up the weapons and supplies from the other barge although he balks at trying to retrieve anything already in the drink. "We don't need what dark water claimed already." Any weapons he piles up to be cleaned though.

Elven Azote will be sure to gather the remains of any arrow shot so as not to leave a trail. She lets Petra deal with downed Varin.

"Give me a moment with Varin, please, and he may be able to move himself!" the dwarrow pipes up.

Sagging with relief, Petra drops down and tries her blood vessel enlivening technigue on the elfling.

It works, he is rousing. "Close call, friend, but the orcs are dead now," she reassures him.

Then after a beat she repeats Elder Thorn's warning dutifully, "But another Shadow patrol could come looking for this crew any minute, we've got to move. I can do a more proper job patching you and the rest of us up later, or Serah will beat me to it."


Paranoid that another attack could come (an orc or eel bursting out of the water, heralded by little more than a few frothing bubbles perhaps, or orc steps pounding across the lands), Petra strains her eyes and ears while sweeping her gaze over water and land to check for threats.


Blood is pounding so hard in her ears that she's pretty sure she'd miss unusual sounds though, and sweat is running into her eyes.

The Sarcosan's cedeku gets sheathed again and his bow retrieved before he moves to stand over Petra, his gaze flicking over her work for the span of several long seconds. Seeing that she has things well in hand he moves to retrieve the vardatch from the deceased orc and moves to relieve him of his head. The weapon is set aside and the masked man considers the area as a whole.

"We should not linger. Let us gather anything we might need need and then set the boat to drifting down stream, perhaps with a hole to sink it," he muses before starting to wander amongst the boat, taking a brief inventory of its materials.

Varin lies still where he fell, blood trailing from a gash along his temple. His chest rises slowly, shallow breaths pulling in the damp air of the barge’s deck. Petra works quickly, binding the wound and pressing a poultice against the worst of it. After a tense moment, his body jolts.

With a sudden growl, Varin’s eyes snap open—wild, unfocused, still locked in the fight. He lets out a ragged snarl and lunges upright, fists swinging blindly at the air.

"Where is he?! I’m not done with that bastard!" he snarls, swinging a fist that narrowly misses Petra.

His breathing is heavy, ragged, chest heaving as the red haze of battle slowly fades from his eyes. He blinks, taking in the faces around him, the barge, the lack of enemies—then curses under his breath and slumps back down, fuming.

Searching Azote examining the quiver of arrows found. "Well not as nice as mine but they may also be just as spot able." She isn't so keen on Orc arrows to tell how distinctive they are. "A longbow with them would have been sweet."

"Why on earth would an Orc patrol have arrows? I have fought them for decades and never seen such. They like to savor who they kill before them."

"Tonight, we will risk talents of the land to heal Viran up rapidly."

Petra ducks Varin's swing by rolling onto her back. She chuckles but there's an edge of hysteria in it.

As she dusts herself off she replies to Azote's question, "Spoils of war, and the war is always on. Orcs loot the fallen the same as anyone, don't they?"


To Azote's assertion she nods, weary. Vulnerability they cannot afford, especially when a patrol might find them regardless of precautions. "As many as I can, worried about Selah too."

Elven Azote replies back, "Only an Orc would make arrows like these. Just very rare to find a bowman among them. Much less an arrow crafter. Perhaps these arrows were meant to be a delivery? A gift? Must be somone important as that Orc was rather tough. Leader material. "

Úlfr thinks a second and points at the large box.
"Perhaps the bow is in the iron bound chest."

Varin sits in silence for a few moments, fists clenched and breathing uneven. The fury fades, replaced by a dull throb in his skull and the copper tang of blood in his mouth. He wipes it away with the back of his hand and glances over at Petra.

"…Thanks," he mutters, voice low and rough.

He rises slowly, still sore, but moving with grim purpose. Without another word, he grabs the nearest orc corpse by the ankle and starts dragging it to the edge of the barge. One by one, he hauls the bodies up and heaves them into the dark water with a splash, barely sparing them a second glance.

As another lifeless body hits the river, he speaks flatly over his shoulder to the others.

"Don’t behead them. No trophies. Let the eels have what’s left."

He pauses, watching the ripples fade.

"Make it look like an accident."

Petra replies to Varin, "Thanks yourself, too. It took all of us to take down...a threat like that."


She bites her lip watching the bodies go into the river with their heads intact. Probably the eels won't leave enough muscle or brains behind to become Fell? For a delirious second she imagines a head with burning eyes bobbing in the water before she turns away from the churn.


The dwarrow looks over the 'spoils,' at the cumbersome armor and orc-sized weapons. The eels smell gross but perhaps over a fire and under spices their taste could be improved. She mutters the tooth talisman with the evil symbol should be destroyed if possible, crushed or burned or both.


She gestures back at the Netherthistle. "I have tools to try to open that chest unless one of you found a key?"


The dwarrow examines the chest and asks someone else to do the same, to make sure it has no trap mechanism or poison residue upon it (the Shadow's forces are notorious for discouraging theft) before any attempt to open it.


* * * * *


IF NO TRAP/TOXIC RESIDUE IS FOUND after at least two PCs examine it...


If they allow her (time wise and permission), Petra fetches the lockpick tools and attempts to open the iron bound chest before offering the picks to Azote to try.

Elven Azote will also give a try at the chest. She will use Petra's tools as she doesn't now own any herself.

"With luck we will soon see what is inside."

THE ISHENSA RIVER | NORTH OF DAVINDALE | FOGGY AFTERNOON
Wexley wipes moisture from his spectacles and watches Petra bind Varin’s brow with practiced fingers, "Shadow take me, girl, you could be touched by Aryth herself," he murmurs, genuine awe softening the hard lines of his face.

Petra knots off the bandage and ducks her head, "Close call, friend, but the orcs are dead now,"

Behind them Thaelin kicks through the scattered gear until a black-fletched shaft rolls beneath his boot. He holds it up, brows arched, "See that head? Only war chiefs and the legate’s pets carry real arrows. The tuskers we dropped were rank-and-file." He spits into the river. "These belong to someone important."

Petra’s gaze follows the current where orc corpses bob like broken dolls. As if in answer, one limp body jerks, vanishes beneath a swirl of bubbles, and the water closes with a hush that sets her teeth on edge.

Shaking off the chill, she turns to the iron-bound chest hauled clear of the wreck. A careful twist of her pick, a soft click—the lid creaks open.

Petra eases the iron lid fully back, inside, no glitter of gems—only hard necessity: a pouch of coarse sea-salt sealed tight against damp; a neat coil of dwarf-forged wire, each link fine as hair yet stronger than nail; and beneath them, close-packed pig-iron ingots, dull grey and heavy. She lifts one with both hands—easily five pounds—then counts by touch: a dozen such bars, near sixty pounds in all.

Wexley snorts approval, "Worth more than silver nowadays, in my youth such iron would be nearworthless," he says, eyes narrowing upriver where unseen foes might still prowl. As they're preparing to close the inspected chest, Azote stops them.

"Stop. See that seam?" she murmurs, tapping a fingernail along an almost invisible join. With a careful pry of her dagger, a false panel lifts free, revealing a long bundle wrapped in oiled canvas.

Azote eases the cloth away. A longbow emerges—black yew with bone-white inlays that form Izrador’s Black Hand entwined in thorny script.

Wexley’s brows rise behind rain-flecked lenses, "A priest’s bow. Aryth protect us if its owner comes looking."

Seelah gives the orc boat a cursory inspection.
If the orcs’ boat is still functional…anyone know how to sail it? It could afford us options, after the Netherthistle departs from us.

Wexley runs a palm across the barge’s scarred gunwale, then fixes Seelah with a look equal parts confusion and alarm. "Guardian, that barge wears Izrador’s brand like a beacon." He raps a sigil-scarred plank for emphasis. "Every watch-tower from here upstream knows these markings, and they expect tuskers at the helm. Without orcs aboard, try sailing it past the next watch-tower and we’ll be pincushions before we can wave hello. Unless you fancy orc paint and a crash course in Shadow drill, we leave it sit or quickly scuttle it and keep to the Netherthistle. Better a quiet keel than a floating gallows."

Varin gives Wexley a sharp nod, eyes narrowing with approval. "Yeah—put a hole in it, let the river carry it. No one’ll ask questions if it looks like it sank on its own."

He winces as he moves toward the side of the barge. Gritting his teeth, he plants his boots in the muck and starts pushing against the barge, muscles straining as he tries to free it from the thick riverbed.