Aug 7, 2017 7:05 pm
Halfway up the coast to Utwar, in the second to last hour before dawn. the longships appeared. Three of them. They emerged from the fog silently at first, but as they sailed to hailing range, the chanting began. Low, staccato, with an unsettling, uneven rhythm. Only a weak southerly wind lifted their gray sails, just enough to reveal glimpses of the weeping eyes painted on them.
Cornflower stands on the foredeck, hands on his hips, his face unreadable. His men are a different story. Their rapid, strained chatter plainly reveals fear even when words cannot be understood.
A small figure clad head to toe in rags steps up to the very front of the foremost longship and holds a long pole out over the water. A rope is tied to the end of the pole, and dangling from the end of the rope is a crude effigy made of driftwood, pitch, feathers, and shells.
Some of you can make out some of the words being chanted and detect an Engolan vocabulary and accent.
You have no right
No law nor god
The surface ever-changing
Bears no king's weight
Abdicate!
You have no right
Nourish the deep
...and on and on and so forth, never seeming to repeat exactly.
Cornflower rubs his chin. The figure in rags lowers his pole until the effigy is submerged in the water.
"It is the Mournful Mother," a crew member standing near the party whispers. "We all will surely die."
Cornflower snaps his head around, staring balefully at the frightened crewman. "They're just pirates," he snaps. "Prepare to be boarded. We have little to give them. Do not make cowards of yourselves!"
The longships begin rowing toward the Swiftness of Camazotz. A dozen or so men on each longship stand up and draw longbows, holding them at the ready.
Welcome back, party. What do you do?
Cornflower stands on the foredeck, hands on his hips, his face unreadable. His men are a different story. Their rapid, strained chatter plainly reveals fear even when words cannot be understood.
A small figure clad head to toe in rags steps up to the very front of the foremost longship and holds a long pole out over the water. A rope is tied to the end of the pole, and dangling from the end of the rope is a crude effigy made of driftwood, pitch, feathers, and shells.
Some of you can make out some of the words being chanted and detect an Engolan vocabulary and accent.
You have no right
No law nor god
The surface ever-changing
Bears no king's weight
Abdicate!
You have no right
Nourish the deep
...and on and on and so forth, never seeming to repeat exactly.
Cornflower rubs his chin. The figure in rags lowers his pole until the effigy is submerged in the water.
"It is the Mournful Mother," a crew member standing near the party whispers. "We all will surely die."
Cornflower snaps his head around, staring balefully at the frightened crewman. "They're just pirates," he snaps. "Prepare to be boarded. We have little to give them. Do not make cowards of yourselves!"
The longships begin rowing toward the Swiftness of Camazotz. A dozen or so men on each longship stand up and draw longbows, holding them at the ready.
Welcome back, party. What do you do?
