Captain Yearn Gracer
Captain Yearn Gracer (a.k.a. The many faced.)
Captain Yearn Gracer, once called Charles Corbeau, sailor and raider of 17 seas. Servant of 700 Gods in his time (or so he'd have you believe) seeks to put all the mysteries of the world into a bottle for him to hold in his hands. Pleasant to those who don't know him too well, too pleasant.
A ...loyal ...servant of his God, the many faced and many named God of ...Fortune and Fate. Among them Recarg Nraey, Shaymass, The Red and Foreign King.
Taken by pirates after one of their massacres and reared to be be a sea-born monster of murder, gazing into the great black mirror of the sea one night, he made an Oath to himself, and no other. They are sunk now beneath his history that he Yearns to forget. Time and tide have carried him far, but never to success. Now he has found himself in a new land, where a man can make anything of himself.
Physical Description
General Physical Condition
Straight as an arrow, slim as a dagger, hard as steel.
Facial Features
A dark green eye patch over his left eye, that seems to not obstruct his vision at all. - A lucky charm, he says.
His well kept, short, spikey black beard.
Blue lips.
Identifying Characteristics
The smell of the sea
Physical quirks
He lacks the etherealness of an Elf, seemingly more like a drowned human, but holds himself with the dignity of a king.
Special abilities
Breath water + Swim.
Resist cold.
Counts as size large for carrying, push and drag. - Feat.
Creatures with a swimming speed can understand him with gestures, sounds - simple ideas.
Immune to disease.
Apparel & Accessories
A chain necklace hangs about his neck and over his armour, an amulet with a mirror rests upon his chest. - His "holy symbol"
Mental characteristics
Personal history
A sailor since birth, soon enough his ship sank down and there under waves he found so many secrets to be found.
Education
The ways of the world make themselves known to a man who wanders it for so long.
Employment
As a sailor, as a raider, as a guard, as a bard. Wherever there are secret powers to be plundered, he'll find his way in.
Accomplishments & Achievements
Not drowning in the hubris of his goals.
Failures & Embarrassments
He remebers all those that sail with him, to their watery graves. He'll remeber them, but shed no tears.
Mental Trauma
Dabbling with the divine and the demonic is not healthy.
Intellectual Characteristics
Knowns the value of having people respect him.
Morality & Philosophy
Treachery, hardly treason if you never intended to be a leal subject in the first place. All the Gods of eath and air and all the demons of thunder and stone are but stepping stones to ascend, as are all the secrets of the world, and the pawns I must keep happy to find them.
Fortune, fate, death, the many faces and many names I must take, the many destinines and spirits I must break to find my way.
Personality Characteristics
Motivation
Power, knowledge, exploration, curiosity.
Taking it all in for his calculations.
Social
Speech
Pleasant. Too pleasant.
A sea-elf? Taken into the care of human sailors, none now remain who remember him before he raised the black flag of a pirate.
View Character Profile
Alignment
Lawful Evil (He keeps that to himself)
Age
60 and 600, give or take half a dozen.
Children
Gender
Male
Eyes
Blue and Black
Hair
Greasy, wet, oily, well combed black
Skin Tone/Pigmentation
Pale greenish blue.
Height
6 Foot 1.
Captain's Log Nine; LOVE CONQUERS ALL!
Begin writing your story here...
Captain's Log Eight; Gracer's Fall From Grace.
Begin writing your story here...
Captain's Log Seven; The Spawns of Evil.
Begin writing your story here...
Captain's Log Six; Sack The Shield, Stab The Storm
The winds of fate are a fickle mistress. As fickle as our heading. No matter, all roads in this land seem to lead to "adventure."
Captain's Log Five; Love is a Manshoon thing.
What a strange world this is. I'm beginning to like it.
Days 38 - 49?
A gay sword looking for its long lost husband who is now a shield... that I had to see. That I had to find.
Adrion's organisation, of course. Dutifully reuniting long lost lovers, kept looking at a ring on his finger whilst the sword swung its flowery little life story. What dark little mysteries lay behind those devilish eyes Adrion? Who are you really? I know who I am. A War God of Fey blood. We'll see what you turn out to be.
North, that was the heading, for ten days. We had company of course, the sword Michael. A dragon-born Monk, Narmer, clever little bastard. Another Paladin, a trifecta. Amos DeWitt. Middle aged by human standards. A bit of a folk-hero, acted strangely fatherly to everyone else, even Adrion...who is middle aged...by Elvish standards. Treated me a bit more like an adult... should I feel respected? Insulted? Who knows. We had the good Dr. Hilda Rosebriar, an artificer... I don't believe that High-Elf has ever been to medical school... It was carried around by a flesh golem... waste not want not I suppose. We picked up the blade from another Artificer that apparently lives in the town? Nobody tells me anything and now he has a sixth sense for where the shield is....does it have other senses? Our Artificer questioned him on that for quite sometime...it got oddly personal...
I held grasped the blade for a moment, and felt its voice come through me. I quickly cast it off. A God shall not be given words by his subjects.
So my crew being assembled, the march began once more, and a very uneventful 10 days ensued.
What is it with Paladins and tragic, unresolved, familially traumatic backstories? A concerning pattern. Adrion seemed ill at ease hearing, yet helping this forlorn love story. Looking distant with those devil's eyes. Amos seemed desperate to hold together people as family, taking up the rear to look at everyone closely - I do care to have my back exposed, I know how swift a dagger can be. Yet I felt at ease, the old man would not betray me. I... I have a vast crew to call upon now, I shall never want for fear of losing them ever again.
The Forests that shield our encampment to the north are dense and dim. A triple cohort of paladins projected a mighty sense out into the world. No stench of "good" or "evil" could possibly penetrate the field without our knowing.
Captain's Log Four; Depths of mud, blood, and sanity.
This weakness, within... It must be purged.
Days 33 to 39, maybe. Who's counting?
Off, again. To the East, through rock and wood and watery sludge pools. The days were as damp and dark as any under the waves. Opposing winds came out of the East, refreshingly icy. The plains became spotted with pits of sinking brown brine. Soon enough grasping trees were clawing out of the brown and embraced me and my crew. Swallowed up by the green depths. Some of us would never emerge again.
I was with that beautiful bastard Adrion, he had one of them there Ranger Talismans so we made good time, though he was remarkably quiet throughout the first parts of our excursion. A Monk, Tarfu came along as well, and a Talent? Nitmor, never heard of such a thing before, blue it was. Had nice fire hands it did. Had a familiar bearing. Bloody nice magic though, kept us nourished for many a day. Kept the scurvy at bay.
Shame though, could have gone for some of the meat butchered across the fields. Deer, rothe, and herds by the score, skewered with nail like javelins. Not nails like you'd fasten a coffin mind you, nails as in the kind I'd carve a coffin with, after carving up you. I don't trust these "adventurers", any of you ever read the Captain's Log, I'll find you.
It was Manticores, to spoil a suspenseful mystery. Killing for sport, which I can only describe as . . . actually there is no word in the tongues of elves or men for how . . . wasteful, that is. A culled herd left for dead can't be sheared later. It takes a shepherd, not a savage, to make use of such things.
Whilst crossing the damp graveyard, a cry echoed across the wind. A cry that could only have come from a great beast. A beast that mayhaps, could be conquered, by a greater being.
Nothing more than a Griffin. Who's cave was besieged by two manticores. Adrion, quite expectedly insisted upon saving the ... "Noble creature." The manticores were taking what the strong deserve, everything. I'd have had no course to object but for the ferocity with which the Griffin held them off. Familiar somehow...almost ... motherly. ...Pathetic... but better a nest be plundered than torn asunder. So it began.
Adrion blessed himself and the rest, the ones who need such things. Hexes were muttered, flames fired, feet flew, and my Javelin struck true. After the initial flurry, by my might of will I commanded the smaller manticore to flee, less damaged and more prone to fear. The larger was, by the might of will of the Talent, restrained and butchered in short order. Its body was a pin cushion of spikes that erupted from its hide, The Monk caught and hurled them back at it before cracking its ribs apart with a flurry of mighty blows. The wounds of what was left were black and withered. More to this Monk than meets the eye. And clearly the manticores were not mighty enough to be worthy of existence.
I took the important task of taking the meat from the beast. While everyone else played princess of the forest. The Talent got its hand half cut off, The Monk tapped some health into it and Adrion did some praying to the moon...in the middle of the day. He looked the beastie in the eye, and it let out a big triumphant cry, as if its life was its own. It seemed to be at ease and it crawled back into its cave. Very unusual for it to nest in such a low lying region. Inside the cave, in a barbed nest of stick and stone stood nine eggs. One look at me and Adrion was already defensive... he's smarter than he looks. The Talent spoke directly into my mind and for some time we plotted, I knew Adrion would not allow it and The Monk was not about to aid us either and so ... they would still be there later, once less self-righteous company was present.
The night's watch was uneventful, apart from some spikes skewering a nearby tree whilst some slumbered, Adrion did push ups and I squatted. Never skipping leg day again.
The eastward march marched on. And the stinking salt only twisted the senses evermore as the gnarled arms of the trees scratched at my armour. A heat rose out of the mud, bellowing as a dragons breath. For some inexplicable reason, Adrion tried to pawn a cursed shield off onto me. I was almost proud. Then out of the green little gremlins came. A small army of Bullywugs armed with stone spears encircled me and Adrion and the rest. A large one came atop a toad, and that is what they all chanted while they raised their spears into the air. "Toad. Toad. Toad." Some savage saying of a beastial people. The Talent roasted a piece of flesh with his flaming hand and threw it to the dogs. They devoured it, and then they disappeared back into the mud that birthed them. I scoffed. And then the ground burped, and a log like tendril rose out of the mud, carrying a pixie like frog upon it. Then the ground shuddered, and rose up and the land upon which we were standing came out from under us and in its place rose a Froghemoth. Should have run away.
And so the battle began. In the thick of it, the mud that is, me and Adrion did what we do best, regardless of whatever he claims. SLAUGHTER. Strikes and smites cleaved into the green mountain. And when we ran out of smites, we struck some more. The Monk struck with furious blows and the Talent let loose its flames. I feared...no...never, feared. Thought the small ones might rise out of the water and drag us down, but the monster demanded my attention. The impertinence was unacceptable.
It seemed to be of a similar mind, its tendrils rose up and restrained us all even as we licked the blood of its wounds off our faces. Then its maw swallowed Nitmor whole. A last cry from me of "Why won't you die?!?!?" only heralded my own being a meal. Teeth took me, as did slime, and blood, and salt and acid and darkness. Boiling. Burning. Dying... No...not again...Never...never ... again!
A slap across the face, and there I was, half sunk in the mud, a divine warrior spewed out and bubbling in the brine and blood. Tarfu was clasped in a tendril above me, and Nitmor sat still in a shallow, watery grave. No... not again...Never...never ... again!
"Why! Won't! You! Die!" I should have healed myself. Instead I swung and struck and sliced it open. Whatever blow Tarfu had dealt to the monster had left it spewing its guts out and left it susceptible to its own mortality. And so, at the last, a final necrotic blow from Tarfu felled the beast. And its ruin sent waves crashing across the land.
Out of the mud the savages came again. And they chanted, "TOAD! TOAD! TOAD!" But they made no hostile move.
From the fathomless depths of the mud, under the monster's ruin, a glimmer shone out and my hand was drawn under and clasped a mighty chain tied around the Froghemoth's neck, adorned with offerings. I pulled it out from under it. Tarfu and Adrion took some trinkets.
I...held a mirror. I glimpsed the gleaming silver and I looked, and I saw ... myself. I saw Recarg Nraey. I saw God. And I asked myself, what future do you see for yourself, and the open opportunities of fate came to my mind. Adorned with all the treasure of the earth and beyond, wielding influence beyond compare, inside a capital befitting me. Adored by all. Foes vanished with but a whisper from my hand. And I looked, and I saw...me. As I was, buried beneath a layer of blood, standing amidst the sea of the nature world, "friends" beside me and foes fallen before me. Who am I.
And another destiny was known. One of armies falling by the score before one man, followed behind by his fearful subjects, of a war that would break the world and reign over it. Of blows breaking off my skin like rain off a mountain. Of an endless campaign, of an endless slaughter. And I knew, and I proclaimed unto myself. Yes...this is who I am. This is what I was born for, this is what I live for, this is what I shall never die for. My destiny, lies upon the field of battle. And the only promise I would ever keep was said unto myself, writ into the ages of my blood, a covenant conceived, a bargain struck, a wish made, a trick played, a contract signed and an understanding reached. Never, again.
And in my hands the mirror now had a heart, grasped and squeezed by skeletal, and furry, and amphibious hands wrought in iron and silver. I placed it around my neck, and my body was hardened, my spirit resolved and my mind clear, unclouded.
And so the Bullywug chieftain came, and gave unto us crests of leaves, and the subjects chanted, "TOAD! TOAD! TOAD!" And now I knew what it was that they said, truly. "GOD! GOD! GOD!" And indeed, now, I truly was. An immortal. A conqueror.
Captain's Log Three; Watery graveyard mistakes.
Day 28 - 29? Been putting off this one.
Our course was south east. The same as in my first log. Only now we meant to go beneath the cliffs, and the waves. My favourite Rogue, Grunk of the Grunge was with me again, and he'd met this warforged cleric, L4Yl4. The three of us were... uniquely qualified for this mission, as none of us would have any difficulties breathing beneath the water. So we walked into the sea. The beach land far too rocky to over go and the cliff too high to descend down, without vessel, this was the only course.
Actually before that the grocery shop had burned down. Apparently. All I know is it was there when I went to sleep, and when I awoke a ruin of fire and ash lay behind my tent. I looked at my mirror and questioned if I'd had an ...active night. I doubt it. There's a five hundred gold bounty out for the arsonist. I'd like to find them, and question them...harshly, as to their motives. What possible benefit could they have gained? Treachery for treacheries sake is a pitiful life . . .
No. I've stalled long enough.
We walked straight into the sea. The Cleric walked heavily along the ocean floor, the Rogue flippered and I swam like it was home. Marched on down into the wet plains. A bump was found some ways away from shore. Scraping it away, a row boat was unearthed. On its side was inscribed in Elvish a name that identified itself as the attachment of a royal vessel from back across the sea. The Rogue creeped in under it and air bubbles began to pop out.. It creeped under and just as quickly it creeped out, speechless. I and The Cleric crept under as well and found an air bubble there, with a skeleton clutching a chest in its withered arms. We three all entered and wrenched the chest from its arms, noticing its fangs, a vampire thrall, dead once again. Within the chest was found six scrolls of Life-Link. Most useful for allowing others to traverse under the waves. The air bubble was found to created by a bladder of buoyancy, creating a constant flow of air. It would allow The Cleric to move beyond a statues' pace. So it took it, the scrolls were split three ways. The sun had receded beyond the reach of the nets of the veils of the waters, and so we rested under wooden hall, with boney friend. Swapping watch periodically.
Morning came, and with it the overturning of the boat, its filing with rocks and a continued march with it behind. For its colour and miraculous air, it was baptised anew "The Brown Gas." Its postmortal inhabitant now named "Gassy Brown." I shall take him for my First-Mate. The voyage went on and I and the rest came into a forest of kelp, swaying like long, green nooses with the tide. Some wreckage could be identified, wood and nails and ruined red iron. Whatever vessel had come hither, was long smashed by tide and time.
Passing over this graveyard, the cliff walls came up for greetings and soon enough the cave could clearly be seen from the floor of the depths. The angle from on high was miraculous to so much as glance it. From down there it was a banner of clutching invitation. I and the rest ascended.
The walls of the cave...
It was... covered in carvings. Carvings of slime blobs, crowns, revolutions, worship, dominion and domination. Chains, radiance, fallen stars, exile and entrapment. The beach where we landed here and from whence this voyage had set off. Great blobs and small blobs, a cage, birds, beasts, boars and faceless humanoids. Growth. Knowledge. Power. Impaled upon tendrils. Bent, bowing, prostrated, praying. A circle, a disc, a place of ...
The Cleric fell into a fugue state. I . . . I felt . . . fear. Fear and loathing and hate and desire. For some minutes. Till . . . roused to go on. Ever upwards did the path go and soon it led out of the water. And the watery walls that ever clutch at a man gave way to a chamber of smothering and swallowing darkness. Beyond it, a pale blue light.
A heaving mass lay there. The Rogue slithered up and it poisoned it. It was then roused and rose up to its full height. Towering over twice my stature. Upon its chest a symbol of two horns? Tusks? Trunks? Ribbons like that on a royal standard of crest beneath a shell? Eye? Portal? Abyss? With two crowns, thrice embedded with jewels. It had an elephantine trunk as long and winding as a road. Some seal of dreadful size.
Rousing my strength, I awaited its coming. Once it came upon me I smote it deep in its blubber. Its charge diverted, it slithered past me. The Cleric cast Inflict Wounds and the wound once blinded with radiance, rotted with decay and blackened and chipped deeper and deeper. The Rogue's poison further diminished the creature. I finished it with a final bite of my axe into the festering wound, the snapping of bones and a gust of air from its torn open lungs heralded a final wheezing whimper from its maw before it crashed into the water. Blackening with blood.
Its trunk popped off. Shrinking and hardening into a winding, leathery horn. The magic of it echoing out of the pool and off of the rocks. A horn of blaring.
The lair proceeded some way back and ended at a passage that was black against the night of stone, yet was wrought in silver casing. The cave floor and walls dripped and bubbled and oozed with a slime. The air itself suffused with a reek beyond the mucus of any mortal sea. The Cleric was curios. It lit a torch. The shine did not glisten off the slime, rather it died. It threw the torch into the veil. There it vanished it a storm of blue and red and purple. Then I and The Rogue tied a rope around it as it went in itself. Passing beyond the viscus curtain, mildly coated, it came into a vast hall with four iron doors in the walls. A ring of runes lay in the centre with a mad mage within. It had hair red and flaming. I and The Rogue followed it in. Inside, I knew what it was at once.
On the far end of the hall, An Aboleth.
An ancient eldritch beast from beyond the memories of men and elves.
Laying in a pool of filth. With its tendrils pulled back trying to cast some spell. It spoke directly into our minds. What words it gave and got from The Cleric and The Rogue I felt somehow. To me it spoke of slavery. What a wonderful idea I replied, throwing my javelin into its side, drinking first blood, it returned to my hand. Then its thoughts spoke again, probing knowingly, asking questions that I was powerless to refuse an answer to.
"What is your greatest desire."
"Knowledge."
"For what?"
"Power."
"Over others, I see. Reasonable. I can grant you all that you seek and more. Knowledge and power beyond your reckonings. Look at all these pitiful adventurers that have come to these shores. They burn down each others supplies, squabble against petty creatures, they have nothing to offer you. I have everything. Everything to give and more, if you serve me."
I was tempted by the offer, I cannot lie. Then I felt a chain, a cold embrace around my mind, slither around and pull my will towards its purpose. My head bent, and glimpsed my reflection in my mirror around my neck. In an instant the chain shattered and my purpose was my own.
"Prove it." I challenged. "You promise the world and yet you rot in this damp pit. Even Grunk here has shown greater power than you to me. Prove it, and perhaps you can be of use to me. Prove it."
It did not take kindly to defiance. "Then die." So as The Rogue vanished into the shadows and The Cleric ventured to battle the mage, it rose out of its dotage and came to face me. I looked into my mirror once again and my duplicate came forth, confounding the creature and giving an opening. I smote it hard in its slimy flesh. It was smaller than the tales say. It rose to strike me with its tendrils, they failed against my iron the first time, but the second they struck hard, and ever was its mind attempting to overthrow my own. Arrows came out of the hidden places of the chamber, striking both master and mage. The Cleric practically skinned the mage, blowing the horn of blaring, booming against master and slave, deafening the latter, by some wicked whipping of its master, while its blood pooled onto the floor, the mage stayed standing, casting a great fireball, even as I reacted to shield myself, I was still singed. The circle where he had stood was one of teleportation.
In wrathful throes I and The Aboleth did strike each other again and again, its slime coating my arms, but its disease failing before might of race and holy power, till clear it was that master and mage could not be brought down in this configuration of combat. The Cleric and The Rogue focused all might on brining the mage down, but he refused. As we spread out to avoid another fire ball, I disengaged from the blob and approached the door, leaving my duplicate behind. A great commotion could be heard from beyond an iron door. The Cleric fled the other way and with a fiery bolt that was almost directed at me, till my gaze passed over to The Cleric and it remembered who had skinned it, was brought down by the slave. Then The Aboleth came down upon me, passing straight through the duplicate and as a a tendril came down to greet me, so did the floor come up to greet me and the darkness of death embraced me.
In the throes of death, I felt like I was walking. I sensed, in a clouded, twisted, mirrored visage of the world, the conversing of an Aboleth a mage and Grunk. The hinges of an iron door grinding open, an orc entering. A Sea-Elf, adorned in armour and a patch over one eye lay at their feet. A circle of spell runes at the centre of the room. A Warforged Cleric of Schmiede, The Almighty lay unconscious upon the ground. L4YL4. I felt a radiance, and the twitching of fingers, her eyes were rekindled in a blazing blue. Then a withering. Darkness fell again.
But I heard her. Crying out in a word of health and healing. I felt air in my lungs again. Thoughts in my mind again. Life in my Soul again. . . . Something . . . in my heart again.
I awoke, and found Grunk trying to put me in a sack. I glimpsed his eyes. His will was now not wholly his own. New life bred quick thoughts in me. I rose.
"Well Abbey, you've certainly proved yourself to me, without a shred of doubt my good Aberration, without a shred of doubt you've proved yourself to me. I think I might consider your offer now that I can see you're a serious bidder." Quickly rising and shuffling away, whatever honest intrigue I had in his offer had died with me. "Isn't that right Grunk." I slapped him on the back, hard enough to hurt, enough to rouse his mind to further defiance, it failed. He returned the strike, I fought off his poison. He advised the destruction of the mage. The mage was aghast. The Aboleth was dumbfounded at my rising. "Ironic, so insulting and yet so slippery yourself. I'll just have to remove you annoyances."
"Come now Abbey, a partnership would be mutually beneficial. You need people on the surface to report back to you. Think of all the knowledge and the power we could gather for you. Think about it Abbey, we could work something out." All the while L4YL4 and I were slithering towards the centre spell circle, she began praying for salvation, and I stamped very hard with every point I made to add to my oratory and rouse its magic. The Aboleth and The Mage and The Orc and Grunk approached.
"Come now Abbey! Think! Of! The! Great! Opportunity! You! Have! Here!" And beyond hope, the praying and the kicking of the runes, and practical verbal and physical hopscotch activated the spell. Delivering L4YL4 and I from their grasp. Dropping us just outside the cave. We were alive, barely.
I laid my hands upon L4YL4 and restored what health in her I could before we went to retrieve The Brown Gas and Gassy Brown from the sea floor and then we made our way home. We rose out of the depths and onto the beach. A Grung less than when we had departed . . .
What is on my mind now! That I sit here, looking at you my reflection . . . I shall tell you.
Revenge! Against this Aboleth who has so spurned me and my might, presuming the ability and right to rule over me as master. I shall break it. Break it like a poorly made galley upon a spiked wall of rocks. Eat its innards and interrogate whatever stores of knowledge it has in that mind of its out of it. And. . . and free Grunk . . . he . . . has his uses.
Captain's Log Two; Holes, Gnolls, and capital goals.
I'm losing track of these days, upwards of 16 to 20 I believe.
Finally, some kindred spirits. Stefn Powerlimb seems to understand what it means to fight for oneself. On ones own terms. With ones own strength. He understands the profitable opportunities presented by all the ... wonders, of this land. If we could capture them.... why, I dare to dream. We follow our own paths, but I'd be pleased if ours crossed again.
We decided some extra meat couldn't hurt so Aurelia The Bard and Theodora The Sorcerer tagged along. Both ... born half elves. The Bard has a dark stench about her, I like her.
And a rogue, a gnome from the under dark, Cobb, attached itself to us as we departed. I wonder what it would think of Adrion. Seems only interested in gold. I doubt he'd appreciate an...independent thinker and business person.
Following the wind of unknowns and the flat lands to the north west we encountered more lizard monsters, this time ground based, a pack of three velociraptors I believe. Me and Stefan, calls himself a Senator, were tempted to attempt a capture of these beasts. We decided they were close at hand and could be retrieved at any time. Aurelia scared them away with a mighty wave of thunder, not bad, for a Bard. They were preying on a herd of Roth, great wooly, bovine monstrosities, I think someone said they could be found in the under dark. Must be a veritable menagerie down there. I must take a trip sometime. We butchered one of the dead Roth and got a day of rations for the lot of us.
Then we marched until, in a nice formation, The Senator in the front, followed by Aurelia, then Theodora, Cobb and then myself on the flank. Very... brave of them all, to trust their backs to my guard. Night fell.
Whilst on the march through the grass lands, a pit opened in the earth and tried to swallow the sorcerer. The gnome tried to grab them, then it tried to swallow the gnome, as hilarious and tempting as it was to let them fall, I need my...crew. So with one hand I dangled them both and hurled them back up to the rest of the crew. We then ...investigated the pit. The Senator, being a Goliath, practically stepped into it. My rope came in handy, as always.
The cave cracked open with some stress over the earth...apparently, I'm not entirely convinced it wasn't the will of the ...thing(s)? down there, that we should...enter. The pit was only about 2 fathoms deep, the cracks descended down North and South. The Senator flipped a coin, North it was. The passages closed in to less than a fathom. The gnome was right at home. Down and down we descended.
A beautifully blanching stench came out of a cavernous chamber ahead. Still, stinking, trapped water. Rotting. Unnatural. Wherever that pool was, quite glad I didn't take a dip. A glimmer could be glimpsed from beyond the waves of darkness. We approached, about 60 feet away, a skeleton. A damp, barren skeleton. With a helm with a face and a ruined leather bag. Picked clean of flesh, its armour was skewered through from one side to the other in a dozen places. Aurelia took the helm from the ol boy, and I leaned into the leather bag. A trove, of gold, four spell scrolls, 3 red vials and a monstrous, suckling black sludge. With teeth.
It came out of the bag, it came off of the walls, it came up from the ground and it came down from the ceiling. A roar with no tongue, a shout with no voice, a cry with no tears. A hunger with no satisfaction. At once it seized the sorcerer and sapped the life from her bones. I was prepared to drag her back from the peace of death to this abyss, but The Bard did the job just as cruelly. It began to amass together. I brought down my axe and smote the curiosity upon the cavern floor. It's darkness fleeing before mine. It tried to strike back at me, dinging off my iron. The Senator tried the same, it only disrupted the wave, like a stone into water with no magic, before it snapped back. It did no more to his bare chest but a scuff. And The Bard and The Sorcerer made the wise decision to raise sail out of there. Casting my spell of retreat, I did the same, followed by the senator and the gnome.
As we escaped it struck me hard between the plate, leaving a suckling red circle of teeth marks. Almost as bad as drowning. I tried to run with all my might and inspire the others, but I'd skipped leg day. The Bard scared us into showing it the meaning of haste. And so we ran and ran and ran. Hunted by some great mass that had gathered together to flow through the cracks and swallow us. A darkness casting its shadow, swallowing darkness itself.
Up and up and up we ran. Grasping for the surface, the depths coming up to keep that beyond dreams. We made it. And the rope behind me was bitten and torn with long, piercing teeth as I reigned it up.
We rested and then pushed on, away from it. The thought of investigating the southern passage, unthinkable, for now. Someday.
Exhausted, we came upon more Roth. Looking over our spoils, we'd lost most of the gold to the black. The helm, as the bard put it on, it opened its eyes, and she could see whatever it saw. Perhaps she can see when we've been led into a trap in the future, oh yes. I know a trap when I see one.
The vials, I took a look at them. I know when someone has tried to pawn off bad merchandise to me. Two were lovely, pure, flowed easily, bright, Stefn took a lick, it tasted amazing he said. A healing potion by all reckonings. The sorcerer took the bad vial, a bloodlike, black streaked, viscus, clumping, sludge. She seemed well acquainted. Then we heard a sound beyond The Roth. A war band, arguing. A band of Gnolls by a fire. Monstrous hyena demons. Arguing about some tribal dominance. Most were pitiful creatures, 5 feet at most. The biggest and the second stood above even me. The greatest among them had a great cloak and glaive. The second sharped his knives on the other end of the fire. Embodiments of hunger I've heard.
A stroke of collective genius befell all of us. Sensing we could not sneak away, we took some of our Roth meat and The Bard cooked it up, sautéd with a healing potion. I ...guided her. I'm used to making do with whatever I find on the high seas. So it was cooked up, and we approached.
Once we were spotted, the disagreement stopped. The big one approached, grasping his glaive. We had discussed how to appeal to the apparent power struggle. Saying we had come with the blessing of Lord Yeenoghu to reward the strongest, the only one deserving of a feast. We kneeled. He sniffed us and eyed up The Bard. He took the steak, and ate it down in one bite. Questioned if we had any more for the rest, questioned why we didn't serve ourselves up, and questioned if we would partake in the feast. He spoke of their Rothe hunt, the great herds had killed several of their warriors. We said only the strongest deserve to eat, said we live to feast and said we would surely. We were careful to not imply that he needed us, for the Gnolls know the strongest eat the most. We were honouring his strength. The second demanded he feast on us. He stabbed the big one in the guts, undisturbed, the big one bit his head off. He told us to partake, as so we did. The Gnome and The Sorcerer couldn't keep it down, The Senator, The Bard and I did without hesitation. He laughed. And threw the rest on the fire. He looked to the others, called them weak meat, unworthy to even be eaten. The others of his band grinned with hunger. His hot, heavy, bloody breath blew over us with his every word and every sniff. His cloak opened its' dozens of eyes, as they looked us up and down. He spoke of a wizard they'd killed and took his trinkets, they care mostly only for meat. The big one, now secure in his rule, threw us a wicker basket of these magic toys and told us to be gone. Before we could, he leaned down to The Bard, smirking, eyes piercing hers. He took his glaive, and scarred her face with a long, thin, deep, cold cut into her cheeks. We thought it would be something much worse. Something that might have made another sorcerer. Oh well. And so we were off.
I want that cloak. He made us kneel to him? I'll have his knees nailed to the mast of my ship. Bastard. We tried out our new toys, once well away. The basket included some wholloping arrows, that blew holes through some trees. The rogue and sorcerer took those. A silver walking stick with a ruby button that turned it into a great sword. The senator took that. Might have been some other things. I took up a rusty javelin. Always there is intrigue to be found in the unassuming. I threw it to its farthest reach and it did not stir. Hit it's mark well, and when I pulled my hand down, it came like lightning back to my hand. Wonderful. I lost a javelin off the side of a cliff while fighting those Pteradons. Never again. We divided up the gold and the scrolls, I received the one for invisibility...
We decided that we'd had enough of these unknown lands for now and headed back to base camp.
That all took place over the course of two days. My Gods! This land is bursting at the brim with wonders to be found!
Captain's Log One; Sky Monsters and Slaves by The Sea.
Days 2 through to 12., Heading out from base camp, eastwards along the coast to investigate some island formations. I travel with my pawns, I mean, companions, Adrion, a fellow Elf Paladin, as well as a Warlock. A gifted strategist in his own right. Grunk a strange Rogue, he shares my affinity for the water. Ozil, handsome devil. Literally. A Tiefling Bard, always good to get in bed with the singers. The lot of us are seeking to plunder these lands, and whatever else has washed up along the coastline. Let's hope they don't disapprove of my methods, too harshly.
Set out with the scoundrels. That Adrion demanded we march in formation. Worked out well for him once we got swarmed by Flying Lizard Birds along a cliff face, he and that Ozil made for fine shields. Turns out that Grunke was the only one with any sense, fleeing into the trees and striking them out of the skies. That said apparently hurling insults at creatures who can't understand you, is quite...effective.
We clipped the bastards out of the sky and I took ones head. Seems...infected. A spreading sickness, sucking the colour from them. Able to see with no pupils. Handy, must look into that, alongside whatever else this head can tell. Whatever it is, made them stupid enough to trifle with a band of armed warriors, intriguing. There were some islands far off, I was half tempted to swim over and no longer have to listen to Adrion's rambling doctrine, so stern, so solid, so selfless. What a fascinating creature, that Drow.
Additionally there was a cave at the base of the cliff, far below, again, tempting to jump down, but for once in my life, I didn't have enough rope.
As the cliff went in and the tide of the woods came out we found ourselves stumbling into some internal affairs. A handling slave, obviously by those marks of his, quite familiar. Running away from his master, an orc the size of a tree, and his three mole monsters. Whatever about their insufferable mouths, Adrion and Ozil know how to silence a beast quite quickly. After Ozil and I got caught up in a sink hole. I with the help of my duplicate received the honour of the final blow upon the tunnellers. Had to drag Ozil out of the dirt, while he was dying, scraping for an amber amulet the oaf was wearing. Let him have it. Pays to have people in your debt.
A slave system seems to be operational in the area. Opportunity knocks.
Adrion took the slave, to help him. As if we don't all know what Drow get up to. He can fool everyone else with that redemption bullock, but not The Captain, deep down, we're alike, loath as either of us would be to admit it. He'll either need to accept it, or drown. A man shouldn't be honest with anyone else, but himself? He must be true to himself, no matter how treacherous he may be.
Captain's log Zero
Day 1
Day 1, may as well call this day 1 of a new world. Arriving here, with all these... pawns. So much to plunder.
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