POOHEAD189

Have At You!!! A Game of Swashbuckling Adventure

"PTOOOEY!"

Spitting out leaves, he scrabbled out of the thick foliage, vines clinging to his shirt like the grasping hands of a Castillian whorehouse. The trees and ferns were so close together, it was almost like swimming, and once he finally stumbled out into cultivated land he felt he had broken the surface and he could finally breathe again. Once he found his feet, and blinked from the sudden light of the overbearing sun, weighing on him almost more than his regret. He shielded his eyes with a hand and squinted, looking down the kilometer slope to see the sprawling den of thieves and killers he'd been searching for.

"Oi, what ye doin' on mah land?" A voice inquired, a bit nettled by the sound of it. Neil turned to his left, and saw a plump, sweating man wearing a wide brimmed hat looking at him, a farming tool Neil didn't quite recognize in his hands. Glancing back to the slope, it wasn't grass that separated him from Free Sail, it was a small field of tall sugar cane. Neil pursed his lips, looked back at the jungle, and then shrugged.

"Oh, I'm a part of the captain's council, just asked to check the place out." He said, beginning to move on. "Yep, still looks like a bunch of palm trees to this one."

"Hey! Where are yo-"

"No need to be a church bell, I'm fuckin' off!" Neil called back, stepping down into the field and disappearing into the sugar cane before the farmer could even think about pursuit. The young buccaneer was healthy and light on his feet, and could sneak like a ship rat. He made good time through the field, glad to know he was just a short jaunt to the city. Soon he could no longer hear the cries of the farmer, and though he occasionally heard the rustling of farmhands, he saw no one else until he stepped out from the produce and hopped the short fence separating the small plantation with the edge of the greater city.

Bloody storm had hit him hard. He'd jump ship from the Infiltrator just days ago on a lesser islet, procuring a longboat for himself just a days row from the greater island. Was his luck a squall ripped through. He didn't think he would make it for a coin toss there, but he managed to beach his boat on a spit of land, which with luck, happened to be the ass end of the island. The whole day he had been cutting and ducking his way through trees and snakes and spiders the size of a man's face.

The affable, dark haired rogue found the trade road by Calico Tower, a lightly manned sentinel that kept an eye on the back end of the city in case of a more daring play by the old world powers, or at least that was the idea. In practice, it was there to curb any thieves or drunkards from trying to finagle or threaten any land-bound merchants and farmers just trying to make a living and transporting their produce. The shadow of the tower felt nice, but the shantytown was like the spray of the sea. Guttural laughing and raucous talk filled his ears, children ran across in front of him with all the urgency of royal ships in pursuit, and shifty eyed vagabonds watched from the shadows of their makeshift homes of driftwood, seeing who might be a fine target this day. Neil liked the shanties as much as the next sailor, the goods were cheap and people asked even less questions than other pirates, but he had business in the inner city.

He passed through Drake's Gate, a northern roadway that had no gate despite the name. A rusted brass statue of Grand Admiral Drake stood with his legendary pipe, watching every passerby with a twinkle of mischief in his dead eyes. They said the pipe could call forth the sailors of the long dead, but Neil was keen on staying with the living for the foreseeable future, mind.

The City of Free Sail was a welcome sight. The buildings were functional and well made, but they didn't get all haughty with it. Stout stone, local timber, gaudy colors, whatever memorabilia could be collected were used half the time. Tenships Tannery was close by, sticking near the fresher water further inland, situated near a number of houses and apartments besides Crimson Keep, a small fortified manor bought by Les Fréres de Fer. Neil even spied a few of the kittens smoking outside the Tobacco House, the plumes in their hats loud and clear to the eye. A shoddy carriage rolled by as less well-to-do locals and sailors went about their business, calling for one another in desperation or anger. Neil turned right, and headed to the eastern side of the city, knowing he could reach the south quicker this way.

He turned down black street, where most of the eastern dives were located. The smell of alcohol and a stray dog with a slab of meat announced Mort's Distillery, men cavorting and drinking their due under the shade of the arches as women served them and bounced on their legs, giggling. The best liquor in the seas, Herri had called it. Neil spotted a few Freebooter lads and waved, laughing when they recognized him and threw lewd gestures his way as a manner of comraderie. Neil gave back worse than he got, which caused more laughter and smiles all around. They waved him to join, but he shook his head.

"Herri?" He called to them over the din.

"Ho?" A few asked, but the closest pointed west. Neil understood and waved his thanks. Speaking of lewd, across and a short walk down the street was Black Street Palace. If the perfume didn't give it away, the heavily rouged women hanging from the third story windows with their pale tits shining like beacons in the bright sun were hard to miss. A few blew kisses his way, or so it seemed, but the crowds were like the torrent of a river, and Neil wasn't interested. He had business, he kept telling himself. At the street corner, under the vast statue of a stolen Vallé D'Or lion reared up and roaring, a snake oil salesman was being accosted by three grim men of the black fleet. Neil gritted his teeth and wished him well, but turned left and away, passing Rowers & Son's and the less popular Gorman's Brewery, where the Black Fleet and a few tougher mercenaries had made their haunt.

Passed Free Sail Firearms and Andor's Arms, where Neil had gotten his backsword's new hilt, he slipped out of the way of a carriage with Captain Morgan's sigil, and stepped into the Ivory Inn. Immediately he heard curses as a man in the midst of a large game threw his cards down, angered at ill fortune or cheating. Multiple groups of men from different crews ate their fill and gossiped, a few of the older sea dogs had gathered a crowd, sharing stories of serpents and sea witches. Neil passed them all and headed to the back. It was time to meet Herri and get what was coming to him.

"Hey sailor, can I get you anything?" A flirtatious barmaid asked, giving an inviting smile.

"Unless you got a duke's daughter or a crew of killers under that bodice, I doubt it." He said, walking passed without so much as a look.

Scum and Villainy - Plentiful Bounty

Nice, mark 2 additional XP in Prowess track.

You did roll correctly, which is unfortunately because you marked only 3 stress, which means that on a 6 you Overindulge and have to choose one of the consequences below.

- Rash Action. Reduce your STASH by 4 or if you can’t (or won’t), the crew takes 2 debt.
- Big Talk. Brag about your exploits. The crew gains +2 HEAT in the current system.
- Lost. Your character vanishes for a few weeks. Play a different character until this one returns from their bender. When your character returns, they’ve also healed any harm they had.

@ctrlsaltdel

Rash action! He and the crew will have to live with his gambling

Have At You!!! A Game of Swashbuckling Adventure

<Snipped quote by POOHEAD189>

The factions aren't necessarily going to be giving marching-orders; they're mostly there for the purpose of providing plot hooks, or for interesting character moments where your character's goals align or conflict with those of their faction.

As for NPCs, you're free to create other members of your particular faction, though I may jump in to drive if the leader of a faction (such as Captain Wrathbourne or one of the colony Governors) figures directly into the story. I'll also play the part of any quest-givers. Other than that, you're free to populate the region with any sort of characters you like and portray them in whatever way you want.

@AndyC

Awesome! Though if you have any info on any freebooter hooks or interests in the area before I post, lmk

Have At You!!! A Game of Swashbuckling Adventure

Though I am curious on how our factions come into play, and how would you like us to handle NPCs

@POOHEAD189

I should have phrased this better, but this was a 2 part question, whenever you get the chance :)

Blackguards of The Moonsea

Well that was visceral.

The wizard had seen many things in his time. At Neverwinter, he had been allowed to experiment with a multitude of expensive ingredients, like the pincers of an Umberhulk and the brain of an intellect devourer. He had cast a number of destructive spells that ripped a tree to pieces, he had divined the coming of events that would lead to his graduation, and he had charmed an unruly horse into allowing him as his rider. Even past those, his greatest strengths were in abjuration and transmutation, and if allowed to cast freely, no doubt the 'assassin' as she called herself would be impressed.

However, he was like a wet blanket at the moment, and he just saw her smother a man with silk and stab him to death.

Effective, but unnerving. Basheba, at least he found the one honorable drow this side of the Aunorach. He had followed her closely, doing his best to not make noise. He was good at that, admittedly. But physical fighting was not his forte, the wizard desperately wishing for his staff so he at least had something to strike someone with if the need came.

"Yes, I'm ready." He whispered to her, nodding. He might not have her darkvision, but his midnight blue eyes were keen, and there was still the occasional torch he found. Plus, he was used to skulking in the dark from his youth. He might be clumsy compared to the drow, but to most he was rather nimble and alert in the dark. The two would-be escapees continued forward, Malcador letting the assassin lead as he kept an eye for someone trying to sneak on their flank. Every now and then he would feel something silken and sticky run across his cheek or shoulder, and tried not to shudder, knowing the small bits of spider silk likely led to the exit.

Down a corridor, they passed several wooden doors reinforced with iron, likely with criminals and various thugs that required solitary confinement. The stone floor had bits of crumbs and dust, even a leaf, likely from the slight breeze Malcador felt on his face and the prison cooks bringing in whatever foodstuffs were to be brought to the prisoners. To the poor souls behind the doors, it was survival, but to Malcador, it tasted like freedom. They reached the foot of the hall, and it led to an old, dilapidated stairway going up. At the top, there was a warm glow, and once they reached the lip of the stairwell, Malcador realized they were at the barracks of the guard station. He watched as two men in half plate armor and thentian surcoats stepped out of a door, and sunlight streamed in from beyond. At the sight, his heart began to race.

There was a fire in a hearth at the left, and a sleeping man snoring on a cushioned chair beside it. In his hand was an empty bottle of something Malcador couldn't guess. To the right, a round table with three men playing cards, mumbling to each other and snickering at intervals. Two of them younger men, likely recruits. The third was older, a veteran probably. There was a carpet on the floor with blue and gold thentian colors. He could smell whiskey and freshly cooked pork, and for a moment Malcador was afraid his stomach would rumble. He motioned for the assassin to back down with him, and halfway up the stairs he whispered to her.

"If we can make it out of here, as soon as we leave that door, I can teleport us away. Not out of the city, but we'll have a head start." He explained, glancing up the stairway. Mystra knew he was tired and hungry, and still stiff. He sighed. "Well... I should not say 'I can.' A quick teleportation spell requires a bit of thread, a splash of alcohol, and the silk of a spider, and the somatic components. We have two of the physical components."

He swiftly ripped a small thread off of his garment, whipping it before him before pulling it taut. "I'll follow your lead, tackle who I must. But I need one of those bottles, and some of Arlocke's silk. Once we make the door, leave it to me."

He closed his eyes, and began searching his memory for the right incantation. His tether to the source of magic was severed, but he still vaguely felt...something. Perhaps it was their proximity to the exit, but it was not quite as absent as it was below. However, he still could not conjure a spell yet. Instead, he went over the complexities of the phrases and gestures he would have to perform to call upon the weave, and once he familiarized himself from his memory, he opened his striking blue eyes again. "I'm ready. Lead on, assassin."

Have At You!!! A Game of Swashbuckling Adventure

Either Neil will take the adventure into parts unknown, or try and steal the mark of a master fencer.

Though I am curious on how our factions come into play, and how would you like us to handle NPCs

The Enemy Beyond: Warhammer 40,000 Inquisitor RP

Pacitus' main source of income was its tourism, as well as the annual subsidies provided by the administratum to the local administration and nobility that kept the planet in pristine condition. There was no small amount of pride being one of the most beautiful worlds in the imperium, and the local nobility considered themselves the old guard of its near divine beauty. As Emmaline and I entered the venue, it was immediately apparent who was of the local nobility and who was visiting for business or pleasure. Almost every pacitus noble, as well as the various financiers and politicians, wore dark green and bold blue, with a delphinium sigil worn proudly somewhere on their person. The men wore finely cut suits, slimmer than the usual imperiam fashion, with a propensity for stylish embroidery, but otherwise relatively tame. The women wore blue and indigo, with old fashioned ballgowns and bodices of resplendent quality. The tourists and off-worlders sported various different styles and colors, as did a few of the more rebellious members of local houses to stand apart. I spotted the Svoboda family in their satin and urban finery, chatting casually with Gotz Dorn, my prior investigations informing me he acted as the head of a lucrative banking conglomerate. I recognized over a dozen faces, in fact, having familiarized myself with the world and its main players before I concluded this was to be my base of operations when not on the hunt.

Giulio and Milena Chazalettes sauntered off the terrace, their interest in forbidden texts of note to my predecessor, albeit the investigations concluded it was a harmless fancy, more for the thrill of collection than any arcane use. Dark haired Milena waved to Franscesca Maazel, a fashionably dressed brunette, and the widow of the late Lorin Maazel, who had found solace in dabbling with politics and various male concubines. No doubt the broad muscled man at her shoulder was one of them. It was not nearly as scandalous as Master Voglebaun's first born, who eloped with a scullery maid not months ago. The wealthy merchant was making his first appearance tonight, after that lengthy debacle. Much to my amusement, I also noticed Hans Rysnatek, the city judicial officer who preferred his drink to his job, idly chatting with an off-worlder I was not familiar with. No doubt for some ulterior motive, no doubt.

Despite the expected manner of company, the room was expansive, with dazzling gold filigree along the old theater balustrades and scintillating colors of jewels along the soaring arches and aerial grottos of the dome.

"How eclectic," Emmaline admitted, gazing upwards. "I was expecting less."

I looked at her. Out of all the rejuvenat treatments, the biological implants and reshapings, even the moasics that towered above us, I had to admit she was the most beautiful thing in the room. It was not often I was struck speechless for a moment, but despite her impetuousness, her slothful pleasures, even her penchant for the occult, I was truly in love. I chuckled at myself for my schoolyard musings, and she turned to look at me quizzically.

"Do I amuse you?" She asked with an arched eyebrow. It only deepened my smile, and I took her hand in mine. I squeezed it gently, and drifted closer to her.

"Tonight is going to be an act, but let's begin with something genuine." I said, cradling her neck and sweeping her into a passionate kiss. It was so fervent, I can still remember it to this day, as if I had just tasted her. The adeptus sororitas would have been jealous of the zealoutry I displayed. Despite her normally salacious attitude, when I pulled back, her cheeks were flushed and she was out of breath. I glanced around, and noticed half the ball had deigned to watch, as well. I turned back to her and grinned. "Now let's dance, shall we?"

"I suppose we ca-" She said breathlessly, cut off as I pulled her to the central floor. There was a suggestive whistle from our left, by the open bar. A quick look showed it was Edward Hornsgun, the leader of the PDF forces. I had personally invited him, and despite his low class upbringing and lack of financial acumen, he had just enough of a reputation to make admittance. As I led her to the dance floor, a few other couples and family that were casually waltzing and the like instinctively made way. I stopped abruptly, Emmaline unwittingly bumping into me, her hands now in mine.

"Estallen," I breathed to her, and she nodded, catching up quick. My voice rose above the din. "Something more lively, eh!?"

Cheers and clapping followed by a few of the more prudish lord's dirty looks followed. A number of them involved in byzantine schemes glanced in our direction with distaste, and I did not hide my satisfaction at ruining whatever mischief they had planned, however brief it was. The music lagged for a moment, the band unsure if they should halt their original banal tune, until a man hurried on stage and whispered into the lead man's ear, and they abruptly shifted songs seamlessly. Swiftly they brought out a pair of bongos, and the guitar followed the rhythm of the beat, a piano adding zest to the music as we began our dance. Emmaline placed her right foot back and stepped right as I moved forward with my left, stepping faster than the other dancers who found themselves too bewildered to catch up, and we had only gotten started. The guitar thrummed and I pirouetted my lover, Emmaline spinning before stopping, her hips gyrating suggestively as my feet began to snap against the floor in a blur. Moments later I swept her into my arms again, and we spun. I caught the glimpse of a scope in the vacated viewer boxes, noting the arbites waiting for any foul play. I doubted we would be attacked during the party, but right after? That was when the trap would be sprung.

Women scoffed or gasped as we danced by, and men watched with jealousy. I was second to none when I danced, and Emmaline had been trained well, my confidence in her keeping her stamina up.

Shields of the Empire

Brasidas approached with a bemused look, while Tychon incessently glanced over his large shoulder, seemingly alert for something that wasn't quite there.

The Protos Kapetanos had seen to the erecting of their victory, a pile of enemy corpses in a veritable hill. It did the dual duty of honoring the gods and demoralizing any other force that happened to be pursuing their march. What men had the chance had been commanded to eat and be given their rations of water. Brasidas was himself enjoying one of the few applies they had stowed away. He bit into it so loudly, Phaedra could hear it before she even deigned to speak. For his part, the commander of the cataphracts overlooked the field of battle with a satisfied, albeit almost facetious glance.

"Wasn't a bad fight, agreed." He remarked with a nod, turning back to Phaedra. Many of his men saw her and her women as glorified skirmishers, but Brasidas knew they were moderately more useful than that. He'd seen enough of them handle themselves in melee combat to give a grudging amount of respect to them. A bow might be cowardly in single combat, but in war, it was strategic.

"That will take them down a peg," Tychon uttered, loud enough to be heard but distant enough not to be fully initiated in the conversation of both commanders.

"Only a hundred pegs to go." Phaedra remarked dryly. It was a small overstatement, by Brasidas's reckoning. A fifth of their army had been destroyed, which was no small feat. However, her point was well founded. Tychon was suitably chastened. Brasidas grinned. "Don't mind him, he's unused to the attention. It's been a year since a woman acknowledged him beyond screaming."

Tychon gave Brasidas a look, which only deepened the Protos Kapetanos's smile. But the mirth was shortlived. He turned to Phaedra, overlooking the battlefield with her as the men and women worked in concert to get ready to move. "My men are fine. Not sure about the horses, though. We can't stay too far from water." He said, letting the words hang in the air. "How long do you think we should evade?"

"I suspect you're asking because you wish to tell me the answer." She said.

"I say we go through the hills, not around them." Brasidas declared. The original plan was to swing around the hills and make it to the bountiful coastline where they could travel with less burdens and meet up with imperial ships. "We cut through the passes. Their army will slow or split. We turn and do what we did today, until there's nothing left of them. Instead of running for months, let us find victory in a week."

Cogs in the Wheel: WoT RP

Davian hadn't felt this hungry in quite some time. The villages and towns surrounding Tear often adopted its accustoms, at least to a point. Davian had been informed from various sources that Godan had been allowed to thrive so Tear and its High Lords could have a strong presence overlooking Mayene. Tairen lords could control the size of every village and town in its surrounding lands through means of a building tax that allows them to strongly discourage the construction of any new buildings. Godan was exempt from such taxes for the purposes of its strategic importance for controlling Mayene. Rumor has it Berelain Sur Paendrag often traveled through Godan to reach Mayene, and due to its central location between the two belligerents, many Tarien spices and cuisine had made it to Godan through cultural osmosis, without even delving into the lucrative trade. If the Mast Head had anything of such quality, it would be a tasty meal for a fair price.

Of course, his appetite was for something a bit more local when the barmaid approached. She smiled at him, and he couldn't help but return it with a welcoming grin. His journey had been without food, but he'd gone even longer without this kind of attention. He was a handsome man, at least to some women's tastes. For his part, Davian was glad she did not wear her dress in the high collar tarien fashion.

"I haven't eaten in too long. I'm looking for something substantial." He said, giving the slightest pause before the final word. "Would you recommend anything?"

Zoya took her seat opposite of Davian, a myriad of judgemental emotions flitting across her face, at least by Davian's reckoning. To the barmaid, it likely seemed a completely neutral expression. The barmaid, a tired but pretty brunette, wrinkled her nose when she noticed Zoya but seemed encouraged by Davian's words.

"The mutton is heavy and very nice. The cooks make it soft." She assured him, brushing a hand on his arm. Light, he was swiftly losing his real hunger. He collected himself and leaned in for a whisper.

"I suggest, after you pick a mark, you take your earnings someplace safe. Even above the crowd, I can hear the jingle." He said. Her breath caught, and she took a step back. She had not tried to steal from him, yet, at least. However, it sobered her up and she nodded.

"I'll fetch that mutton." She squeaked, hurrying away.

"One surprise and she's clutching her skirts." Zoya breathed, though she seemed slightly relieved Davian had dried whatever was happening between them. It was only pragmatic. They did not have time for the thief taker to be involved with anyone. Davian did not recognize one emotion he saw, however. She wouldn't be jealous, he told himself. The clogs and more casual footwear of the foreigners had quieted down, as if a wolf stalked through the brush. Despite the continual hushed conversations of patrons, Zoya and Davian noticed it at the same time. The gleeman's voice carried with the silence.

“Daughter of the Night, she walks again." He said, his ashen face as wizened as his tattered cloak. To Davian, he seemed like an emaciated horse on its last walk. "The ancient war, she yet fights. Her new lover she seeks, who shall serve her and die, yet serve still. Who shall stand against her coming? Only the blue and the black, and her old lovers will. The Shining Walls shall kneel. Blood feeds blood. Blood calls blood. Blood is, and blood was, and blood shall ever be.”

It seemed a familiar tale to Davian, but he did not know from where. "This sounds familiar..."

Tyrants of Illiac Bay

Amal looked at her, stroking his chin as a grin slowly formed on his charmingly masculine face.

Cuthbert's Tap n' Tack was a coastside tavern, popular amongst the outerlying villages that counted on Keogria for commerce and trade. The building was two stories and well furnished, its construction wrought of the local redwood timber to grant it a crisp look. The door was framed by two oblong pillars that showcased twin trees, and inside the round tables and comfortably fashioned chairs were the most inviting in forty kilometers. Amal whistled a jaunty tune as he hopped onto the porch and walked in through the open door, vaulting over a fallen table and placing his rump down on a barstool. Delphine had followed, struggling a bit more to get past the numerous small obstacles in the way, but making little noise or complaint. It appeared the slavers had hit Cuthbert's rather hard, likely figuring it was the best place to assail. Drunkards were easily pickings, particularly when they did not expect an attack from the damned sea.

Amal tapped the counter rhythmically and expectantly, his whistling growing more attention-grabbing, as if to call a barman. Delphine checked behind and under a few tables to make sure there were no bodies, before pocketing three septims she had found lying on the ground. She deigned to finally join him, glancing left and right as she sat.

"Amal..." the pretty breton remarked, as if she were about to reveal something untoward.

"Hmmm?" He looked at her.

"I don't think anyone is working today." She temporized, and gestured around them. Amal turned around and looked, and then rolled his eyes, smacking his forehead.

"Forgive me, I had forgotten they were on holiday." He quipped, and pushed the barstool back, only to vault once again. This time it was over the countertop. Well, vault was not exactly the right term, because he did not even use his hands, hopping like a rabbit. She parted her lips to say something, but decided against it. Amal landed in a crouch, and rose from behind the counter with a bottle of Brambleborough Ale. He clapped it onto the table, and then delved back down as if he were diving into another mine. Next, he rose with a small casket of Rorikstead Mead and some Fellmoor Wine, followed by a dark bottle of Cyrodilic brandy. On the floor, Amal noticed a small puddle of blood under his feet. The tavern really had experienced some bad luck. Fortunately, it was good luck for the two of them.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" She asked, finally getting the urge to at least voice the opposition. Amal had busied himself with opening the larder, pulling out bits of cheese and spiced bread.

"We don't have to drink here," he said, but sighed when he saw her face. He could not blame her, she wanted to get out of trouble. Looting after a raid was not uncommon, but still. He shrugged. "If we get caught, I'll pay the tab. But let's get to the mezzanine."

The two adventurers ascended the stairs with armfuls of food and drink, and to their surprise, they found the chairs and tables up there relatively untouched except for a few scattered cups and books. It was almost a mirror of the main room, save for a few bookshelves more for aesthetic reasons than any pragmatic useage of reading material, and a thick balustrade overlooking the bottom floor. They placed their loot on the central table, Amal kicking aside a fallen chair so he could comfortably sit next to Delphine as she placed herself down.

"Now, pick your drink," he bade her, and when she did, he grabbed his own, and the two bumped their bottles together in victory. "What say you to a drinking game? Have you played Truth or Drink? I cannot remember which games cross provinces."