Rumors of Roaringshore

[DM Golem]

Rumours abound throughout Roaringshore of a sloop found drifting, stripped of cargo, with its crew dead or missing. They say that a scorpion sigil had been burned into the foreheads of each of the bodies found. Oddly enough, the rumours don't make clear the name of the Captain or the ship; leading some to dismiss the tale as a harmless yarn.

[c2k]

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Will take place at 1900 GMT on Saturday October 4th.

"Below Deck" = Slang for the Broken Goblet Arena

// Some OOC info

These are more guidelines than rules(except for the spells and scrolls as the Arena has spell failure). Break them at your own peril.

-No spells or scrolls. Its a small basement, and IC-ly there wards were put in place to prevent magic from engulfing the room. Due to mechanical limitations of the game, we ask you to respect this rule above all others.

-Everyone is allowed the use of 3 potions per match, provided they do not heal HP in anyway. Haste, Aid, Barkskin are fine. Cure Moderate Wounds, Heal, Greater Restoration would not be.

-Up to 3 uses of HiPS. This is to encourage tactical use of the feat rather than just spamming it every 6 second.

-No ranged weapons, such as crossbows and longbows. You might miss and hit the crowd!!!

Other fun stuff

-We're going to try and have 3 tiers of competitors, based on the "+" tiers the scry uses, and 3 different rewards. Hence, the three different buy-ins.

-Betting limit for each fight to start is 1000 gold. This may change over the course of the event, even before it starts. The goal of the limit is to prevent the absurd 1,000,000 gold bet that we are aware a few characters might be able to put down.

-Death happens in these events. Combatants can mutually agree if the loser dies as a result of the fight.

-The crowd decides whether the loser rides the chute. Dead characters always ride the chute. Characters that did not die may be allowed to return to the arena covered in what is ever at the bottom of the chute.

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More info may be added. Any questions feel free to PM.

Also, if you plan to participate, I will take early sign ups via PM for the Tournament.

[c2k]

// Due to my inability to make it this Saturday, the 3rd Roaringshore tournament has been rescheduled to October 4th. Flyer and IC post updated.

[XyrisMourn]

*Mary, born and bred on this cliffside. Mary, who has spent a long life washing the clothes of any who needed, and stitching the rents of knives, or simple accident. Mary glances out towards the dark sea where the flotilla of the High Captains' most loyal crews have so recently departed. She draws her shawl closer, both to keep the chill fog from soaking her clothes, and to bring comfort as the sudden departure of so many captains has left something of a vacuum, which experience has proven time & again to Mary, is not advantageous.

Mist rises up the cliffside, crawling along the salt-sprayed rocks, fingers of thick fog weaving around the already nervous washerwoman. And with it a sound wanders amongst the milky white tendrils, a counterpoint to the thick waves lapping up against the wharf, creaking and whining. Mary tries to peer through the thick mist, worried by the sound echoing up the cliffside. The creaking grows louder, a high pitched whine soaring up and down like a banshee's wail, or a saw trapped in wood, and through the mist a dark shadow coalesces.

The figure is tall, thin, hooded and pushing a rickety cart heavily laden and shrouded with thick tarpaulin. Step by step he pushes the heavy load, step by step he drives it up the cliffside, and with each step the creaking grows louder. The cart is filled to overflowing, and beneath the whining of the wood, a delicate chink of glass on glass plays in Mary's ears. As the cart passes her, Mary spies the load under the loose tarp. Stacked high, and deep, are hundreds and hundreds of vials and flasks. And with the passing of the figure the fog holds a new smell. One powerful enough to pollute the salty sea air. It makes Mary's eyes stream, and fills her nostrils with brimstone and the caustic, sharp bite of acid.

Up the cliff the hooded figure strides, the fog wrapping him again in a shroud of white, and he passes from Mary's sight. Only the heavy smell of alchemical infusions and the agonising wail of the the wooden cart bear witness to the figures passage. Then Mary starts, an involuntary shudder passing through her. The sound has stopped, only the crashing of the waves below remains. She would be comforted by that familiar echo, would imagine the figure and his load a phantom, but the smell remains. The stench still fills the foggy air. And then a voice whispers in her ear and cold firm fingers stroke her cheek...*

The Master blesses you this eve, washerwoman. *the voice inhales deeply, breathing in the caustic smell polluting the fog* You smell my Master's victory. Revel in this moment, woman. Breathe deep and long. It is the finest moment, and the finest breath, you will will ever know.

*Mary doesn't feel anything after the first strike as a finger slips between her vertebrae, breaking the spinal column, but her eyes spot the pale white hand, the dead flesh reaching up to her face. Her eyes dart wildly as she tries to move, tries to run, but she cannot move as the hand gently strokes her skin, delicately feeling every contour and wrinkle on her face. It drops from her sight as the cold fingers trace the line of her jaw, and with it her eyes close and her head sags to the side.

The tall thin figure pulls his fingers from deep within her skull, and out of the hole under her ear. He holds the corpse in his arms like a dancer and waltzes to the edge of the cliff. Releasing her, he whispers into the wind before turning back to his cart.*

Farewell, washerwoman. Blessed are you to feed the Master's thirst.

[c2k]

*Around Roaringshores, posts are noted*

http://www.bgtscc.net/viewtopic.php?f=1 ... &start=911




///Reminder that the Roaringshores tournament is this Saturday at 19:00 GMT.

[XyrisMourn]

*The night was quiet, the sliver of a silver moon peeked out of the clouds like a nervous child hiding in her mother’s petticoats, but Hando was at peace breathing deeply in the salty sea air. He often slept in the sheltered darkness under the hangman’s perch, sharing his slumber with the squeaking of the rats and the creaking of wooden scaffold. Curled up in his raggedy cloak with his legs tucked up tight to keep the cold away he was an indiscernible lump in the shadows, a charcoal smudge on ink-stained paper. He could feel the little furry bodies scampering over his cloak, snouts and tiny claws picking at the holes, drawn by the hot smell of the unwashed. Hando lay still throughout their investigations, the voices that whispered in his mind lulled to sleep by their caress, their company a restful presence which soothed his confusion and fear. The folk of the ‘Shore called him broken, mad, a fool, they cursed him and threw stones, but the gentle rats did nothing but occasionally chew the callouses on his toes.

Nestled in the dark and the chittering squeaks, Hando drifted towards sleep. Then, from across the open ground in front of the scaffold, the sound of breaking glass rolled out into the still night as if someone had dropped a bottle of wine. Hando stiffened and raised his head to peer out across the plaza, but all seemed still once more, no drunken sailor, no one, nothing moved in the plaza. The voices in his mind were awakened though and whispered to him “That was them. They are coming. Coming for you. Coming to get you.” Hando resisted the urge to slap at his ears and shout at the voices, he tried hard to lie still and let the rats work their lullaby, shivering with the effort to ignore the whispers. “They want you. They come for you. They are coming.” Slowly the probing of the small claws and the wet snouts calmed Hando again and he lowered his head, shuffling slightly for comfort.

Again, Hando hung at the edge of sleep when he realised the silence was complete, the rats had stopped squeaking. Their midnight creeping had ceased and they lay curled up around him, quiet and still. A small voice in his mind whispered that this was not right, that something was wrong, but Hando refused to listen, determined not to give in to the voices. He yawned, but it felt as if a thick soft plug has blocked his throat. He thought at first he had drawn some of his cloak into his mouth, but there was nothing blocking his breath but the air itself. He strained to breath hard, to draw in some air as his hands moved up to fumble futilely at his lips. He tried again to breathe in, to suck the air into his lungs, but he couldn’t, he was drowning without water. His fingers clawed at his lips, his neck, leaving deep scratches weeping blood. His chest convulsed, heart pounding in his chest as his diaphragm started to spasm. He shook, bouncing and juddering on the ground, his cloak was kicked away to cover the cooling bodies of the dead rats. Darkness gathered at the edge of his vision, and swept slowly across his eyes. Hando lay twitching, mouth agape, eyes wide but unseeing and then shuddered a final time. As he passed from this world the whispers in his mind pleaded with him to stay, begged him, and then screamed in anguish as he finally escaped their torments, and died.*

“You please the Master, broken one. May his hunger be soothed by your sacrifice.”
*The tall, thin monk padded silently across the cobblestones and knelt beside the scaffold. In one hand he held a glass vial tightly plugged though seemingly empty, with the other hand the monk reached out and ran his fingers slowly over the now peaceful face of the vagrant. Cold, white fingers traced the lines on the Hando’s cheeks and brow as the monk bent over his face to stare into Hando’s empty eyes.*

“Your death serves a greater purpose, broken one. The testing goes well, the components come together well. The Master will feed slowly upon your soul, savouring the means of your passing.”
*The hooded monk bowed and murmured words of prayer under his breath, then rose and slipped into the shadows, leaving Hando’s empty corpse cooling on the cobbles.*

[Calodan]

*several areas across Roaring shore have flyers posted leading to the Broken Goblet*

[Smyssel]

Rumours spread by residents of the Swordarm Inn of how a pale-looking man was locked inside a room during the evening, and caused quite the scene by bashing violently on the door and shouting.

The matter was resolved after the innkeeper had the door opened with the master key, and the man had him compensated with a fair amount of gold for trouble caused.

[Hidennka]

Word spreads that a half-elf swashbuckler known as "The Siren" was slain in a fearsome battle of gnashing teeth and whirring blades in the waters off the Northern Sword Coast. Whether or not the rumors are true remain unknown, all anyone knows is that the freckled female has not been seen on the Coast since.

[Silver_Lining]

With eyes cast to the sea in eager anticipation of the DragonWing's arrival,
her future captain has been seen in recent weeks in the company of a handful of
seaworthy companions along the Shore. Rumor has it that those in her company are
the crew of the incoming flagship...

[Klaggeddin1121]

A man in dark clad armor and an elven wizard could have been seen, over the past few days, talking with several men along the docks of Roaringshore. Its been said they were trying to procure a ship, but for what reason, is still unclear.

[Silver_Lining]

A handful of the DragonWing's crew was seen heading into the arena at the Broken Goblet. The door was closed behind them and remained so for some time. When finally it opened again, each left, seemingly in fair spirits, some looking more thoughtful than others.

[Arakis]

*An hour before sun went down into the waters to let the night in, a small figure - clad mostly in black with an exception for a scarf, wrapped around her arm with a Dragon Wing embroided in it and adorned with a tiny fire opals on the outer lining that seem to burn with internal fire - can be seen climbing a Roaringshore cliffs. She finds a wide enough ledge to sit there and soon her strong, husky and rich voice is carried by the winds over the bay as she sings.*

***
Many moons ago, in a faraway land
We met an old man with a hook for a hand
He showed us a map that lead to treasure untold
He said, "I'll give ye the map, if ye give me some gold"

For some pieces of eight the deal was done
He gave us the map, our quest had begun
We gathered our crew and set sail on the waves
And we knew we'd be rich by the end of the day

Now we're sailing over oceans and seas
With a lust for gold and the power of steel

Over the seas, we shall ride
Searching for treasure, into the night
Over the seas, our quest has begun
And we will not stop with the dawn of the sun

Through treacherous seas we reached the lost isle
And over it's shores we marched for many miles
Until we discovered where the treasure did lie
With gold coins and jewels gleaming inside

Now we're sailing over oceans and seas
With a lust for gold and the power of steel

Over the seas, we shall ride
Searching for treasure, into the night
Over the seas, our quest has begun
And we will not stop with the dawn of the sun

Over the seas, we shall ride
Searching for treasure, into the night
Over the seas, our quest is done

And we will be home by the dawn of the sun

*Once her voice dies with the last sound-notes the girl looks around at the gathered seagulls and smiles sourly.*

"I am so bad at it, aren't I?" *Redhead shakes her head and chuckles* "Oh well... I was bad at designing buildings in the beginning too and after a while I managed just fine... So this pirate-singing crap shouldn't be all that difficult, nah?" *Seagulls squeak and waves their wings as if they understood what she said, which girl greets with another sour smile before reaching into the pouch hanged on a chain around her neck and retrieving a glowing crystal that she turns between her fingers with a thoughtful expression painted across her face.*



///ooc note: Lyrics belong to Alestorm band.

[Silver_Lining]

Word travels quickly about the shore as several claim to have seen Captain Desrah Asher and a couple others from the DragonWing's crew accompany Captain Kalma Hellstorm and several of his crew to the SeaWolf. It is rumored that they were at sea some time before the rowboat returned with only those of the DragonWing's crew. They appeared to be in fair enough spirits upon their return.

[Silver_Lining]

The Captain, First Mate and Priestess of Umberlee , of the DragonWing crew,
have recently been seen walking the cliffs of the RoaringShore. Those who overheard
their conversations speak of an upcoming prayer service to honor the Sea Bitch.